‘Maybe he knows I’m one of the good guys.’ Finn’s voice is soft, his attention fully on Elvis.
He’s turning my cat into a wanton belly rub slut.
I watch them, this beautiful calamity of a man and my cute little demon, and something inside me melts. It’s a reckless, unwelcome feeling, like the first leak in a dam. He didn’t only bring the right ice cream. He tamed the beast. It’s a superpower I didn’t know he had, and it’s ridiculously attractive.
I click my tongue, dragging my thoughts back to practicalities. ‘Have you had dinner yet?’
He lifts his head but doesn’t stop stroking Elvis. A brave man. ‘No.’
‘Okay.’ I gesture to the counter. ‘I bought Pot Noodles. I assumed that might be your thing.’
His eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘You know me so well. Or, how about some ice cream?’
A pause hangs in the air, filled with the sound of Elvis’s purring.
‘How about both?’ I suggest.
A wide grin splits his face. ‘We’re going to get on just fine, List Girl.’
And that’s how I find myself sitting at my kitchenette table ten minutes later, a steaming pot of chicken-flavoured noodles in front of me, while Finlay Lennox sits opposite, happily tucking into his own. The bucket of mint choc chip sits between us, two spoons already sticking out of it. The scene is absurd. It’s a photograph of a life I don’t have, with a man who shouldn’t be here. His knee brushes mine under the table.
He doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
* * *
The ice cream tub is half-empty. For the last twenty minutes, we’ve talked about nothing. Rugby stats. My questionable taste in seventies detective shows. The structural integrity of Jaffa Cakes. It’s been…easy.
Until my brain, the ever-present project manager, kicks back into gear. ‘We should get some content.’ I push the last spoonful of mint choc chip around the tub.
Finn has moved on to scratching Elvis’s chin. ‘Content?’
‘A little appetiser before the main course of the magazine feature.’ I stand and start clearing our mess, a sudden need for activity. ‘Show, not tell, and all that.’
‘You want to take a selfie together?’ He sounds amused.
‘I want to stage a photo that is effortlessly candid and screams “happily ever after”.’ I turn from the sink, and wipe my hands on a tea towel. ‘It’ll give the press something to chew on that isn’t your arse.’
His grin is slow and appreciative. ‘You’re an evil genius.’
‘I know.’ I nod towards the sofa. ‘Sit and try to appear comfortable.’
He obeys, sinking back into the cushions, and pats the space beside him. I shake my head. ‘No. We need to up the stakes.’
I take a breath. This is a strategic manoeuvre. I walk over, my heart thumping a protest. I turn and lower myself onto his lap, arranging my legs so I’m sitting sideways, one thigh resting over his. The world tips sideways for a second. He is dense and muscular beneath me, radiating heat that seeps through my leggings.
His hands hover in the air for a second, uncertain. ‘Where…?’
‘Waist,’ I instruct, my voice impressively calm. ‘Gently. Like you belong there.’
My breath jams halfway at his touch, and a flaming zing barrels through my centre. He pulls me a fraction closer until my back is flush against his chest. I feel the thud of his heart against my shoulder blades.
‘Okay?’ His voice is a low rumble by my ear.
‘Yep. Fine.’
That’s a stone-cold lie. I’m the opposite of fine. I’m a system overload, every nerve ending firing at once. Underneath the sheer panic, there’s heat rising up my spine. The sense of being held and protected and so, so close to…him.
