That’s the real problem. Not the potential for mud on my rug or wet towels on the floor. It’s the thought of his addictive scent embedding itself in my space and body and brain.
The suggestion of Finn moving in earlier today triggered a spike of panic that nearly took a crowbar to my composure. But I held it. I learned long ago, in a house that tiptoed around my mother’s moods, that a still surface is a safe surface. My job was to be the quiet harbour. Gil reinforced the lesson. My feelings were inconvenient, my reactions ‘too much’. So I locked it all behind my teeth.
Showing Charlie and Finn that the idea of him in my home made my pulse jump? Never ever.
A stack of Pot Noodles sits on the kitchen counter as an offering to the handsome God of Mayhem. I’d stared at them in Tesco for a full three minutes, feeling absurd. But it’s a strategic deployment of snacks to make him feel less awkward. If that’s even a thing for him. I don’t know. But it is for me, so…
I check my reflection in the hallway mirror. My hair is in a neat bun, and my face is scrubbed clean. I’m wearing grey leggings and an oversized Aran jumper. Not even lipstick.
Part of me feels like a child again, making myself smaller, quieter, trying not to take up too much space in case I upset the delicate balance of the house. Now I’m wary of him taking up all the space in mine. If I’d known that this would be the cost of saving my job, I might have applied to fill shelves at Tesco.
Who am I kidding? Of course not. This job is my life.
The buzzer screeches at 6:58 pm, two minutes before the agreed time. Finn Lennox, a man whose entire brand is built on a disregard for rules and schedules, moves in two minutes early. I clock the detail. It’s a deliberate act, an olive branch of sorts.
My heart trips, catches, tries again. I press a hand to my chest, commanding it to behave. It’s seven days. I’ve survived worse. Taking a steadying breath that does absolutely nothing to steady me, I walk to the door, flick the lock, and pull it open.
And there he is.
He fills the doorframe, a riot of pink hair, dark joggies, and a plain black t-shirt that stretches across his chest. Behind him is an expensive Louis Vuitton suitcase.
But that’s not the important thing.
No, the important thing is that he’s holding a ludicrous armful of snacks. A multi-pack of crisps that could hide a toddler, a box of Jaffa Cakes. My gaze snags on the tub he’s balancing on top of the crisps. It’s a family-sized bucket of my favourite mint choc chip ice cream. The one from the Italian place down the road that costs a fortune.
I’m melting. Pun intended.
He must have asked Charlie. The thought is unnerving and thaws something that I’ve kept frozen for a reason.
Finn offers a hesitant, lopsided grin. The stitches in his eyebrow pull slightly. ‘Snack flatmates?’
A real smile breaks through my defences. It’s small, but it’s there. ‘Come in before you drop it all.’
I step back and he manoeuvres himself and his baggage into my hallway. The space immediately shrinks by half as he takes off his trainers. Elvis lets out a brief hiss from his perch on the bookshelf. I get it. Finn is an invasion of the senses.
‘Nice place.’ He scans the open-plan living room and kitchen. ‘Very tidy.’
‘It has to be because it’s so tiny.’ I close the door and the click sounds final.
‘Naw. It’s cosy.’ Finn sets the mountain of snacks down on my kitchen counter. ‘This is the main event, I take it?’ He gestures around the room.
‘This is it. Living room, kitchen.’ I point to the armchair and the sofa. ‘You can take the bedroom,’ I say, too quickly. ‘My bed’s bigger. Better for someone with…you know, muscles.’
‘That’s not happening. It’s your bed.’
‘Don’t be noble. It’s the only decent mattress in the flat.’
He pauses. ‘Are you calling me fragile?’
‘I’m calling you a professional athlete. Your spine’s an asset. I’m not getting you benched because I made you sleep on a cheap coil-sprung death trap.’
He gives me a look. ‘Theo. I get tackled into turf by lorry-sized mutants with no necks. I’ll survive your Ikea pull-out. In fact, it’s going to feel like a cloud.’
‘No, it’s lumpy. I sit in meetings and at my desk. Only one of us needs proper lumbar support. You’re taking my bed.’
Finn saunters over to the sofa and flops down with a theatrical groan, making my meticulously plumped cushions gasp for mercy. ‘This is a five-star resort. My lumbar feels fully supported. Cared for. Cherished.’
‘I’m serious, Finn.’
