Page 5 of Take My Breath Away
Turning the lever, the hot water falls in a torrent. I lean against the tiled wall and slip down into a heap on the floor, wondering how the hell I’m going to explain.
* * *
I’m half way down the stairs when the salty, savoury aroma of bacon hits me. My stomach’s been churning, in protest at the booze from last night and how I’m going to be able to face James with at least a scrap of dignity (big clue about that one: I won’t be able to), but the smell of fry up is an instant comfort blanket. My nose twitches and my mouth waters at the same time my stomach rumbles. It’s Saturday morning and I haven’t eaten a thing since Thursday night. I’ve existed on coffee, alcohol and self-pity.
Like a dog, I follow my nose, which leads me to the kitchen at the back of the house.
“Hello,” I mumble, as I poke my head around the kitchen door.
James swings around from the large stove where he’s frying enough bacon to feed an army. The skin at the outer corners of his eyes crinkles as he smiles, and his dark green eyes sweep over me.
“How are you feeling? What’s the score on the Crap-O-Meter?”
“If it’s out of ten, then I’m at a solid eleven.”
James laughs, the sound rich and assured and filling every corner of the huge, sunny kitchen. I’ve a vague, unformed memory of being led in here last night, and can only hope and pray that this wasn’t where I chucked up.
James peers at me, and I shift from foot to foot, acutely conscious that I’m wearing his clothes.
The tracksuit bottoms, T-shirt, and hoodie are too big for me, just as he said they’d be, and I feel small and puny in them. It doesn’t help that I’ve lost weight recently, which I can ill-afford to do. James is taller than me, not by a huge amount, but he’s got more muscle on him. But, I’m glad of them, because my own clothes…
“Thank you. For the lend of the clothes. I’m so sorry, I—”
“Sit down before you fall down.” He slices across my words, stopping dead the start of what is sure to be my stumbling apology. “Breakfast first, and then you can say sorry as much as you like, but to be frank I’d rather an explanation as to why I found you on your own in the middle of Soho and blind drunk — and why you claim to be living in the basement of Elliot’s office block.”
Chapter Three
PERRY
“Better?”
James scrutinises me over the rim of his coffee cup. I’ve avoided eye contact as much as possible, and I do it again by looking down at my empty plate, every scrap of breakfast gone. The restorative power of a fry up, along with pain killers and a couple of pints of water on the morning after the night before, is nothing to be scoffed at. I’ve also finished my coffee, and I could do with another. As though James knows exactly what I’m thinking, he pours a steady, nutty stream from the cafetière.
“Much, thank you. And thanks, too, for helping me out last night — I was in a state, and I owe you one — and for the lend.” I wave to the borrowed clothes I’m drowning in, and am about to say I can take them home to wash them, before I stop myself.
James shrugs. “No problem. They’re just some old sweats.” He doesn’t say anything more, just sips his coffee.
Old sweats, the last thing I could ever imagine James wearing.
I’ve never seen him in anything but sharp-as-a-knife tailoring, classic Savile Row, and shined-to-within-an-inch-of-their-life shoes. Suited and booted, the words were invented to describe James Campion. But not today.
Tailored suit trousers have been replaced by narrow legged dark jeans. A plain light blue shirt hugs his toned upper body. The top couple of buttons are undone, displaying the crisp white crew neck of the T-shirt beneath. Folded back shirt sleeves reveal forearms with a light scattering of dark hair and — a glimpse of a tattoo.Tattoo?Jamesandtattoogo together about as well as vegan and pork pie do. This isn’t the James I’ve come to know from his frequent visits to the office, and as for the ink…
A low, rumbly chuckle fills the air and my gaze snaps up, locking onto his. That crooked smile is there on his lips once again, and the questioning lift of a brow as though he’s daring me to ask. Heat flares in my cheeks. I’ve been gawping, and caught in the act.
He pushes his sleeve further up his arm, to reveal more.
“The result of forty-eight hours leave spent drinking too much beer in Hamburg,” he says. “I was in the army. It’s my regimental badge, but that was years ago.”
James, in his army uniform, as fit as they come. It’s a mouthwatering thought but one I don’t want to dwell on, not when he’s sitting opposite me, not with that cocky smile on his face.
A place to stay, clean clothes, and breakfast. It’s not just thanks I owe him, but a massive apology for his Friday night I managed to royally screw up.
“I’m so sorry for ruining your evening. Sorting out a drunk wasn’t top of your To Do list, I reckon.”
James shrugs. “There was no evening to ruin. I’d gone out from habit rather than any real desire to do so.”
There’s a tinge of what sounds like resignation colouring his words — which is a surprise, from somebody as assured as James — but my hungover brain’s sluggish and clumsy, and incapable of close scrutiny of anything other than the coffee in my cup.
