Another laugh sneaks out of him. Quiet, sexy, slightly disarming. I reckon listening to that would help me sleep better, all on its own. He rubs the nape of his neck, then jerks his chin back towards his bedroom. “I think I’ve probably said enough. If sleeping on the floor helps, then I have a spare duvet in the cupboard on the landing you could put underneath you. Night, Alaric.”
CHAPTER 14
GERALD
I’m still processing my feelings for Alaric three nights later in the village hall. He’s lively and loud, but it’s the kind of loud that makes me feel seen, not silenced. Principally, because he shuts up and pays attention when it matters, instinctively knowing when to tune out the never-ending streams of consciousness in his own head and tune into someone else’s. It’s a neat, charming trick.
Thank God Elsa remembers what to do. At first, I walk her through the routine without the music and with an encouraging handful of mini treats. She keeps giving me puzzled looks as if to saycome on, faster! So the second time, we do it properly, with the overhead lifts, the floorwork, the cha-cha. Everything. We nail it. A huge weight slips from my shoulders.
When I return, Alaric’s in the sitting room, nestled into the sofa cushions and engrossed in something on his laptop that, from where I’m standing, could be a pornographic snuff movie. From the dry commentary, however, and the way he makes no attempt to cover it up, I deduce it’s work related.
“Holmium laser enucleation of the prostate,” he clarifies, as if that totally explains. “I’m performing one with the boss assisting me tomorrow, so I’m revising a few pointers. Not laser pointers, obviously. That would just be a really bad pun, and now I’m totally stoked that I came up with it. How’s Elsa?”
“Still real.”
I smile at him, despite my sitting room looking like a minor blizzard swept through. Mugs, a hoodie, a purple throw, and a crisp packet combine to form a uniquely curated disarray screamingAlaric is still here. Every time I come home, a stupid buzz of relief envelops me because I half expect to find boxes and bags packed and ready by the door, with him waiting to hand my key over. So far, he’s had no joy finding somewhere suitable, but it’s only a matter of time. And then I’ll have my sofa back, all to myself, and my sitting room will return to a neat, ordered blandscape.
And that imagery delivers no sense of satisfaction or relief whatsoever.
“How’s my super-favourite impatient patient?”
I blush, because really, he doesn’t mean it in a flirty way. I’m not his super-favourite anything—it’s just the way he talks. And talks and talks.
“Why are you standing like that?” he adds, furrowing his brow.
When I pull my shoulders back, a taut, achy sensation stings my belly muscles. “Like what?”
Alaric waves a hand encompassing all of me. “Like you’re slightly hunched. I hope you haven’t overdone it. You can expect some discomfort the first few times you do anything strenuous, and that’s normal. But no heavy weights. You don’t ever lift the dog, do you? Over puddles and gates and muddy ditches and things?”
“No,” I scoff.Just swirl her above my head three times. “Elsa’s a border collie, not a pampered shih tzu. She can scramble across her own ditches. I’m fine.”
To demonstrate, I make myself stand even straighter and blench. In my eagerness to get back on it, maybe I have exceeded my limits.
Naturally, my surgeon tenant spots my discomfort. “And you’ve got book club tonight!” he tuts. “You’re overdoing things, Gerald!”
“Book club is hardly strenuous.”
Regardless, he insists I sit so he can bring my laptop over to me. Before I know it, I have two cushions behind my back, my feet propped up on a kitchen chair (apparently to reduce the strain on my abdominal muscles), two paracetamols, and a cup of tea.
And a fusspot of a hobbit cross-legged on the sofa next to me.
“Much better.” Critically eyeing his handiwork, he flips open a tube of Pringles. “What book are we discussing tonight?”
We?When did we become awe?
“Er…Slow Horses,” I say, “By a British author called Mick Herron.”
As I navigate to the Zoom meeting, Alaric crunches on a Pringle. “Slow Horses. Nice title. Is that kind of like aBlack Beautysort of thing? But in reverse, obviously, ‘cosBlack Beauty—with a cool name like that—was probably a really fast horse? Though I assume it’s not a children’s book, likeBlack Beauty, because I saw your book club mates on that last Zoom call. No way do a bunch of eggs like them read children’s books. So it’s about some old nags that trot really slow, right?”
Is he pranking me? His tone is serious and enquiring, but that glint in his eye holds just enough mischief there to baffle me. Like most conversations with Alaric, it’s mildly stressful for several reasons. My sofa is only a two-seater. Every time hechomps on a Pringle, it’s like his mouth is breaking a tiny pane of glass right next to my ear.
But it’s also kind of thrilling. His bony hip on the sofa nudges mine every time he reaches for a Pringle. How can that one point of contact– we’re barely touching through layers of clothing– make every other sensation blur?
I decide to play with a straight bat. “The ‘slow horses’ are a group of British intelligence agents who’ve all messed up potential stellar careers and end up working desk jobs at Slough House, a dumping ground for drudge jobs. The whole series of books is called Slough House.”
“Oh.”Crunch, crunch, crunch. “No horses, then. Fast or slow.”
“No.”
