Page 4 of Away With You
We walk up the stairs together, with Nathan’s breath hot on the back of my neck. He’s still holding my groceries hostage, and I work to keep my breathing shallow, so he won’t see how unfit I am. He’s an elite athlete with zero per cent body fat (thank you,People Magazine,Sexiest Sportsman Edition); he doesn’t need to see how I huff and puff my way up fifteen whole stairs.
When we get to my floor, I take in a gulp of air, grateful that the hallway smells like my neighbour’s incense sticks and not Mrs Jairath’s chicken korma (as delicious as it is).
“This is me.”
We’re stopped in front of my blue-painted door (my nod toNotting Hillthat my landlord begrudgingly allowed), and my hands shake while I rummage around in my oversized bag. My keys are most likely right down the bottom, and it takes so long to find them that I have to keep shifting on my feet. I pass the tampon box, my computer mouse, a tin of mints and about three dozen pens before my fingers clutch at it. “Here we are.”
I unlock the door, too caught up in the hunt for my keys to think about what’s happening next. Or, more specifically, what awaits us on the other side of the door.
“Turn around!” I order the burly man who’d only taken half a step into my flat. “Now!”
Nathan obeys, turning to face the closed door. “What—?”
Biting back a groan, I survey the scene in front of me. Yesterday was laundry day, which means my living room—visible from the front door—is now home to my air-dryer. And all the ugliest underwear I’ve ever owned. You know, the pairs you pick when you’re PMS-ing and need the extra-large waistband to account for the period bloating. And, of course, they all have to be beige. Because why wouldn’t they be?
“Gah.” I take off in a hurry, scooping every offensive pair off the line with one eye on Nathan to make sure he’s not watching. Arms filled, I sprint to my room and dump the offending clothes on my bed.There. He won’t see them in here.
“Right. Um, you can turn around now.”
Again, he obeys my command, pivoting on his heels with one hand playfully covering his eyes. “Are you sure it’s safe?”
I snort at the sight of him. He’s now peeking through his fingers, with my groceries still tucked under his arm. He’s so big, he makes my small flat seem almost minuscule.
“Here, let me take this from you.” I retrieve my items from him, wishing I’d chosen to buy something, anything, cooler than what’s in my hands, but alas, I’d been planning for a cold winter’s weekend in and stopped at the local to get reinforcements.
“Do you want a cup of tea?” I offer. It’s the least I can do after he’d rescued my fruit and walked us all home. And also, from the way he’s settling himself into my comfiest corner of my corner couch, it doesn’t seem like he’ll be leaving anytime soon.
His eyes brighten. “You know what? I’d love a cup of tea. And perhaps one of those digestives.”
My cheeks flame and I turn to put the water on to boil, avoiding his cheeky gaze. Because of course, I had to choose today to buy the extra fibre bickies. The kind you buy when you’re…backed up.
“Sure,” I mumble, busying my hands with my teapot. I take out the box of my fancy tea leaves, the one I got on sale from M&S and haven’t used yet because the King hasn’t come to visit and justified me opening them.
I guess in my world, a visit with Nathan Jackson is akin to a visit from the King. Maybe even more daunting.
“How long have you been here?”
I peer over my shoulder and find him up and about, walking around the room, stopping every few steps to inspect a photo on my wall. Or a knick-knack on a shelf. Or my piles and piles of puzzles and knitting needles in the corner. I really need to get rid of the evidence of my many failed hobbies.
“Um.” My mind casts back in time, doing the maths, surprised by the results. “Just over two years.”
My voice wavers, and I clear it, swallowing a wave of emotion threatening to crash over me. Because if I’ve been here for two years, she’s been gone even longer.
He halts his restless roaming, eyeing me. “Well, I like it here. It suits you.”
Relieved that he doesn’t linger on my wet eyes and hitched breathing, I take a moment to examine his words. I love my flat because it’s been a sanctuary for me. A port in a miserable storm I found myself in. But to him it’s just—
“Because it’s small and somewhat dishevelled?”
Amusement lights his eyes, his laughter filling the space between us. “More like, warm and inviting.”
Hmm, what to make of that description?
The kettle whistles, interrupting the moment. I fill the teapot, put some of my embarrassing bickies on a plate and take them over to where he’s now back lounging on my couch. I return to the kitchen, retrieve my least kitschy novelty mugs and sit on the opposite end from him.
“Thanks, Kitty Kat.” He picks up and reads the mug closest to him, his lips twitching upwards. “Trust me. I’m a scientist,” he reads with raised brows.
I shrug, silently cursing myself for not investing in proper teacups like the rest of the British population.
