A quick glance around the room informs me that my clothes have been picked up off the floor where I know I left them and they’ve been folded up on a chair next to Giles’ dresser, my phone placed on top. I head over there and pick up my phone. It’s almost six in the evening. I estimate that means I slept for two, maybe three hours.
After pulling on my boxers and jeans, I tuck my phone in my back pocket and walk out of Giles’ bedroom.
I hear him before I see him. Or rather I hear a slop and then a swoosh. There’s more swooshing and then the unmistakable sound of a bucket shifting slightly on a tiled floor. I know this sound better than most considering it’s how most of my working days have ended in the last two decades.
Stepping into Giles’ main reception room, my suspicions are confirmed. He’s mopping his kitchen floor. He stops for the quickest moment, barely a second, when he sees me but then he goes straight back to what he’s doing, his eyes fixed on the mop.
I’ve seen several people mop floors in my time. Countless co-workers, my parents every night when I was younger, and of course I’ve done it myself hundreds, if not thousands of times. But nobody has ever looked like Giles while cleaning a kitchen floor.
Wearing nothing but a pair of his short gym shorts slung low on his hips, his muscles ripple as he swipes the mop back and forth. The cords in his forearms roll as he plunges the mop back in the bucket of water and then uses the attachment to spin additional water off it.
Fuck, that’s one fancy mop. Giles must really know what he’s doing.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” He doesn’t stop what he’s doing.
“I’m sorry for falling asleep,” I say in lieu of not knowing what else to say.
“Don’t apologise for that,” he says with a soft tut. “You looked like you needed it.”
“Yeah.” I scratch the back of my head and feel just how much of my hair has fallen out of my knot. “I don’t have the best sleep habits.”
That makes Giles stop and lean on his mop. “You should try and get some help with that. Sleep is essential to any training programme.”
Ah, okay. We’re back to gym bros, training buddies, running partners.
Except, that’s not what I want. Especially not when I see the hard set of Giles’ jaw as he goes back to mopping the floor that honestly, already looks spotless.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Yeah. I just like to do my cleaning on a Sunday.”
“Right. Okay. Well, I’ll go get dressed and—”
“No!” He stops me turning. “That’s not what I meant. I don’t want you to go. If you don’t want to. I just… I just need to finish what I’m doing.”
“Mopping the floor?”
“Yeah, and I want to do the windows too.”
I look at the gleamingly clear glass panes that reveal a never-ending North London.
“Want me to help?”
Giles blinks at me like I’ve just spoken to him in Russian.
“I’m a dab hand with a mop. Quickest floor cleaner in Mayfair and my window cleaning is pretty spotless too, pun intended.” I give him finger guns for effect.
His smile disappears before it’s had a chance to grow and he shakes his head. “No, thanks. I… I have to do it myself.”
“Alright. Well, can I make you a cup of tea while you do?”
Again he gives me a strange look like I’ve just said something out of the ordinary when what I asked is the most common question in the English language.
“Okay,” he says.
“Toss me a tea towel.”
