Page 82 of The Home Grown
Warmth. There’s warmth. A warmth that shifts from my chest and radiates outward as my pulse quickens. His body, strong and solid, engulfs me in a way I’ve never experienced before. And then I feel his breath in my ear as he whispers, “thanks, Kitch.”
My own breath catches in my throat.
“I—I need to get on,” I say. “I’ve got to close up and—” A moment passes before I pull away and Mike’s arms drop to his side.
I busy myself with a stack of magazines, tidying them with more determination than ever.
“Uh, yeah, no problem. Can I help with anything, or?”
I can’t look at him. My cheeks feel hot and my head, light and fuzzy like it’s been pumped full of cotton wool.
“Uh, no. Thanks. I can manage.”
“Kitch—”
He’s standing behind me now. I can feel him watching me as I straighten up. But I’m digging for the courage to turn and face him again—because I think he’ll see the same thing he’s shown me. I like him just as much as he likes me. Perhaps more—if the sex dreams are anything to go by.
“Kitch,” he says again, closing the gap between us, my back almost flush against his chest. A rough finger dances over my neck as he brushes my hair aside. Then I smell him again. Musky and—oh, my goodness… “Can we start again?”
Half of my brain is screaming ‘yes’, probably the same part that wants me to turn around and acquaint myself with that scar on his chin—but the other half is reminding me of how he made me feel. How I felt?—
“I promise to dobetter,” he says.
I swallow, looking past the magazines to the flowers on the windowsill. And you know what? I think I believe him. I think he will.
I tilt my head to reply. “I’ll think about it. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to?—”
“I know,” he says.
And I believe that, too.
BETTSY
Ryan Preston’shouse renovations have become a team effort. I’m sitting in his brand-new kitchen with his wife, Jen, and Danny, half a week later drinking tea and eating custard creams while we wait for a delivery of something Prez wants help to unload. Honestly, the guy’s rich enough that he could pay people to do this sort of shit for him, but here we are, roped into helping and for the compensation of a biscuit—not even a chocolate covered one.
“Are you making another brew, Jen?” Danny asks, helping himself to another biscuit.
“Yeah, but I’m still wanting to hear how Bettsy has found it so far. I want all the details,” she says, picking up the kettle and taking it over to the sink.
Jen and Danny have been discussing the Team GB stuff, but I’ve been preoccupied trying to figure out how I can make things good with Ellie. We’ve been texting, at least. But it’s … I don’t know, guarded. Like she’s put up a wall to protect herself from my emotional ignorance.
“I—yeah,” I say. “It’s been fine.”
Jen sets the kettle on the stand and flicks it to boil.
“You don’t sound convinced,” she says. “Is this about the Johnny thing?”
I snap my eyes to hers. “What Johnny thing?”
“About you and him playing together again, you know, for the Challenge Cup final. It’s a change, so I wasn’t sure if it would affect your hockey head with your superstitions and all.”
“Nah, it’s nothing like that,” I say, draining my tea.
“Well, you’re quiet,” she says. “And excuse the generalisation but it’s not like you at all.”
“I’m fine,” I say, setting my mug down.
Jen rests her arms on the kitchen island and raises an eyebrow.
