‘How’s your arm? No lasting effects? That’s a pretty nice scar.’
The concern in his voice made me lose my train of thought. ‘I needed some physio, but it’s fine now. I know it wasn’t really your fault.’
‘But you resent me for it anyway,’ he said with a nod, as though he wouldn’t try to change my mind. He chewed on the inside of his cheek, a gesture I surprised myself by recognising. The action showed up the sharp lines of his jaw. ‘We don’t have to talk,’ he finally said, lounging back into his chair and stretching his long legs out. ‘You said enough back then.’
I ripped my gaze away. ‘But what happened after—’
‘Nothing happened.’
I wasn’t sure I agreed with his definition of ‘nothing’, but I could see how he got there.
‘Don’t worry. I know the whole thing was my fault. You’re here to do a job now. If you promise to insult my moustache and keep me in my place, I’m sure I won’t get any more ideas about you and me. I’ll try at least.’
He was joking – surely he was joking – but the flutter in my chest didn’t care. ‘I just think it would be better if no one knows about the…’
‘The what?’ He paused, working his top lip between his teeth. Damn, I was looking at his mouth again.
‘The cake,’ I finished in a hurry.
There was a definite twitch of amusement on his lips. ‘The slagroomtaart? I thought that was a nice gesture.’
‘You’re mocking me,’ I muttered, annoyed that his teasing was heating my insides.
‘Now I am, yeah,’ he admitted.
I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard that gruff tone in his voice. It had certainly never made me weak-kneed before.
‘But I get it. You can be mad at me. Nothing happened. We can forget about it.’
He was lucky if he could. ‘Good,’ I said, blowing out a breath. ‘And I hope you haven’t told anyone about…’
‘What I asked you?’ He shuddered, as though I’d just told him to drink one of those disgusting ketone drinks – or the orange-flavoured PowerFuel gel. ‘Why would I? That moment wasn’t exactly worthy of my trophy room.’ He shot me a broad smile to paste over the awkwardness in his tone.
‘I donotwant to know about your trophy room,’ I mumbled, disturbed by the unexpectedly intriguing prospect of appearing in it. If my answer had been different in September… I had to get a grip. I wasn’t interested in being a notch on anyone’s bedpost and my buzzing mind would never let me get that far anyway.
But when he spoke next, his voice was steady. ‘But I get it. Nobody knows I was at the hospital at all. I understand you’re not here for me – well, only with professional interest. I can be professional, Lees.’
For better or for worse – undoubtedly for worse – I believed him and ignored the squeeze of intimacy at the way he shortened my name.
‘Except maybe when I swear on camera.’
‘You’re lucky I have great editing skills.’
‘I’m looking forward to seeing all your skills.’ He gave me another wink.
‘Five seconds, Gallagher! You managed five seconds of professional.’
Tugging off his fingerless gloves, he rested his hand on the table next to my forearm, not quite touching, but close enough that the fine hairs on my arm felt him there. ‘I was wrong. Insulting my moustache and keeping me in my place still gives me ideas. Maybe you should flatter me instead.’
‘Except that you’re good enough at flattering yourself,’ I quipped, but my voice was thick from the lump in my throat.
‘Is that right?’ he replied as he stood. But he grimaced, and my gaze flew to his scraped-up skin. Just looking at the patches of angry red road rash made me shudder.
‘You should go and get that looked at.’
‘’Tis but a scratch,’ he replied with a warped smile and a wave. He was gone before I’d managed to place the quote.Monty Python and the Holy Grail?
9 September, the year before
