‘Yeah, me, too. Want to be the little or the big spoon?’
* * *
‘So, hand-holding is allowed,’ Archer repeats, closing the door behind him as we leave the room.
‘You know it is. We talked about this already.’ I take the opportunity to covertly look at him. He’d arrived in jeans and a worn cotton T-shirt which moulded to the peaks and ridges of his body as he moved. Which I’d managed not to stare at too much. But when he threatened to take a shower before changing into his suit, I almost had a fit, managing to persuade him that we didn’t have time.
‘Kissing?’
‘No,’ I grate out. ‘We already establish that, too.’
‘But couples kiss, Heather. There’s touching and kissing and the stroking of hair. The hair on your head, that is.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing,’ he almost sings, taking my hand and swinging it a little manically, like children having fun on a playground.
‘You can let go now.’
‘Nope. Got to keep up appearances.’
‘Because you have a reputation to uphold.’ His hand tightens on mine in warning. We make our way unspeaking along the long, wonky floored hallway, our gaits leaning to the left to keep us upright in the face of ancient subsidence.
‘You’re wrong, you know.’
‘Sorry?’ I glance his way, though his eyes remain straight ahead.
‘You’re wrong about this strange little relationship of ours stopping you from being hassled by the blokes at work.’
‘I didn’t mention anything about me getting hassled. I get left alone for the most part. Well, apart from Haydn, who I’m sure next week will be all business as usual.’
‘It’s not business with him, though, is it?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Have you ever considered what his issue is?’
‘Yes. And whatever it is I’m sure he finds it really hard to pronounce.’
‘Sharp.’ In my peripheral vision, I see him shake his head. Not a compliment, then.
‘He’s not stupid. He can’t be at the level of management he is. Not even if he’d sucked a lot of metaphoric cock on the way up.’
‘Maybe they were less metaphoric and more corporeal?’ Yuck, because I almost said fleshy.
‘You think he’s gay?’ His tone is tinged with disbelief as we turn a corner and approach a grand staircase, the kind wide enough for a small SUV to drive down. A stag’s head that appears prehistorically huge stares across at us from the wall of the half landing below.
‘Who knows. All I know is he doesn’t like me.’
‘He isn’t gay. You really don’t know why he likes to lord it over you?’
‘Ten points to Slytherin for hitting the nail on the head.’
His brow creases briefly. ‘What about me says Slytherin?’
‘Your hair. And the way your eyes are set too close together.’ He begins to laugh, and why wouldn’t he? He must own a mirror. He definitely owns a mirror. He probably looks in it lots, too. ‘And also—’
‘Because you secretly want me to Slytherin to your Chamber of Secrets?’
