Whatwasthis?
Jude chuckled. “Bold move. But you know they’re all watching, right?” He angled his head towards the table of Worthbridge Academy teachers all waiting for their weekends to start. “They’re taking bets on whether you’re the classic PE stereotype. All brawn, no brains.”
“And what’s the stereotype for history teachers, then?”
“Someone who lives in the past.”
Warren gave him a languid once-over. Dark fitted jeans, a white V-neck clinging in the right places and dipped low enough to reveal a flash of chest—apparently, he had a new thing forthat—topped off with a blazer, sleeves rolled enough to show forearms and deliberate effort. Add in the dark curls and those glasses that shouldn’t have worked but did, the whole package came together as if he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Looks to me like you’ve got your finger on the pulse.”
Jude smiled, and Warren’s barren heart warmed. “So, I get the first round. What you having?”
“Uh, a Diet Coke.” He hitched his thumb over his shoulder. “I got the car.”
“Okay. Great. Same as me.”
Dammit. He drove too. Maybe he’d had the same idea.
Jude ordered the full round for the table, then angled his head for Warren to follow him. Warren carried the tray of drinks over to a table near the window where a group of staff were already arguing over the spelling of “Ljubljana.”
Everyone welcomed him in easily, passing around drinks and shuffling coats to make room. Warren ended up wedged between Jude—now fully in captain mode, scribbling confidently through the picture round with Miss Linley peering over his shoulder—and Angie Patterson, who was knocking back her Pinot as if it was hydration therapy.
“He always gets the first round in,” Angie said, leaning towards Warren with the easy intimacy of someone halfway through her second glass. “Never drinks, though.”
“No?” Warren glanced over at Jude, mid-debate with Linley about whether picture five was Gorbachev or a trick angle of Elton John. “He drive here, then?”
“Not always. Car’s in the garage more than it’s out. He just… doesn’t drink, I guess.”
“Huh.” Warren took a sip of his Coke, the bubbles burning a little more than usual.
Did Jude have his own reasons? Had he, too, once gone too far with it? Blurred lines, letting it bleed into real life beforecutting it off clean? Warren didn’t know. But now he was wondering.
And watching Jude a little closer.
The quiz kicked off. Rounds spun by. TV theme tunes, geography, obscure bird species. Sian nailed every science question. Darren argued over decimal points. Warren surprised them all with an uncanny memory for Olympic trivia. Jude leaned in to whisper sarcastic commentary in his ear, every so often tapping Warren’s wrist to emphasise a joke.
By the end, their table was one point ahead of the next closest team.
Then, victory.
A cheer went up as the host handed over the prize. Four Dog and Duck gift cards and a plastic trophy someone had spray-painted gold.
Jude held it up as if they’d won the World Cup. “For the staffroom shelf of broken dreams.”
They lingered long after most of the staff had filtered out with hugs, laughter, and the scrape of chairs on scuffed pub floorboards. The quiz host was packing cables into a duffel. Last orders had been called. It was just them. Jude and Warren. Two nearly finished drinks, low light, and a silence sitting comfortably between them.
Warren reached for his jacket. “Need a lift?” He kept his tone light, measured. But his pulse betrayed him, ticking faster. It was officially about getting eyes inside Jude’s house.
Unofficially… it was about being alone with him.
No pub noise, no audience. Just space.
They stepped out into the coastal dark where the breeze rolled off the sea, cool and salt-laced, lifting Jude’s curls and his arms brushed Warren’s, as if he couldn’t help leaning into him.
“Oh.” Jude slowed his steps as a Prius pulled up at the curb. “Thanks. That would’ve been great, but…” He gave a sheepishnudge of his head towards the waiting taxi. “Booked it earlier. Bloody car’s still in the garage.”
Warren paused. “Cancel it.”
