Tam releases me. “Ferret is the fucking word. I have no idea what he is.”
“What’s his name?”
“Rudolf.”
“Rudolf?”
Tam shucks his coat, hoodie, and boots, revealing his tattooed arms, and the fibreglass cast on his wrist. It’s green—he let the nurse applying it choose the colour and she’d told him it was Christmassy. At the time, he hadn’t seemed to care much, but the shade suits his warm eyes and the dark hair he shakes out. “I found him last December and I was drunk enough that I forgot I’d have to call him that all year round. He’s Rudy these days, but it was a hell of a hangover for a while.”
“Sounds it. If it’s any consolation, the only things I ever find when I’m drunk is bad sex and soggy chips.”
“Maybe you’re doing it wrong.”
“Which part? The sex?”
Tam smirks. “Doubt it.”
“Why’s that?”
He takes a breath. Then snaps his mouth shut, amusement and something else dancing in his gaze. Something I can’t quantify while I’m holding his wriggly dog and trying to ignore the fact I’m flirting with my landlord.
The dog. Talk about the dog.“Where did you find him?”
It’s the out Tam needs. He comes closer and tickles Rudy’s chin. “Round the back of the dodgy pub in town. He was about to get chucked in the ring as a bait dog.”
Horror tosses my stomach. I’m not hungry anymore. “How did you save him?”
“Punched someone. Probably.” Tam gives me a shadowed grin. “Can’t really remember. Just that I woke up with sore knuckles and a fun-sized tyrant living in my house.”
Rudy squirms to get down. I release him and face Tam again. “That’s a bit different to finding a stray dog on your way home.”
“Is what it is.” Tam gestures for me to take off my coat. “And I can’t complain. He’s the biggest little prick I’ve ever known, but I love him.”
Ugh. Can he get any hotter? I relinquish my coat and leave my shoes on the rustic wood floor of the hallway. It’s warm beneath my feet and that warmth continues throughout the ground floor of the house as I follow him into his living space.
The cosy aesthetic isn’t a world away from the annex, but it’s bigger, and Tam’s scent is strong enough that I want to sniff the air and saturate myself in it.
I settle for padding past his couch and trailing him into the open plan kitchen, where he’s already at the fridge, pulling out a casserole pot. “What’s that?”
He wraps his deep voice around some French words and I just about die.
Also, I have no idea what he said.
“Chicken,” he translates. “With lardons and cream. I was going to eat it on the couch with a spoon, but I have pastry too.”
Okay. So the answer to my earlier question is a resoundingyes. Apparently Tam Dubois gets hotter by the second. A tattooed, dog-rescuing man who can cook. Like, did Mother Nature reach into my head and pluck out my wildest fantasies? It’s the only explanation I can think of.
And he’s not done. Inexplicably, there’s more to come.
Tam cuts pastry into a wide circle and chucks it in the oven with his pot of chicken. Then he points to the stairs. “My studio’s in the spare room. You want to see?”
He has flour on his hands—even the casted one. At this point, I’m leaning in the doorway for support, and my voice, when I find it, is faint.Breathless. “Sure.”
“Let me light the fire and I’ll show you.”
I swear to god, if he starts chopping wood, I’m done. I’m dust on the floor. Sweep me up and chuck me in the wind. But thankfully, Tam makes short work of stuffing logs in the burner and lighting it before…
Leading me upstairs.
