‘What the fuck is he doing here?’ Greg hisses.
‘It’s a bloody café, Greg. What am I supposed to do? Put a sign up banning him from entering?’
Jackson has stopped at my one occupied table to chat with the two elderly ladies who are enjoying a pot of tea.
‘This is shit. I don’t know what you want, Ellie. But not this, I guess.’ He snatches his coffee off the counter and simultaneously yanks the sky-blue tie from around his neck. ‘I think we’re done.’
I freeze as the two men walk towards each other. I think they’re about to pass with no repercussions when Jackson has to ruin it.
‘Nice tie there, mate. Didn’t think floral would be your style. Bit jazzy, isn’t it?’
‘What are you doing in here?’ Greg’s voice is almost a hiss.
‘Buying a coffee,’ says Jackson as if it’s the most innocent thing in the world. ‘It is a café, isn’t it? Or did I get that wrong?’
Greg’s fist balls up and I know the colour has drained from my face. This cannot get physical. That’d be ridiculous.
My phone timer goes off again, but I can’t drag myself away from the show.
‘You’ve got coffee at your own place.’
‘Yeah, but it tastes much better when someone else makes it for you.’ Jackson finishes his words with a sparky smile, looking infuriatingly smug.
‘Whatever,’ spits out Greg, and he stuffs his tie into his suit pocket and stalks out of the door.
With Greg gone, Jackson looks over to me and when my alarm screams at me for the third and final time, I take the opportunity to run into the kitchen to try to gather myself together. The minute I’m through the door, all thoughts of cakes, Jackson and Greg are out of the window because there is water pouring out of the cupboard under the sink.
‘Shit,’ I say, louder than I intended.
‘Everything OK?’ Jackson has followed me into the kitchen. ‘Oh crap.’
The water ripples around my feet as I get to the cupboard door. I yank it open. Water sprays out everywhere and I slam it closed. ‘Can you pass me a tea towel?’ I gesture towards the pile of clean towels on the side next to him.
He picks one up and splashes through the water to hand it over. ‘Want me to call a plumber?’
I almost laugh. ‘Do you know how much they cost?’
I take a deep breath and, holding on to the tea towel tight, crouch down and open the door. The water is spraying out 360 degrees from the pipe at the back of the cupboard and it drenches my T-shirt. I pull out the baskets full of kitchen sprays and washing-up liquid, then screw my eyes shut and reach out my hand to locate the pipe. I wind the towel around it and hold it tight. The water soaks through the towel almost immediately, but it stops spraying. ‘I need another one,’ I say, lookingaround the cupboard to find the stopcock. I’m sure it’s in here somewhere.
‘Bit wet in there, is it?’ Jackson’s rich voice with its Aussie twang ripples all the way through me.
No shit, Sherlock. ‘Is that your attempt at helping?’ I snarl, squeezing as hard as I can around the fractured pipe.
With one hand I try to turn the stopcock which I’ve now located. It’s stiff and won’t budge. The water is squirting out through the fabric I’m holding on to for grim death. ‘Another towel, Jackson!’
‘Keep your hair on.’ His white trainers splash straight into the water and I get a glimpse of his orange heel tabs before a new tea towel is pushed into my hand. Then he ducks down and settles himself beside me, his head in the cupboard space alongside mine.
‘Having a spot of bother?’
I’m winding the second tea towel around the pipe. ‘Yes,’ I say, irritated. If he’s here to wind me up, he can fuck off.
He’s so close, he’s impossible to ignore. He’s pushed his hair behind his ear, revealing that sexy eyebrow ring, and he’s already reaching for the wheel of the stopcock. It’s the first time I’ve seen him clean-shaven and it accentuates his perfect full lips and the tiny dimple in the middle of his chin. His smile is confident and my heartbeat accelerates.
‘Here, let me.’
I don’t want him to take over, but I’ve tried and failed and I can’t hold on to the pipe for much longer with one hand and stay dry. So I release my hold on the stopcock.
Jackson’s arms tense as he tries to shift it and every muscle is defined with the effort, the black of his tattoo dark against the golden of his skin. ‘It’s stuck.’ He lets go of the little wheel and shifts back, giving himself a break.
