Chapter 12
Nora
‘What a shit show. Bad luck, Belle.’
Theo rubs his forehead beside me while I stand at the threshold of my bedroom, looking around me in horror.
Water’s still dripping through the ceiling, but from the revoltingly soaked bare mattress, I suspect it was a deluge before they turned the mains off.
Adela must have stripped the bed, bless her.
The white carpet is darkened with water, and there are damp stains on the gorgeous wallpaper.
This is a bloody disaster—the entire room will need redecorating.
Thank God the leak didn’t hit Elle’s room.
Her walls are papered in hand-painted De Gournay panels that cost an arm and a leg. That room is her pride and joy.
I slipped off my heels in the hallway, so I brave the room barefoot, gasping as my feet squelch wetly across the cold, soaked carpet.
‘Oh my God,’ I mutter. ‘This is revolting.’
‘I’m coming in.’
I glance behind me to see Theo stooped in the doorframe, pulling off his socks and folding up his trouser legs. The disgust on his face as his feet hit the carpet makes me giggle. He’s probably more high maintenance than me. I suppose if I don’t laugh about this, I’ll cry.
Please let my clothes be okay. Please let my clothes be okay.
Not that any of my clothes are massively valuable. The good stuff is all in Elle’s samples overflow room, thankfully out of the way of the water damage. But still. I can’t exactly pack a suitcase full of Elle’s Dior, can I?
I tentatively turn on the light to the dressing room. Probably not the brightest idea, but it’s working. And Adela was right, thank God. My wardrobes seem clear. It’s my bathroom and bedroom that’ve borne the brunt of the damage. Theo comes up beside me as I peer upwards.
‘It looks okay, no?’ he asks.
‘Yeah. I can’t see anything.’ Luckily, the top shelves are taken up with spare duvets and pillows, which I suspect would have absorbed some of the water if it had come through.
Theo sticks his hand up and feels a couple of pillows. ‘They seem dry.’
‘Cool.’ I stare forlornly at my wardrobes. I need to get a bag out and start packing. All of which feels like a lot of effort.
‘Hey.’ Theo comes behind me and puts his hands on my shoulders, his fingers and thumbs working my tired muscles with just enough pressure to feel outrageously good. I let my shoulders drop and shudder out a sigh.
‘I know this is shit, but let’s just get you packed up with the basics, okay? Then I’ll make you a cuppa at mine and you can crawl off to bed. You’ll be fine, all right? Now, where do you keep your cases?’
He’s sweet. He doesn’t need to do this. I’m only a fake girlfriend and I’m already causing him grief, and now he has to adopt two annoying little orphans for the next few days. I’m sure none of this was part of his plan, but if he can be gracious and upbeat about it, so can I.
I suppose, anyway.
Theo lives in an exceedingly nice penthouse flat in a modern block off High Street Kensington. We take the lift up from the underground carpark and exit it straight into his flat. It’s even nicer in the flesh than it was in Charmed in Chelsea.
‘So you don’t, in fact, live in Chelsea.’
He grins. ‘Nope. They kept that quiet. Only showed interior shots of the flat.’
I arch my eyebrows. ‘That they did. I recognise that sofa.’
He grimaces as I squat to let Olive down. He’s being really nice to us. I’m guessing the last thing he needs in this gorgeous, glossy bachelor pad is a girl and a dog, so I should throw him a bone.
‘Your flat is stunning,’ I tell him.
‘Thanks. It’s my sanctuary. You probably think I’m a party boy, but I’m happy as a pig in shit when I’m here with a takeaway and a pair of pyjama bottoms.’
Oh, crap. For once, I don’t think he’s being provocative, but my brain has unhelpfully served me up a visual of Theo lounging on the Sofa of Sin in a pair of pyjama bottoms and nothing else.
I really, really hope he doesn’t indulge in gratuitous nudity of even the most partial kind while I’m here. Please let him cover the hell up.
I’ve seen slivers of chest. And chest hair.
