“Harry?”
“Yeah?”
“You and Daisy are the only people I’ve ever told . . .” Lando won’t look at me. He’s fiddling with the hem of his T-shirt.
“That’s cool. I won’t say anything.”
“Thanks,” he whispers. “So, do you want to stay over? Or do you want me to order an Uber?”
“I could stay,” I say. “In your bed? With you?”
“I mean, we have about six spare guest rooms, so you don’t have to share my bed.”
“You don’t mind if I share your bed?” Rather Lando than whatever ghosts lurk in these enormous corridors.
He hides his smile behind a palm. “I’d kind of like that. I don’t have sleepovers except with Daisy.”
“It’s wild that you hook up with all these guys, but I’m gonna be the first to stay over.” It’s cool, actually. Even though we didn’t fuck, it makes me feel a little special.
Suddenly, Lando jumps up from the toilet and washes his hands, then he marches over to the tub and holds out a hand for me to grab. My extremities have all gone numb, and when I unfurl my legs, I feel the onset of pins and needles. I make an old-person groan as I get to my feet.
“Come with me. I want to show you something.” Lando pulls me by the hand and guides me through his bedroom, through a tiny mirrored corridor, and into another room made entirely of cupboards.
He pushes a spot in the centre of one door, and it opens by itself. Inside, lining little glass shelves, are about fifty perfume bottles in an array of different colours and sizes.
“These are . . . tokens from guys I’ve hooked up with.”
“You stole them? Or did they give you them? Or do you buy them afterwards?” I’m confused.
Lando smiles a half smile. “They . . . fall into my pocket.”
I hold my hands out in front of me. “No judgement here.” I kind of like that he’s a secret crim. A little bit wicked.
Though that’s definitely a higher body count than me, even if I include all the girls I’ve slept with. A higher body count than I could ever dream of.
And he’s ace? It doesn’t make any sense to me.
“The PC term is olfactory stimulant relocation. Or OSR.” He laughs, but there’s no humour to it. “I don’t really know why I take them, I just . . . do.”
“Do you wear any of these?”
“Ew, no.” Lando opens the neighbouring cupboard to reveal another section of approximately fifty perfume bottles. Only this time there are no repeats. “These are my fragrances. I have a big thing for scent. And okay, I know you can’t actually smell anything, but I’m going to need you to stop wearing whatever cheapo brand you’re wearing right now and pick one of these.”
“Hey, my mum bought me this for Christmas.”
“No offense, but I think you get your lack of smell from your mum. I’m sure she’s lovely, but the woman has . . . no taste.” He looks at me as though he’s bracing for impact.
I can’t argue with a man who has more than fifty bottles of expensive-looking fragrances and is willing to gift me one.
“I didn’t steal these, I promise. I paid for them all myself . . . with my dad’s money.”
“Fine,” I say, laughing. “But you choose.”
He stares at his collection for a few seconds and hovers his hand over a rounded yellow bottle before closing his fist around it. Then he places it in my palm. “This one. It’s one of my absolute favourites.”
I pretend those words don’t do something weird to my insides. “Loom . . . Loomy . . .” My pronunciation sucks hard.
“Lumière du Fantôme,” he says effortlessly.
