Page 36 of On Circus Lane

I shut down that thought quickly before it can become a feeling. Feelings are trouble.

Chapter Five

TOM

Iprop my feet up on the sofa, half my attention on the TV, the other half listening out for movement from Bee’s room. The apartment is quiet with everyone still asleep, although I think I can hear Steven’s voice already raised in complaint.

I wish Jack would see the light and dump that wanker. Jack’s always been loyal, but with his lovely loyalty comes the inability to see when someone is being a complete cunt. He’s so used to his parents treating him like shit that he fails to realise he’s suffering the same shittiness in his other relationships.

Bee’s door opens, and I brighten, repressing a smile when he appears. He’s wearing an old pair of jeans that cling to his slim legs and narrow hips and the vintage jumper he bought yesterday. It’s an orange and blue striped cashmere crewneck that clings to the tight muscles of his slender torso and makes his blue eyes very bright. I don’t know why it makes me happy that he’s wearing something we picked out together, but it does. He’s barefoot, which seems to happen as soon as he gets inside. Off come the shoes and jumper, as he seems to run at a different body temperature than everyone else.

He adjusts his black-framed glasses on his nose, and I feel a surge of warmth when his face lights up when he sees me. Hesmiles, showing off the small gap between his teeth. It gives him a gamine, slightly naughty air which is very attractive.

“Tea?” he asks.

My cock stirs at the morning sleepy roughness in his voice. “Yes, please.”

“White, no sugar, right?”

I nod, pleased he remembers.

He moves around the kitchen and then settles his elbows on the counter, watching the kettle as though he’ll make it boil through sheer willpower. The position pushes his arse out, and I pull the cushion over my lap to hide my response. I don’t know what it is about him that fascinates me. He’s tetchy, quirky, and absentminded—characteristics I’ve never been attracted to before—but he shines so brightly in a room it’s like he has his own spotlight.

Yesterday was one of the best days I’ve had with anyone, and we didn’t do anything apart from shopping for winter clothes and eating food. Nevertheless, I was almost disappointed when the others came back and disturbed our peace, and that’s ridiculous because I love this group of friends and have been looking forward to this holiday for ages.

I’d sat through the meal, trying to pay attention to Georgina and Theo and concealing the fact that most of my attention was on the slight figure at the end of the table. He’d given up on listening to Steven and was writing what looked like equations on a paper napkin. By the time the meal ended, he had a neat stack of about thirty napkins, and Steven looked as if he was about to have a coronary.

Bee breaks my thoughts by putting my tea on the table in front of me. I lift my legs and indicate the end of the sofa. He hesitates, and why shouldn’t he? There’s another sofa and three chairs to sit on. I feel a thrill as he disregards them and settles down in the spot next to me.

He sets his tea on the side table, takes his glasses off, polishes them with his sleeve, and blinks myopically like a cute little mole. “What are you watching?”

“Oh.” I cough, a little embarrassed. “Bob Ross.”

He puts his glasses back on, peers at the screen, and his face lights up. “Oh my god, Ilovehim.”

“Really?” I ask, astonished.

He nods. “Who doesn’t?”

“Probably a few serial killers.”

I hold out my plate of toast and watch with a hidden smile as he absentmindedly takes a slice and begins munching on it as he watches the TV. I’d noticed from the first how skinny he was and heard Ivy chuntering at him on the drive here about how he forgets to eat, so I’ve been putting food in front of him and watching with satisfaction as he eats it. Although his ecstatic face as he ate the pancakes yesterday had given me rather tight jeans.

“I love watching him paint,” I say, shifting on the sofa. I can feel the warmth of him against my sock-clad feet. “I have less artistic ability than a tired toddler, but I do love to see someone create something lovely.”

“Bob Ross calms my mind,” he says, almost embarrassed.

I bet he does need calming on occasion. He positively vibrates with cleverness, like he has his own and twenty other people’s share. It fascinates me. I love people who are good at what they do. Freddy calls it a capability kink, and he’s not far wrong.

He looks at me, and I realise I’ve been staring at him rather than the screen. “My dad used to watch it when we were kids,” I say, breaking into quick speech. “Although he was usually stoned, so there was no need for Bob Ross to calm his mind. It was already as calm as a shallow puddle.”

He chuckles. “He likes a toke, then?”

“Oh yeah. Him and my mum.”

“Really?” His eyes widen.

“It’s not surprising. When they met, he was a rocker, and she was a Hot Gossip dancer.”

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