There was nothing Cass could say to convince Lenny that was true, but the opportunity to debate it was curbed by the appearance of the man himself, leaning tiredly in the doorway and looking anywhere but at Lenny.
“All right, mate?” Cass rose up enough from his chair to punch Nero’s arm. “We were just chinwagging about you.”
“Why? Got nothin’ better to do?”
“Clearly not. Did the tables arrive for the dining area?”
Nero shrugged. “How the fuck would I know? I was too busy trying to figure out what made you hire that band of bellends you’re calling a kitchen team.”
If Cass was offended by Nero’s bad temper, it didn’t show. He merely grinned. “Don’t matter who I employ, you’re never happy until you’ve got ’em all writing lists in their sleep and scrubbing the walls on a Saturday night.”
“So? It’s gonna take this lot longer than most.” Nero finally looked at Lenny. “How’d the big veggie adventure go?”
“Good—”
“Great, actually,” Cass cut in. “He sold out. Who knew that weird corn-pasta shite would be so popular?”
Nero rolled his eyes. “Everyone. Loads of guests ask for a gluten-free option when we have a pasta dish on.”
“Must be why I don’t cook pasta. Fucking ball ache.” Cass slapped Lenny on the back. “Speaking of which, I’m gonna close for the rest of the day while the gas fellas come in and stomp all over everything. Lenny, mate, you might as well chip off now.”
“Seriously?” A few weeks ago, Lenny’s heart would’ve sunk, and then clawed its way back to his throat with a tattoo that roared in his ears. Any empty hours in his day had driven him half-mad, but now, with the crippling anxiety he’d brought to Pippa’s all but gone, the prospect of a night off was exciting.
I want to go dancing.
The thought came suddenly and unbidden to him, and his foot tapped reflexively. It had been months since he’d last hit a club and danced till morning. Did he even remember how?
A weighted silence crept into Lenny’s consciousness. Nero was staring at him, his expression one Lenny had seen before, usually when he’d zoned out and missed an important instruction. “Um . . . pardon?”
Nero shook his head. “Never mind. I’m gonna head back to Vauxhall to work on the bus. I’ll see you later, yeah?”
And with that he was gone, striding away before Lenny found his tongue.
Lenny stood and drifted to the door, frowning after Nero’s retreating back while Cass’s shrewd gaze burned a hole in the side of his head. “What’s up with him?”
“Fucked if I know,” Cass said cheerfully, like Nero stormed out on him all the time—perhaps he did. “Reckon you can probably fix it if you get a wriggle on, though.”
“Eh?”
“Get after him, numbnuts. He only came back here looking for you.”
Cass’s words made no sense, but he didn’t have to tell Lenny twice to be wherever Nero was. Lenny dashed out of the office, unbuttoning his chef jacket as he went. If he hurried, there was a chance he’d catch Nero before he got on the Tube.
He barged into the staff room, shoving his trousers down his hips. The prospect of riding the Tube alone was faintly terrifying, but the need to be close to Nero was far stronger. He’d missed Nero’s quiet presence, his gravelly voice, and deep, throaty chuckle. The heat of his strong, leanly coiled body as he—
Lenny collided with a warm mass that felt remarkably like the one lighting up his imagination. His nose hit a hard shoulder, and his elbow lashed out and caught Nero in the face. “Jesus!”
Nero glared, though he appeared unmoved by the glancing blow to his cheekbone. “Why are you running around like a maniac?”
“Why do you think?” Lenny snapped. “Chasing after you, aren’t I?”
“What the fuck for?”
Put like that, Lenny had no idea. He rubbed his nose with the heel of his hand. “I was going to ask you if I could grab my paints and come to Vauxhall with you, but if you’d rather be a dick and go on your own—”
“Ah, I see. So you need me to hold your hand?”
Lenny raised an eyebrow as Nero’s ill humour hit home. “Have I done something to piss you off since I saw you this morning?”
