CHAPTER 2
KATIE
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 to Notting Hill that 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 most people I know would call it a ‘good cuppa’ and leave it at that.
This was one of the first things that struck me when meeting Nathan way back when.
He appears to be like everyone else, but then he sounds like Prince Harry and looks like Prince William (the younger years, before the unfortunate hairline situation), and you just know he is a few rungs above the rest of us.
Not that it was unexpected to find someone rich at Kensington College.
It wasn’t quite Eton College, the elite school for royalty and the like, but it was the sort of place I could only afford with a scholarship and a bucketload of luck.
It’s why I only attended from Year 12 onwards.
My prior school had identified me as ‘advanced and rapidly outgrowing their capabilities’ and encouraged me to apply for every scholarship around.
My mum and I were in shock when I received offers to attend not one but four of the top schools in inner London.
After many pros and cons lists, we settled on Kensington College, which brought my life into Nathan’s orbit.
I still remember the first time I saw him.
I’d been lurking in the corridor (it’s the only way to describe it; I wanted to be as invisible as possible).
Nathan had spotted me, beamed a smile in my direction and yelled in a booming voice, “Hey, I don’t know you, yet.
” In that moment, I’d braced for some teasing to follow, something about my braces or my wild halo of hair, but instead, he’d come over and introduced himself.
After a few seconds spent trying to remember my name, I’d muttered “Hi, I’m Katie,” to which he’d grinned and said, “Happy to meet you, Kitty Kat.”
It’s not like we became besties after that—he was way too cool, way too on the road to greatness for me to take up much of his time—but he was always nice to me.
Always ready to give me a smile. And when he left before Year 13 to pursue his F1 dream, I’d noticed his absence in the way one may notice a missing middle toe.
Not essential for everyday functioning, but nice to have.
“So, do you live here alone?” His question breaks through my trip down memory lane.
“No…” I wave my hand in the air, and he sits up a little straighter, on the alert.
“No?”
“I share my flat with an overbearing princess.”
Right on cue, the princess graces us with her presence.
Slinking into the room with the grace of a lioness stalking its prey, she winds her way through my legs, flicking me with her tail before setting her judgmental stare on our guest. In my twenty-six years on this Earth, I have identified myself as a dog person, but then one day I was walking past an animal shelter, the same one I pass every day, and I saw her. Or she saw me. And I was hers.
She’s a British shorthair breed with thick grey fur and striking green eyes.
The lady at the shelter had assured me her type of breed was affectionate and gentle, and yet this one—the one who imprinted on me or vice versa—is anything but.
She’s moody and disapproving, and I swear she’s plotting to kill me in my sleep.
Sometimes I wake in the morning to her face pressed against mine, staring at me with condemnation for acts I’ve yet to commit.
But despite all this, she’s someone to come home to. Someone who expects me to come home, if only to feed her and scratch her belly. It’s nice to not be completely alone in this world.
“Who do we have here?” Nathan asks, staring down at the fur ball at his feet, which looks just about ready to pounce. Luckily, it’s the dead of winter and he’s wearing thick denim jeans, or else his shins would soon cry out for mercy.
“This is Nuke,” I make the introduction. “Nuke, this is my friend Nathan. We like him. Don’t hurt him.”
Nathan’s eyes fly to mine, humour and something else lurking in his gaze. “Nuke? As in nuclear weapon?”
I snicker, because it’s not a correct guess, but it’s also sort of perfect. “No, but she’s as destructive as a nuclear bomb. This little minx is called Nuke, short for nucleus. Because she thinks she’s the centre of everything.”
He reaches out his hand, and I hold my breath, waiting to see what Nuke does. More than likely, she’ll draw blood, and I’m already mapping my route to the first aid cabinet. So, you can imagine my surprise when my prickly feline leans into Nathan’s enormous hand, purring out loud with pleasure.