Joe wrinkles his nose before replying, ‘I’m rather fond of tea at the moment. You can get too much of a good thing.’
‘Cup of Cheap Builders is the brand I purchased yesterday, and I promise no one would ever bill it as a good thing.’ I grin, inviting him to take a seat at the whitewashed table we worked at when he helped me with my business plan.
Bending down to our tiny fridge, I realise it smells of feta and the only liquid is wine. Reaching into the cupboard where I keep the emergency UHT, I pull out a carton, check the sell-by and rifle in the cutlery drawer for scissors. I put my hand on a pair but as I wrestle with the stubborn carton of milk, they fly out of my hand.
‘Oh! Did you see where they went?’
‘What am I looking for?’
‘Scissors. Small, sharp. This could be a disaster.’ I should stop talking but I’m jittery now. I got away with it with the secateurs a while back, but my luck might have run out. ‘If they’ve landed badly a lover will be unfaithful.’
‘That’s not great,’ he says as I hunt around under the sink. ‘But then I don’t actually have a lover, do you?’ Music to my ears. The woman with the ruptured appendix must have been his mum or nan then. I peer under the cooker as he scratches his chin. ‘And it wouldn’t do to follow your dog dying by being dumped?’ he says, quickly rising to his feet and knocking over his chair. ‘Oh God, Daisy, that’s such a tactless thing to say. I wasn’t thinking.’
I look up, puzzled. ‘Oh, I think you and Eva might have got your wires crossed. Doodle hasn’t died. His owner turned up yesterday and demanded him back. Look at that!’ I point to a blade stuck in the lino. ‘There’s going to be a funeral.’
‘I thought you said he wasn’t dead?’ says Joe, confusion etched all over his face.
‘Not Doodle.’ I pause, unsure whether to trust him with an explanation. ‘A blade directly falling into the floor predicts a death in the near future.’
‘Maybe the sad end of your fictional lover when he cheats on you?’ he says.
He is making fun of me but it’s kind. So, I put myself in his hands. ‘I’m really sorry but I can’t pick them up unless I stomp on them before touching them. Mind you, I could go and get my rabbit slippers …’ I curse myself for bringing his attention back to my bunny attire.
‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it.’ He turns and bends down, revealing a tiny bit of back, where a fine layer of golden hair creeps up from the elastic of his boxers. I have an urge to run my fingers over his skin to see how soft it is. But I need to focus. ‘Can you warm them in your hands before making sure they’re closed, and then hand them to me?’ I hope my eyes are conveying the importance of the rescue remedy without freaking him out.
He does exactly as I ask, and I put them back into the drawer after cutting the milk open. Now feeling self-conscious, I scuttle into my bedroom and pull on the nearest clothes to hand; pink cropped jeans, a white vest top and aqua blue cardi, all bought to reflect the colours in my hair. I pop on my favourite white trainers and I’m good to go.
As I walk into the kitchen, Joe has his back to me. I stop momentarily to appraise how his arm muscles move in his clothes as he glides around the kitchen counter. Unbelievably, the man seems unaware of his grace and good looks. Unlike Vince, who I recently caught trying to elongate his neck in the mirror, like he was acting in his own biopic and going for another take. What six foot something man wants to be even taller? Or maybe they all do.
Joe raises his arm and flings something over his shoulder. ‘No!’ I raise my hand to my face, crying out as something stings and blinds me.
‘Oh my God, Daisy! I had no idea you were in the room. I’ve hurt your eye. Let me see it …’
Joe jumps into action, running a bowl of water, and pulling at drawers till he finds a clean tea towel. He soaks the end of it, wraps the wet part around two fingers and gently drags the cloth across my eye. ‘A stubborn grain could scratch your eyeball. Try and be still while I take a closer look.’ Holding one of my cheeks with his fingers, he tugs down the skin beneath my eye, patting the tea towel around the affected area. His attention soothes me, while the water bathes the sting, and the pain starts to subside. When I look up, still blinking and squinting, he’s gazing into my eyes, and I feel like I’ve won the best marble in a collection. ‘Why were you …’
‘It’s a superstition, isn’t it? If you spill some you need to throw it over your shoulder. Your caddies aren’t working very well, and my hands are still super cold.’
‘Salt.’
‘Huh?’
‘Salt, not sugar. You can blow up a refinery and your luck will stay unchanged.’
‘Damn, now that rings a bell. I blinded you with—’
‘—your ignorance of basic luck charms,’ I interrupt. ‘You clearly didn’t go to school in Mystic Falls.’
His forehead crinkles in amusement. ‘Let me make it up to you with a fresh brew.’
I watch as his large hands flit from kettle to cafetière, warming the milk up in the microwave. ‘I won’t be able to create any latte art for you, but I do have something in mind for tomorrow, so make sure you stop by. I hope it’ll make up for the unexpected sugar rush.’
I find myself falling into a meditative state, observing Joe as he takes care of me. Without thinking, I pinch myself on the back of my hand. I don’t know if the trick works, but if it does I’m all in. He glances at my fingers. ‘You don’t have a single blemish. Look at the state of mine. My war wounds aren’t just from coffee burns, mind. Sometimes I’m so eager to taste my pizzas, I pull out hot trays with my bare hands.’
The doorbell goes, interrupting my thoughts about more uses for his bare hands.
Opening it, I instinctively step back into the hallway.
‘How did you find me?’ I know the lines of that face like my own palm. He is holding a guitar wrapped in a black plastic bin bag, with the keys poking out. His nails are long, and weirdly clean next to his filthy jeans. My dad never was a massive follower of fashion.
