Chapter 6
IZZY
It’s still dark when I wake, and it takes me a few moments to remember where I am and, more to the point, why.
Travelling.
Weather.
Sleeping with a stranger.
Ah, yes.
A strange decision to have to make, but it beat the alternative of a cold leather sofa and a small cashmere throw. But now that I think about it, I probably could’ve slept downstairs quite adequately if I’d just thought earlier to wear all these clothes.
My head is almost buried between the mountain of pillows, so I prop myself up on my elbows and glance look down at my. . . yep, unmolested body. I’ve kicked the duvet to the very bottom of the bed, unsurprisingly, because I did go to bed wearing almost every item of clothing packed in my weekend bag including both a long-sleeved and a short-sleeved T-shirt, underwear, both knickers and a bra, the latter of which wasn’t exactly ideal sleepwear, yesterday’s sweater, a pair of thermal long johns, socks, and a pair of sleep shorts.
So basically, I went to bed wearing the equivalent of a clothing chastity belt.
Believe me, it was for the benefit of us both. It’s not that I think I’m irresistible or anything, and while Greg is certainly attractive, especially when his mouth is closed, I’m pretty sure I can manage to resist him.Just by engaging him in conversation, for instance.But if anything was likely to happen, it was more probable to do so while we were both horizontal and in the dark.
Bullet dodged there.
But that wasn’t why I went to bed fully and extra clothed. The thing is, past boyfriends have pointed out that, in my sleep, I can beclingy. One even went as far as to describe me as the human equivalent of ivy—something so grasping and invasive, I left him no breathing room. Smothering, I think he said. Needless to say, he wasn’t my boyfriend for very long. But I’d be mortified to think I’d behaved that way last night, hence my clothing chastity belt.
And speaking of men I’ve slept with, I can hear Greg in the kitchen. It would be hard not to, given the racket he’s making.
‘What is that horrible noise?’ I ask, reaching the bottom of the stairs.
‘Aye, very funny.’ Throwing a dish towel over his shoulder, he halts his rendition of Tom Petty’sFree Fallin’.
Before appearing downstairs, I took a two-minute shower, tied up my hair, then pulled on clean jeans and a lovely soft, pale blue cashmere blend sweater and a pair of bright pink socks. So I suppose I’m surprised to see Greg standing in the kitchen still wearing the same pyjamas he wore last night. Though I’mnotcomplaining. And not that he’d notice me all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed because yes, while I may also have added a little makeup, he’s barely looked up from whatever he’s doing in the kitchen. And also, his singing voice? It’s not really bad. Quite the opposite. Raspy and rough, the sound of it licks at my belly like a cat’s tongue.
Yes, well, enough of that.
‘It is funny,’ I respond. ‘Because I’m pretty sure Tom didn’t sing about the joys of freeballing.’
‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,’ he says, beginning to whisk the contents of whatever is in the large mixing bowl in front of him.
‘What are you concocting?’ I ask, making my way across the room to lean my folded arms on the countertop.
‘Omelettes. Want one?’
At the sound of his voice, I look up, pushing away the twisted ball of anxiety created by the thought of work and the office and all the things I’m supposed to do over the next four days.
The sun from the small window behind him casts the hairs on his strong arms in a golden glow while also, unfortunately, highlighting the proud slope of his cheekbone.
‘Well?’ he questions, his mouth lifting so briefly I might easily have missed it.
‘No thank you, but I will take some coffee.’ I make my way around the counter into the small square of space where both Greg and the coffee machine are situated. ‘Where do you keep the . . .’ He turns to face me, and with a forced smile, he pulls open the cupboard door to the right of his head.
‘Mugs?’ The word comes out wavery with a giggle. ‘I see you found them, then.’
‘Yep.’ He leaves the door open as he turns back to the stove top, pouring the egg mixture into an already sizzling skillet. The air is instantly filled with the scent of eggs and herbs, my stomach immediately and audibly coveting the stuff.
‘You’re sure you don’t want some of this?’ he says at the exact moment I stand on my tiptoes, leaning into the cupboard. Our bodies come together, stilling us both. I’m frozen, balanced on my toes with my breasts pressed lightly to his back. The smell of him—the scent of soap and wood and spice—seems to spark a fleeting, yet familiar thing, olfactory memories suddenly turning to auditory ones.
You want some of this .. .
