A drink as thanks.
Yes, let’s go with that.
Let’s ignore the fact that it’s gone ten on a Tuesday night and I’m about to entertain a gentleman caller in a house that doesn’t belong to me—a fact that will no doubt get me fired if it comes to light. As my granny would’ve probably said; you may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Heather has already slept over, so what’s one more sleepover, should it come to that?
I’m still contemplating that when his deep voice calls up the stairs.
‘You didn’t lock me out, then.’
I can’t imagine he gets locked out of many places unless by chastity belts fitted at the insistence of anxious fathers. Not that my father takes that level of interest, thank God. Actually, since last year, he doesn’t take much of an interest in my life at all. But that’s a story for contemplation sometime never.
‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ I yell back, grabbing a T-shirt from the top of the pile. Pulling the shirt up over my head, I swap it for the T-shirt, then pull my hair back up into an artfully messy bun rather than my current scary bench-dwelling homeless lady one. I swipe my fingers under my eyes, straightening out the current slutty panda effect before I notice a hole in the knee of the pants.
‘F—fiddlesticks!’ I almost fall whipping them off again, then grab the first semi-sensible thing that comes to hand; a floral cotton skirt I’d picked up at a stall at Camden Market a few weeks ago. It has pockets! Then I begin to make my way gingerly down the stairs, sort of alternatively stepping and hopping, depending on which knee I’m bending.
As I enter the kitchen, he turns with a bottle of whisky in his hand, the label declaring the brandMacallan. ‘Water or ice?’
‘Ice, please, I guess. I’m no connoisseur, but as I can’t imagine watering down vodka or tequila, let’s go with ice. Although there was that one time when I was fifteen, and I had a few friends over when my parents were away from home once.. I had to add water to their vodka and cold tea to the brandy bottle after my so-called friends left.’
Oh, God. Shut up! Shut up!
‘Enterprising.’ As he hands me my glass, his eyes make a quick sweep of my body, his eyebrows retracting before his expression is quickly schooled again.
‘What? I have clothes on now.’ I look down, half expecting that I’ve somehow forgotten to actually pull on my skirt, or for there to be a heinous stain on my T-shirt.
‘I couldn’t agree more. Let me know if you need any help,’ he adds as, at the same time, I whisper a quiet curse.
This isn’t my T-shirt I’m wearing but one of Heather’s. She must have left it here when she stayed over last weekend. Heather has... quite radical views when it comes to the differences between women and men. She also has a build slightly smaller than my own.Say an A cup to my C?Basically, I’m bursting out of a T-shirt that proclaims
Free the nipple
And if that wasn’t bad enough, it’s accompanied by an embroidered motif of two Band-Aid-style tan crosses, currently stretched over my nipples.A little off centre, or off nipple, but still.
‘It’s not mine.’ I place the glass on the countertop to free up my hands to stretch the cotton as much as I can. ‘And these nipples are going nowhere.’
‘You’re sure? Tonight seems to be the night of wardrobe malfunctions.’
‘Not for you.’ Though he has ditched the tie and folded his sleeves to his elbows, he still looks like he’s stepped from aGQad for some expensive aftershave.Totally delish.I turn away because not only is staring impolite, but it’s also nowhere near the vicinity of playing it cool. Picking up my drink and bringing it to my lips for a tentative sip, I’m determined not to add to theuncool factor by spluttering over the peppery liquor. ‘Not bad.’ Surprisingly, I mean it. It’s quite nice once the burn dissipates from my tongue, leaving me with a warm, smoky taste in its wake.
‘I defy anyone not to enjoy a single malt.’ As I take my position pressing my back against the wall oven, or ovens I’ve yet to master, he leans forward, one forearm on the worktop with his glass clasped in his other hand. ‘Is this what you do for a living? Look after pets?’ I’m pleased to report there isn’t a trace of condescension in his delivery.
‘No. I work for a start-up during the day. In marketing. What about you?’ And why didn’t anyone ever tell me about whisky? How it warms not only your tongue and throat but also all of your internal organs. And your limbs. Even on just my third sip, my muscles are feeling sort of liquid-y.
‘I’m in acquisitions.’ As he answers, I slide my bottom along the counter, bracing my palms on it before hoisting myself to sit on top.
‘Ow.’ I wince and press my hand over the graze, hoping pressure will ease the sting.
‘You’d feel much better if you’d let me clean it.’
‘I think I’d feel much better if I let you top up my glass.’ As I answer, I find myself holding out my glass.
‘You’re supposed to savour it,’ his low voice rumbles as he picks up the bottle and makes his way to my side of the kitchen.
It’s no wonder my heart does a little skip as he reaches me, pulling off the corked bottle top with aplomb. I bet there isn’t anything he isn’t good at. He’s probably one of the lucky few blessed with good looks and good fortune. Never been cheated on in the worst of ways or betrayed by his best friend. Never had to play piggy in the middle between divorced parents who, while living in the same house, veer from arctic indifference to blinding rage.
Charmed. That’s what he looks like with his hair golden in the light. Like some bloody mythical deity.
‘You look deep in thought.’
