“I can do that,” he says. “I’m very patient. And there’s a quiz at the end.”
“I’m not very good at quizzes,” I admit. “Although I once won the ‘90s girlband quiz during a bottomless brunch at Blame Gloria.”
He bumps his shoulder against mine, light and warm. “That’s quite an accomplishment. You’ll be fine.”
We circle back past the M Shed. A little boy points at the cranes and shouts, “Dinosaurs!” and for a second I feel about seven, brand-new and hopeful and desperate for the day to last forever.
“So,” Pete says, stopping, turning to face me fully. His face is open, a little nervous, the kind of nervous that means the answer matters. “Do you want to see me again?”
Chapter 9
TOM
Craig’s front door opens almost instantly, like he’s been waiting on the other side with a stopwatch and a wooden spoon. He fills the doorway in that familiar way—broad-shouldered, neat beard, hair cropped close enough to look regulation even on a day off.
In his day job, he’s DCI Craig Hollis with the Avon and Somerset Constabulary, where he has worked for the best part of twenty years.
He has a detective’s posture: relaxed at the edges, alert in the middle. If a casserole dish committed a crime, he’d get a confession before it hit 180°C.
“Look who it is,” he says, pulling me into a hug that smells like garlic and laundry detergent. “Bristol’s most eligible avocado consultant.”
“I’ve diversified,” I say, handing over a bottle of red. “Today I advised a carrot on investment strategies.”
We move straight into their kitchen, which looks exactly like what you’d expect from two men who can assemble Ikea furniture without a breakup: plants that are somehow thriving, copper pans that gleam like a teeth-whitening advert, and a carefully chaotic pinboard of postcards and gig tickets.
Craig claims the space like a stage manager, stirring a pan with one hand and flicking the oven light on with the other.
Craig’s husband of ten years, Phil, appears from the hallway, buttoning a shirt with the kind of care you only give to buttons when you’re hoping someone will unbutton them later. He’s shorter and slimmer than Craig, with hair artfully tussled and a scruffier beard.
“There he is—our emotional support guest has arrived,” Phil says, kissing my cheek. “You look well. Slimmer? Are we allowed to say that these days?”
“Probably not, but I’ll take it,” I say. “It’s a new diet. Anxiety and panic-based.”
“Oh, well, that’s the best kind. Anxiety is huge this season.”
“Let me take that,” Craig says, relieving me of the wine and giving it a quick approving nod. He’s in a navy sweater rolled to the elbows, forearms tanned from some recent optimistic weekend in the garden.
Phil reaches for his wallet on the counter, glancing at the pinboard. “Okay, I’m heading out. Don’t wait up kids.”
“Text me when you get there,” Craig says without looking. Then he does look, softening. “Have a good time.”
“I will,” Phil says, kissing him. It’s unshowy and domestic and entirely lovely. He kisses my cheek again on the way out. “If he burns the rice, don’t let him gaslight you.”
The door clicks shut behind him. Craig lifts a shoulder. “Hot date. Nice guy. Teaches pottery to children, if you can believe that exists.”
“Children still exist?” I say. “I assumed we phased them out in favour of dogs with Instagram accounts.”
He smirks. “You okay with him going out? I only remembered he’d planned it when you texted you were on your way.”
“It’s your house,” I say. “Besides, he looked disgustingly happy. I’ll allow it.”
Craig returns to the hob with a pleased grunt. “Good. We aim for disgustingly happy around here.”
I hop up onto one of their kitchen stools. The seat squeaks in a way that suggests I should have been doing squats since 2019. “Smells amazing. What’s on the menu?”
“Coconut rice, sticky aubergine, limey slaw. And something green to prove I care about your health.”
“Please don’t,” I say. “I’ve had enough green for one lifetime.”
