‘Are you about to tell me you have a very particular set of survival skills?’
‘If survival skills are having the foresight to pop into the supermarket before a storm. Face it, hen. You’d be without food, wine, peat for the fire, and company. You’d probably have resorted to peeling off the wallpaper by now to lick the paste.’
‘Ew.’
‘And as for which of us should be here, shouldn’t we just be glad we’re no’ here on our own?’
‘I hate it when you talk sense.’
‘Aye, me that you’ve known a matter of hours.’
‘That’s plenty long enough to know you’re a bloody know-it-all,’ I mutter low. ‘This is going to be like being incarcerated—like being in prison.’
‘Then you’d best take care not to slip on any soap.’
Despite my bad mood I begin to giggle. ‘If there’s anyone going to be the bitch in this scenario, it’s not going to be me.’
‘I’m beginning to think you might be right,’ he says, the crotch of his jeans suddenly looming in front of me. ‘Here, sit up.’ He hands me another mug.
‘Thank you, but another cup of coffee and it won’t be pretty. I’ll be bouncing off the walls.’
‘What? You mean there’s a worse version of you?’
‘Oh, there are a few. Just ask my ex-boyfriend and work colleagues.’
‘Exes opinions don’t count. And if we were meant to hear what people called it, it wouldn’t be called back-stabbing.’
‘Hmm, fair point.’ Sitting up, I take the mug from his hand. ‘What is it?’
‘Hot chocolate.’ Lifting my feet, he sits on the other end of the sofa, then slides them onto his lap. It should feel weird, right? But it doesn’t. It feels like we’ve already done this a thousand times.
‘It smells funny.’
‘It’s smells like booze,’ he says with a tolerant sigh. ‘I added a wee tot of chocolate liqueur.’
‘Chocolate liqueur?’ I hide my growing smile behind the rim of my cup. ‘That seems very.. . sophisticated.’ Or possibly girly.
‘It was a gift. A Christmas gift.’ He sends me a fake glower from the other side of the couch.
‘From someone you know well?’ I enquire. Like a maiden aunt.
‘From a female admirer, actually.’
‘It must be someone who admires you from afar.’
His gaze swings to mine, his expression a little piqued. At least, until he sees I’m trying not to laugh. ‘Go on, then. Out with it. I can tell you’re dying to say why.’
‘Well, it stands to reason, if it was someone who spent any time at all with you, the gift would’ve been a bottle of poison, not a yummy liqueur.’
‘If you’re gonnae be cheeky, you can give me that back,’ he says, reaching over as though to take the cup from my hands. ‘If you must know, it was given to me by my eighty-year-old neighbour after I fixed her bathroom cabinet last week.’
‘Oh. Well, that was nice of you.’
‘Aye, right.’ Something in his tone makes me look up.
‘What? It was nice of you. You are nice.’Nice and hot, my unhelpful libido supplies.
‘That’s me,’ he says, his tone unchanged. ‘Nice.’
‘What’s wrong with being nice?’
‘Nothing. Drink your chocolate.’
