Page 44 of Shroom for Improvement

“JASPER! YOU ABSOLUTE CRETIN! GET YOUR SORRY ASS HERE THIS INSTANT!”

With that, John leapt to his feet, and Willow and Oggy raced out of the kitchen.

“Mrs Ziegler’s coming. Go, boys! Save yourselves!” Willow said, ushering us out of our seats and towards the exit.

“WHEN I FIND YOU, I’M GOING TO SKIN YOU ALIVE AND BIND EVERY BOOK IN MY LIBRARY WITH YOUR HIDEOUS HIDE!”

“Go, go, go!” Oggy cried.

So Sonny and I ran. Into the bowels of the house, down corridors, up staircases, laughing and giggling like two kids playing knock down ginger. The deeper we got, the quieter the screams became. We didn’t stop until we reached the top of the spiral staircase that led to our rooms. Okay, that felt weird. It was only one room—my room—this morning.

“I’ve lived in this house now for almost a week,” I said between gasps of breath. “No joke, this is the fourth time I’ve run away from... Mrs Ziegler.” I didn’t say her name, I mouthed it instead. A habit I’d learned from Oggy and Willow.

“If she’s anywhere near as frightening as Jasper, then I’d say that’s understandable,” Sonny said. He was less winded than me. Didn’t have to take as many steps with those ultra-long legs of his.

“Oh, my gods, you call him Jasper? She’s easily a thousand times scarier than Mr Dupont.”

“Shit, really?” Sonny said. His hand hovered above the door handle of his room. “I’ve enjoyed my first day at Stinkhorn Manor. Thank you for accidentally inviting me here and for not kicking me out this afternoon. I need to...” He turned the knoband creaked the door open. “Call my colleague at uni, tell him I didn’t wind up as a hellhound snack, and ask if he can take on some of my lectures for a while.”

I nodded, wanted to ask him more, invite him into my lounge to continue the discussion on him, his appropriation of other people’s property, and our mutual love of sprouts, but I couldn’t muster the courage. “Sure, well, I guess I’ll see you at breakfast. Unless Mrs Z has destroyed the B&B before then.”

“I can’t hear the screaming anymore. That has to be a good sign, right?”

“It’s usually pretty quiet in these parts. I get the sense the rest of the guests avoid the main house.”

“Goodnight then, Claude.” Sonny flashed me one of his shyer smiles, and I almost choked on my own spit.

I stumbled backwards, knocking into the door frame in my haste to both run away from the situation and keep Sonny within my peripherals for as long as possible.

“Goodnight, Sonny,” I said, but only after he’d closed his door behind him and I was standing in the dimly lit corridor alone.

I retired to my room where I washed, ignored my aching, attention-seeking dick, dressed in my pyjamas, snuggled onto the couch, and nestled the stolen corner piece back into its spot.

Professor Sonny Daye.

TheProfessor Daye. From the emails.

I reached for the abandoned eSlate and brought the emails up. The only clues to his real identity were the acknowledgment of mushrooms and his super-long legs. Some of the messages were signed S. But there was no mention of the name Sonny.

Of all the mycologists, why him? How did his business card end up in my wallet?

But the weirdest thing was, I couldn’t decide if I was still irritated with him for stealing my cufflink, or secretly thrilled at the prospect of spending one, two, three, however many weeks in his company.

He made my heart beat in a strange, erratic new rhythm, and my palms sweat, and... he made me smile. More than once.

I switched off the lamp next to the couch and had begun my short walk to the mezzanine staircase when a knock at the door reverberated through the room.

I opened the door and there he stood.

He gave a nervous laugh. Scratched at the back of his head. “Can I sleep on your couch? Please? Funny story, the chair in my room, the one I was going to sleep on... well, it vanished.”

Or at least, that was what I thought he’d said. Because Sonny stood in the hallway with tousled, shower-wet hair and a crumpled pink T-shirt which readSleazy for Napsin loopy green writing. Long, pale, hairy, and very naked legs poked out from the hem of his shirt. He’d placed a hand strategically over the front of his boxers.

Professor Sonny Daye was standing at my bedroom door in his underwear.

He began speaking, but it took a moment for my fuzzy brain to catch up. “I rang Mash. He was off his tits as per, so I just left him a message and I’ll try again tomorrow afternoon. Then I put a blanket and a cushion on the chair, had a shower, and when I came out, everything had disappeared. The chair, the blanket, the cushion. I’m sorry. Can I crash on your couch for tonight and I’ll find something more suitable in the morning?”

Don’t look at his junk. Don’t look at his thighs.“Sure, of course. Come in.”

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