My flat is also real and lived-in. Lived in by two rugby gremlins who mostly eat takeaway and Pot Noodles.
‘My place is tiny,’ Theo argues in a last attempt.
‘It’s cosy,’ Charlie counters. ‘The photos will look credible. But only if you’re okay with it.’
Theo closes her eyes for a beat. When she opens them, she’s calm and collected. A woman about to add a PR stunt to her to-do list and schedule the clean-up later.
‘Okay. A week,’ she says. ‘My rules. And no underwear or dirty socks left on the radiators.’
The gear change nearly knocks me over. I’m so relieved I could cry. I’m so terrified I could bolt. Instead, I hear myself say, ‘I promise to respect your space. But…what if the underwear is yours?’
Theo’s head whips around, her eyes blazing with a fire that’s part fury, part something I can’t name. But it definitely makes the air crackle.
‘Jesus Christ, the two of you.’ Charlie rubs her temples.
Theo isn’t seeing the rugby player or the PR disaster. She’s seeing the man who’s about to invade her life. The chaos agent she’s just agreed to let through her front door.
And her expression is unnervingly unreadable.
I hold my breath, waiting for the explosion. For Theo to retract her offer, to tell Charlie where to shove her feature piece. But she just sits there, a statue of furious composure, that impassive gaze fixed on my face. She’s calculating all the ways this could go south, all the ways I could ruin her cosy life.
She’s not wrong to.
My brain is a car crash of thoughts. At least seven days in her space. Her toothbrush next to mine. Her scent on the pillows. Her in a sleeping shirt with nothing underneath…
She’s saving my arse. The least I can do is not be a complete walloper about it. A week – I can handle that. I can pull myself together and be a good boy. It’s not that I haven’t squatted before. Just nowhere with nice fluffy throw pillows.
‘Right,’ I say. I cough once, buying a beat. Then I try again. ‘I’ll be on my best behaviour. Promise. I’m an excellent house guest. You’ll barely know I’m there.’
Theo makes a small, disbelieving sound.
‘Okay, you’ll definitely know I’m there. But in a good way. Picture a labradoodle. Enthusiastic, loyal, occasionally chews the furniture.’
Charlie pinches the bridge of her nose. ‘Finn. Go home and pack a bag. Be at Theo’s tonight.’ She turns her gaze on Theo. ‘Please send him the rules. I imagine there will be a list.’
Theo gives a stiff nod. She’s staring at the glass wall, at the reflection of the three of us in this office. A ticking bomb and his two jittery bomb disposal experts.
My chair screeches away as I stand. The meeting is over. The deal is done. I’m moving in with Theodora MacMickin.
Chapter 11
Theo
If cleanliness is next to godliness, my living room slash kitchen is currently a candidate for sainthood. I have scoured this flat within an inch of its life. The cushions on my mustard armchair are fluffed, the spice jars are still in alphabetical order. And since I’m giving Finn the bedroom, my electric friend, the Rabbit, has been safely relocated to the bathroom drawer.
Also, I picked out my safest jammies for later: pink flannel dotted with tiny strawberries. They scream ‘wholesome’ and ‘do not touch’. My force field against the home invasion by Sexy MacSwagger.
It’s not that I don’t want him here.
It’s that I want him here too much.
Even Elvis, my ginger cat, has been brushed into a state of statuesque fluffiness. He now regards me from the top of the bookshelf with a twitching tail and a mild grudge.
‘Don’t glower at me like that.’ I wipe a non-existent smudge from the coffee table.
He yawns, revealing a pink cavern of feline judgement.
My flat is my castle. A curated space of retro prints, scented candles, and calm. It’s a shoebox, but it’s mine. Now, I’m about to let a human hurricane through the door. A six-foot-two Captain Chaos with pink hair and a scent that I know will cling to the upholstery and walls for days. I also know I’ll have to fight the urge to press my face into his cushions and get high on it.
