My show ends, and I’m reading the summary of another documentary – this one set in a remote coastal town somewhere in Devon – when there’s a knock on the door.
As if on cue, my stomach rumbles, and I rush to open up, frowning at the guy standing on Caiden’s coir welcome mat. He’s dressed in gym shorts and a sweat-drenched sleeveless tee.His bleach-blond hair is a mess of curls, some of which stick to his forehead, and his eyes are red-rimmed. There’s a flush high on his chiselled cheek bones and had he not been covered in sweat, I’d think he was blushing with just how deep the colour is against his otherwise fair skin.
Most noticeable, though, is that he isnotcarrying my dinner.
“You’re not Caiden,” he states, bracing one hand on the door frame.
“And you’re not here to deliver my butter chicken and coconut rice,” I reply. He’s taller than me – probably just over six feet compared to my five-seven frame – so I tilt my head to meet his gaze.
“What?” Blondie asks, brows drawn as he drops his hand to his side and takes a step back. He looks at the number next to the door, likely to double-check he has the right address, before he turns his eyes back on me.
“Uh, is Caiden here?” He looks over my shoulder into the flat, and I open my mouth to reply before a second, smaller figure appears beside him. She’s wearing a blue cap with the delivery company’s name on it, and she’s holding a large brown paper bag. The aromatic scent of the curry I ordered fills the air, and my stomach grumbles loudly. I haven’t eaten since the blueberry muffin I ate while ducked behind the counter at the coffee shop this morning.
“Delivery for Thorne-Sutton?” she asks, looking between me and the guy on the doorstep.
“Yep, that’s me. Thank you.” I take the paper bag from her, pull a tenner from my pocket and hand it over. I tipped on the app earlier, but I never know how much reaches the drivers, so always top up on delivery too.
“What kind of name is Thorne-Sutton?” Blondie asks.
“A good one,” I reply, giving him a very obvious once-over. He’s objectively hot. With a scar slicing through one eyebrow,a gentle five o’clock shadow, broad shoulders and lean, well-defined arms.
“Sorry, did you need something?” I ask when it becomes clear he’s neither going to leave nor talk. I’m not usually this curt with people. Most would say I’m a bloody delight, but he’s standing here looking like a lost puppy and I’m really fucking hungry.
I actually adore puppies. But I am also easily led by my stomach, and hangry is very much one of my main states of being.
“I wanted to see Caiden. He here?” He looks over my shoulder again, but his focus darts down when Ford appears between my legs, hisses at him and then turns and walks back into the flat. I guess that’s his way of telling whoever the fuck this is to piss off.
“Ah, no, he’s not.”
“But you’re in his place?” He raises the scarred eyebrow.
“Yep. And I’m going to go all the way inside it now and eat my dinner.” I lift the bag just to make my next steps super clear.
“Oh. Okay.” His shoulders hunch andfuck me. Now he looks like a puppy that not only can’t find his owner but has lost his favourite ball, too.
“Look,” I say, “Caiden’s away. I don’t know when he’ll be back. He had a family thing to take care of.” I don’t go into more detail since it’s not my story to share, but the guy nods.
“Ah yes, his knight in shining armour.” It’s not a question, but it’s enough that I’m starting to get an idea of who this guy is standing in the hallway of Caiden’s apartment building. I’ll admit that if this is who I think it is, I’m surprised he’s here after Caiden told him yesterday that they were over.
“Maybe,” I offer, narrowing my eyes. “Did you need him for something?”
The guy runs a hand through his curls, and I can’t help following the movement before focusing on his eyes. They’re a deep, dark brown. Pretty and so incredibly sad. He bites hisbottom lip, seeming to contemplate my question before shaking his head.
“Nah, it’s fine. Just wanted to see him, is all. We’re ah…friends.”
Liar. Caiden has one friend, and right now he’s holding a rapidly cooling curry while the man-puppy shifts from foot to foot.
“Oliver, right?” His eyes widen, a small smirk playing on his lips.
“He told you about me?”
My chest squeezes at the look of hope on his face. The one I’m about to trample. It would be cruel not to.
“Yes. But not in the way you’re thinking. I know he told you not to contact him again. So why are you here?”
He looks at the ceiling, blowing out a deep breath. “My dad died.” His voice echoes through the empty hallway, and my heart skips a beat.
Jesus.
