“Ok, well that’s actually probably a good thing,” I say, not really having any clue but trying to motivate him to get up. It’s not exactly like I’m going to be able to carry him. He must weigh two stone more than me. I’m not one of those amazing women who can bench my own weight. Quite the opposite. Me and my flatmates went to a bootcamp in the local park a few weeks back and I couldn’t even manage a single press-up. It was pretty pathetic. I found myself at an intersection; keep training and better myself, committing to the cause; or never return and hope the embarrassment will one day fade. Obviously, I went with the latter.
James sighs. “Can you help me up now?”
“I did offer a minute ago.”
“Well, I’m ready now.”
I offer my arm out again. James takes it and applies some of his weight to pull himself into a sitting position but,shit, he’s heavy, I topple forwards, landing on his bare chest with a thwack.
“Argh!” he cries out as I panic, pushing off him with both hands on his chest. He grabs me, squishing me tight to him. “Stop. Stop moving. Just stay there. Argh, that’s so painful.”
“I’m sorry…”
His arms bunch around me, squeezing. “Just don’t move. No more moving.”
“Ok…” My eyes are wide, my cheek flush with his cool bare skin. Well, this is intimate. I try very hard to stay still. The issue is, at my very core, I’m a chronic fidgeter. It’s bad enough I haven’t had a phone to scroll through over the last few days – that usually allows me to sit still for a while, but the chances of me staying totally still for long are always going to be slim. A phantom fly lands on my forehead and I whip my hand up to get rid of it.
“Stay. Still.”
“It’s impossible,” I complain.
“You’re the worst,” he groans.
I sigh, trying to go to my happy place whilst I wait for him to release me again. We’re going to get cold out here eventually. Then I think of a clever idea. “Whilst I have you,” I say.
“Whilst you have me? Are we on a Teams call?”
“Whilst I’m on top of you…”
“Gawd, don’t say that!” he moans.
I laugh. “Ok, whilst you hold me captive, whatever, can I ask you something?”
“You’re going to anyway.”
“True. What’s your long-term plan for The Starr Agency?”
“Mylong-term plan?”
“Yeah. Like where do you see it in ten years?”
James scoffs. “Well, if I’m still there in ten years will you do me a favour and shoot me? I really don’t think my mental health can handle that.”
“Why not? You’re not seeing all this hard work now as a long-term investment? Or strategy?”
“Hell no! Or well, yeah, in a way. None of it is for Starr though.”
I scowl. “You’re planning on leaving then?”
“I’m planning on travelling the world. Having enough money to buy my own house. Some nice cars. Get a decent retirement pot under my belt so I can call it quits at forty and hang out on a Mediterranean island for the rest of my days.”
I’m quiet for a moment. I’m not sure why my head goes there but I compare his happy place with mine. They don’t fit together too well… Of course they don’t! This is James Gloatman. Why on earth is my brain even attempting to match up our long-term plans? It’s not as if I want to do what he’s doing – far from it. Maybe it’s just one of those “last man at the end of the world” things. He’s the only option out here, and therefore my horny mind is doing the math and equalling Gloatman.
Disgusting, really.
I mean, he’s not necessarily disgusting. He has a nice body. His hair is kind of cute now it isn’t gelled into his usual style. When it flops over his forehead, and he has to push it back, it makes me want to reach out and tangle it in my fingers. Just thinking about it makes my hands tingle.
Must be the vodka talking. I’m beer goggling.
