“You’ll be cold.”
“I’ve got on layers.” Not to mention the rush of blood heating my veins. “I’m fine.”
At the sound of her shuddering, I reach for the coat—which it feels like she’s swimming in—draw the sides together, and bending, zip it up from the bottom, taking care to avoid any contact with her body. “There.” I step back, dizzy from the sweet scent of her. “Better.” I pat her arms, which is something my father used to do instead of hugging us boys goodbye.
“Thank you,” she manages, through teeth that are audibly chattering. “Who…would’ve guessed…that Clifford “Ebenezer” Llewelyn had a heart after all?”
For fuck’s sake. “Why didn’t you say you were cold earlier?”
“I…I didn’t realize. I think it’s shock or something. Also, I had wine tonight and… Wait. Did I leave the oven on? I was going to bake a cake.” She moans. “Is it on? I can’t remember. Okay. Wait. Wait, so, I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge to take out the butter, got attacked by the killer stink cheese, and…”
“And? What do you reckon? We going to burn to a crisp in this towering inferno?”
“Is it a tower if it’s only six floors?”
I smile. “Probably not.”
“Okay. I didn’t turn it on. I don’t think. I’m almost positive.”
“All right. Well, that’s excellent news.” As I relax back, my foot hits the bottle. “And I have more good news.”
“Really?”
“Don’t get too excited. It’s not a way out or anything.” With difficulty, I drop into a squat, careful not to rub her inappropriately, grab the whisky from its bag, and hold it up. The most she’ll be able to see, even now that our eyes have adjusted, is a glint of light filtering down from the filthy skylight onto glass. “I do, however, have sustenance.”
“Food?”
“Booze.” I open the bottle and immediately get a nose full of the single malt’s burnt peat aroma.
The sound of her inhaling through her nose is bizarrely sensuous. “Smells good.”
“Care for a tipple?”
With a long, beaten-sounding sigh, she gives in. “Might as well.”
I hold it out and, after a moment, startle at the cold press of her fingers to mine. “Shit, woman, you’re a bloody icicle.”
“This’ll warm me up.”
I listen as she tips the bottle back and takes what’s got to be the world’s tiniest sip. Then another. And another.
“Thanks.”
I’m probably imagining the few extra seconds she lets her frigid hand linger under my warm one when she returns the bottle. When I slug back a good dose of the stuff, it tastes wildly different from the glass I drank earlier in the pub. It’s headier, smokier, more potent.
I hand the bottle back and she accepts it briskly, to my great disappointment.
“So,” she starts, her weight making the wall beside me creak. In the dark, every movement comes with its own set of subtle clues to decipher. I wait breathlessly for whatever she’ll do next. “You got big plans for tonight?”
“Just this.” Her laugh makes me immeasurably pleased. “You?”
“Oh, yeah. Right. Same. Absolutely. Slugging back booze in the elevator with my hated neighbor.”
Now, why on earth does that hurt? I’m an idiot. To let it bother me, to give a shit what she thinks, when I’ve been nothing but a prick to her.
I make a sound that could pass as a laugh. “Right. Well, at least it’s good booze. I reckon that’ll make up for the company.”
She sniggers and sways toward me with the bottle, giving me a little of her weight in the exchange. Her shoulder against my arm. Edging into the crook of my elbow. I like the feel of it there. Just a shoulder and an elbow. Nothing special. Hell, in the metro, I’d hardly notice, but in here, with nothing to look at? It’s intense.
