There’s a moment when he seems frozen, then he shakes his head and turns back to my house, staring at the half dozen entrance doors along the front. Some original, some added by a builder who didn’t deserve the job title.
“Which one is yours?”
“Around the back.”
He takes off, tugging me forward, not releasing my hand. His palm is warm and dry, the fingers long, slender like a piano player. I’m fighting my height and his large socks, cursing when my foot comes down on a sharp stone.
“What happened to your shoe?” he asks, coming to a stop.
“A kayak stole it.” As his eyebrows arch in interest, I shake my head, dancing on one foot to massage the other. “Long story.”
“I’ve got you.” He lets go of my hand to sweep an arm behind my knees, lifting and cradling me against his chest before I realise what’s happening.
One of my hands curls around his neck, my cheek resting against his shoulder, the bag of food and shoe against my chest. A rush of warmth hits me, not just from his body but from the thought he cares.
My nostrils fill with smoke and body wash. His blue eyes scan my face to make sure I’m okay before he quickly covers the distance, stalling again at another four entry choices. “How many people live in this place?”
“Do I look like a census taker?” I prod his shoulder until he lets me down, then limp to the door closest to the corner, punching in a code and waiting for the clunk of release.
When he steps forward, I stop him with a palm on his chest. “And where do you think you’re going?”
“Inside. I have a proposition.”
And I picked it. A son cut from his father’s cloth.
Normally, I wouldn’t mind. He’s a lot better looking than some dudes I’ve catered for in the past. A point in his favour that’ll need to be deducted again because there’s no way in hell he’s not aware of exactly how good he looks. “Not tonight. I’m exhausted.”
But he’s twice my size and easily brushes aside my protest, pushing us both indoors. A narrow staircase leads to the second storey, then we’re along the corridor, the last door on the right.
“You can tell me here,” I say, the keypad for entry to my flat the only obstacle left to prevent him invading my personal space.
“Aren’t you going to offer me a cup of coffee? I gave you a lift home.”
“After terrorising me for half an hour. I think that cancels out your good deed.”
He frowns, reaching over to tap the correct code onto the keypad, ushering me inside when the door unlocks with a cheerful beep.
“How did you know the number?”
He laughs and my gaze immediately goes to my brother, sleeping on the sofa.
So does his. “You live with a junkie in a flat with nothing worth stealing. Obviously, you use the same code as the entrance door.”
“Obviously,” I mutter, taking off the socks he gave me and offering them back to him, still confused why he’s here at all.
“Did you really want a cup of coffee?” I check the cupboards, fishing out a stack of single use sachets I swiped from a hotel room the last time a punter decided a private lap dance would work better outside the confines of the club. “We don’t have milk.”
His gaze sweeps across me, then scans the room.
I see it through his eyes: the tatty wallpaper with beige blotches from water damage, the threadbare carpet, stained from a hundred different spilled drinks. Our sofa and the coffee table in front of it are the only proper furniture unless you count the bench and sink. A door leads to a tiny bathroom. Our belongings are in cardboard boxes, never fully unpacked in the seven months we’ve lived here.
But private helipad boy is so far above me there’s no point to being embarrassed. We live in different worlds.
“I should hope you don’t have milk,” he drawls, “since you don’t appear to have a fridge, either.”
I shrug, wrinkling my nose. “Do you still want the drink? Gotta tell you, my feet hurt, I’m about ready to drop, and allI want is for you to leave so I can get changed into something comfy. If there’s a point to this visit, please just tell me.”
“Evie?”
