Until he straightens, and his arms fall to his sides, taking my heart with them. Which is fucking ridiculous. What am I expecting? Avoir le coup de foudre?No. That love-at-first-sight shit happened to Tam and I’m happier for his Christmas miracle than I can ever say.
But lightning doesn’t strike twice. Not for me. I’m the idiot who gets toxic ash instead of a spark, and this dude is hotter than a mince pie left in the oven too long.
This dude istemporary, and I brace myself for him to walk away. Back to the chip shop. Back to something real.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he reaches through the open window in one smooth, unhurried motion and plucks my phone from my hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His fingers brush mine—no gloves—and a jolt rattles my bones.
A brand new sensation.
Awildone.
And it stuns me into a startled and horny statue.
I’m struck dumb as he closes out the swingers app and opens the Google Play store instead, typing something I can’t see, hittingdownloadwith that bright grin still on his lovely face.
“This one’s better,” he says, already turning away. “Happy hunting, you handsome fecker.”
Galen
You handsome fecker.
Stop the lights, I outdo myself sometimes. Or maybe the oxygen my brain was deprived of two Christmases ago is still having a laugh at my expense.
Either way, I’m cringing hard enough to pull a muscle as I make my escape from the soulful-eyed white-van man. The soulful-eyedswingerif his phone entertainment is an accurate snapshot of his idea of fun.
Doesn’t seem the type.
Can’t say why I’m so certain, but as I approach the next vehicle in the long line tailing back from the chip shop fire, I’m struggling to picture this dude banging his way through the clientele of the Penthouse up the road. And trust me, I try. Van Man is beautiful.
Close-cropped dark hair, big dark eyes.
Stone-warmed skin and muscles wrapped up in working men’s clothes that would look better on my bedroom floor if I ever took hookups past the couch in my living room.
Join your floor-drobe, eh?
Ouch. Like I need my subconscious to remind me that my house is still a half-renovated tip after eighteen months of weaklungs and shaky legs. It’s clean. Habitable. Who cares if it’s only just come together enough to live in? If my clothes are on the floor and I haven’t got round to installing the kitchen worktops?
It’s safe.
It’s not on fire.
Not like the unfortunate terraced properties next door to the delinquent chip shop. Poor souls who live there have lost their roofs and most of their attic space to a messy, oily blaze that’s going to take months to clean up. And that should be what I’m thinking about as I tramp up and down both sides of the street, moving vehicles on where there’s space and checking in with drivers who’ll be stuck until we lose a couple of engines.
But these fecking light duties. They’re important, whoever’s doing ‘em, but they don’t half give me a lot of time for my mind to wander, and Van Man…
I don’t need to see him again. His side of the road is clear. Traffic’ll be moving soon, taking him safely on his way. But the thing is, I’ve seen this dudebefore.
We’re neighbours.
Kind of.
My garden backs on to his and I’d be the biggestliar who ever lived if I said I’d never noticed the hot single dad who’s sat on his back deck and stared into space every night I’ve been home since I moved in three months ago. That I hadn’t noticed his van caught up in the snarl of traffic tonight and felt a little bit better about being benched for the night.
Every cloud.
His van, an old Crafterwith a child seat in the front, still isn’t moving. I can see it from the other end of the street where I should be paying attention to the young-ish girl trying to get my attention, waving her phone around to catch me on video.
