‘Yep.’ With minimum effort, he propels himself to the floor again. ‘A little pervert with the biggest crush on you.’
‘That makes no sense at all. You were just—’
‘Three years younger than you and desperately jealous of Mel. It was my way of pulling your pigtails.’
I place my glass on the worktop, taking my heated cheeks into my hands. ‘That all sounds very good—it even absolves you a little bit. But no, Ben, I don’t believe you. You really were awful to me.’ His story is just too farfetched, but if it lessens his discomfort, I’m okay with that.
‘Then I’ll just have to be extra nice to you from now on.’
Before I can respond, he pulls a folded envelope from the back pocket of his jeans. ‘This is for you, and it’s not me being nice. Call it rent,’ he says, passing it into my hands.
‘We haven’t even—’
‘I’ll probably need somewhere to stay for a few weeks, especially now that Melody’s place is out of commission. If that’s okay with you?’
‘Yeah, that’s, that’s fine,’ I reply, looking up from the white envelope. ‘Totally fine.’ But probably dangerous.
‘It’s not like I’ll be here all of the time.’
‘No, of course. And I’ll be working, mostly.’
His expression falters, changing just as quick. ‘So that’s settled then. Thanks, Nell.’ He presses his lips to my head in the briefest of kisses. ‘You probably won’t even realise I’m here.’
As if that were even possible. As he stares down at me for a moment, he looks unsure, younger even, and I have the sudden urge to wrap him in my arms, but I don’t. Especially not as he says, ‘Right. I’ll go and bring my pet snake in. Is that okay?’
Chapter 5
BEN
The look on her face.
It was priceless.
What the fuck would I do with any pet, let alone a pet snake? The only good snake is a dead one, as far as I’m concerned. I’ve been in enough desert warzones, trained in enough jungles to know this as a truth. Yep, the only good snake is one that’s been flattened by a vehicle on some beige, sand blown road. And that goes for scorpions and camel spiders, too.
The fucking Middle East, my mind grumbles as I pull clothing out from my ruck, covering the white duvet with a fine layer of sand, the taste and smell of it hitting the back of my throat in a sensory memory.Heat. Fire. The smell of flesh. I push it all away, concentrating on the clothes on the bed. It doesn’t matter that they’ve already been laundered or unworn or that I’ve been out of the place for days; the film of fine dust—because, as a description, that’s nearer the consistency than sand—gets fucking everywhere.
I continue pulling stuff from my ruck when my toiletries bag slides from the bed to the floor with athump.
Fuck. While I’m a fan of the no door situation, I don’t want to wake Nell. No matter how much I’d relish her company over the memories I choose to avoid. I look down at the heaped clothing and decide there’s not much point in putting it away because it’ll all need to be washed again. I don’t want to spend the next couple of weeks reeking of work.
Some would call it work. Others would call it murder.
Fuck it. I grab my phone from the nightstand and creep out into the hall.
I smile. Nelly, what have you done? To counteract the lack of doors, she appears to have pinned a scarf or sarong to the frame. Rather than making a tent for herself, I think she’s possibly trying to keep me out.Oh, darling, a steel door wouldn’t work if I wanted in without an invitation.A soldier of my rank and regiment can always get his hands on the appropriate ordnance, though not exactly questions unasked.
Not that it matters, I decide, pulling back what I decide is the edge of the sarong, on account of the scent of sunscreen, as I poke my head inside. Nope, none of that matters because I intend to charm my way into her bedroom before I leave.
Nell’s bedroom is a mess. In fact, it looks as though there’s been some kind of clothing explosion because every surface seems to be covered in jeans and pants, blouses and T-shirts. A tall chest of drawers stands against the far wall, sweater arms dangling out as though trying to escape, a dark coloured bra tangled in one arm.
On second glance, it’s obvious that, other than the stuffed chest, there isn’t anywhere to store anything. Even the bottom of the bed is covered in the same shit. It looks like a good bed. Comfortable. King-size at least. Maybe an antique or heirloom piece. And there, in the middle, lies the sleeping shape of Penelope. Her dark curls are a stark contrast to the white pillows, her shoulder rising and falling with each breath. I want to watch her—look at her while she sleeps, watch the rise and fall of her chest with each of those breaths—but I won’t intrude any more than I have already.
There’s time to watch her sleeping yet.With her permission.
I make my way down the stairs and into the kitchen, my heart in my mouth as a blur of dark fur streaks past my feet. So much for lightning reflexes. So much for the special forces training. I nearly fucking shat myself!
Palms on the kitchen bench top, I take a half a dozen deep, even breaths, feeling like a bit of a ponce once I realise the streak of fur was a cat. She never mentioned it, but all evidence points towards her owning one, if anyone ever owns a cat. According to my dearly departed granny, a cat only deigns to live with a person and is never truly owned.Sounds a lot like being in a relationship with a soldier.There are twin ceramic bowls set on a rubber mat in the shape of a paw, a basket sitting next to it, and as I turn, a flap in the back door where the furry fucker presumably just escaped from.
