“I don’t see how.”
“What if you’re busy?”
“I didn’t realise you’d need my assistance.” That damn eyebrow went again. I wanted to hold it in place with my finger.
“Okay.” My face felt medium rare. “But what if you aren’t in?”
“We have a connecting door. Problem solved.”
Problem solved. There he went again, like he could just wave a magic wand, and all my problems just went away.
I folded my arms. “A few months ago you thought I planned to sneak into your house and rob you at knife-point, now you’re perfectly okay with leaving the door unlocked? Just like that?”
“I’m not telling you to let yourself in and take a nap in my bed—”
“Shame, I’ve always dreamed of sleeping on Egyptian cotton.”
His lips quirked. “—but I’m willing to admit –onoccasion– the door has its uses.”
I couldn’t make sense of it, why this man was suddenly coming to my rescue after weeks –months– of treating me like a creature that had crawled out the depths of the ocean.
“Don’t overthink it, Lang, just take the offer.” He nodded to the door. It loomed large in my peripheral vision, like a vortex to another dimension.
“Teddy—”
“I’ll wait here with her.”
“What if she wakes?”
“I’ll teach her how to use a scalpel.” He rolled his eyes. “I have nieces; I think I can figure it out.” I hesitated, and he huffed again. I was beginning to think that noise was for me alone. “Unless you plan to wow your customers with the chocolate in your hair. With any luck, Cameron will be there, and you can really show him what he’s missing.”
I flinched at the deliberate dig. I hated that I flinched.
“Screw you,” I said, turning to thunder down the hallway, shaking my head at my own stupidity. I never should have let him drag me into an argument in the first place.Justgetthroughthesenextfewweeksandyoucangobacktoignoringhim, I promised myself, grabbing a towel and a change of clothes from my bedroom before poking my head in Teddy’s room. She was still sound asleep, face more relaxed than I’d seen it in months.
Back in the living room, the connecting door already stood ajar. Alistair was back on the sofa, one arm strewn across the back. He didn’t look up from his phone as I entered, or crossed the threshold between our cottages. Didn’t offer to show me how to work his shower.He didn’t even tell me not to snoop, I thought. In his living room, I turned in a slow circle, taking in the rigid-looking black sofa, the moving boxes still lining the walls.
Snooping would involve him actually owning things. There was no clutter. No dust bunnies in the corners. No knick-knacks or the blurry city-lights artwork every single man seemed to own. The one that was supposed to be sophisticated but really said:I own a throw pillow and shop at IKEA.
He didn’t even have a TV. What did he do every night, listen at my wall with his stethoscope?
Creeping down the hallway, I couldn’t help popping my head into what turned out to be a very sterile bedroom. Crisp white walls and an immaculate bedspread – hospital corners, of course – it better resembled a psychiatric unit. The only personal touch was a stack of language textbooks on his bedside table.Of course he’s learning German. I rolled my eyes.
How did he live like this?
Ah well, I’d smell all his toiletries instead.
12
Alistair
Do not think of her in your shower.
Of course, the moment I heard the squeal of pipes through the wall, it was all I could picture.
I stood. Paced her worn little rug. My hand squeezed around my phone, the metal biting.
Don’t think of her in your shower and you can jerk off later.