I gripped his bicep like a drowning woman when he kissed me, and I mushed my boobs against his chest. I saw the epic bum-dimple shot on Charmed in Chelsea.
And all of my extensive empirical analysis tells me that seeing Theo’s body in the flesh would be spectacularly unhelpful.
Because he’s objectively gorgeous, and I’m objectively lonely, sad and horny. And reminders of my state through endeavours like groping his muscles and having his tongue tangle with mine are just. Plain. Unhelpful.
Did I remember to pack my vibrator?
I’m staring at him in a daze, and he must mistake my lust-fog for tiredness, because he holds up my bag.
‘You must be knackered. Let’s put this in your room and you can get out of that dress.’
I stare at him wide-eyed.
‘Don’t look at me like that, you dirty girl. Put some PJs on. Or a robe. Whatever. I’m definitely getting comfy, so don’t be shy.’
I really need to pull myself together. It’s the triple whammy of having seen Jonathan, kissed Theo and then found myself in his space. It’s pretty intense. And I know I should loosen up. It was just a kiss. Just a for-show kiss, to be more specific.
I trot obediently after him, leaving Olive to delightedly sniff every inch of the spectacular living area. Dogs are so lucky. I’d quite like to sniff every inch of Theo’s bedroom…
Stop it.
We pass an open door and I glance in, only to realise that the large white room is familiar. I’ve seen a giggling and half-dressed trio tumbling in there on camera before the door shut, and Theo strolling across that space butt-naked.
Also on camera.
Jesus. Who knew just being in his flat would be so triggering?
He opens the door next to his (like, right next to his.
Oh, shit. I wonder how far vibrator noises and…
vibrations carry). I follow him into the room.
It’s immaculate. White walls. Statement chandelier.
White bed that I just want to tumble into.
Huge windows that I bet have a view that stretches for miles.
It’s perfect. And the wooden floor is dry, and the bedding is dry, which, right now, is enough for me.
Theo puts my bag on the bed. ‘This is you.’
‘Thanks. It’s great.’ I stand back awkwardly to let him pass, and he gestures to a door on the way out.
‘Ensuite’s in there. And there’s a big bathtub in the bathroom down the hall. Honestly, if you just want to crash, that’s totally fine. But—are you hungry? You look like you might be.’
Of course. That’s why I’m behaving like a zombie. It’s not lust, it’s low blood sugar. I barely ate at the party.
I’m famished. And it took a guy who hardly knows me to work it out for me.
I open up my bag and put on some pyjama shorts and a camisole, but leave my bra on.
It’s a warm evening, but I’m not about to give Theo any gratuitous nipple action.
Obviously. Stepping out into the main reception area before he appears, I give myself the opportunity to survey the flat properly, and it’s incredible.
The entire space boasts dark wooden flooring that warms up the white walls, and it’s beautifully lit.
There are no overhead lights on, just lots of table lamps, uplighters studded into the floorboards at regular intervals around the edges of the room, and picture lights illuminating the many and varied pieces of artwork adorning the walls.
Of course. He has an art gallery. It makes sense he’d have a decent collection.
The low-lighting is atmospheric. Enticing.
This must be a great place for Theo to entertain.
Or seduce.
Ugh. I don’t know why that thought makes me feel nauseous. I remind myself to give the Sofa of Sin a wide berth. God knows what body fluids are still lingering on it.
At one end of the space is a black kitchen, the area punctuated with an enormous black island.
At the other is a wall of sliding doors that Theo’s pushed open.
I step out onto the terrace and breathe in the unmistakable smell of London mixed with jasmine.
I look behind me for the source of the latter.
Jasmine is in full bloom around the doors, and its scent is heady. Heavenly.
The terrace itself is enormous. It makes sense—this is the penthouse, after all.
There’s more gorgeous mood lighting, the mature olive trees up-lit to perfection in their giant tubs, and clusters of good-looking rattan furniture punctuating the main area.
Good Lord. This chunk of prime London real estate must be eye-wateringly expensive.
It brings home to me just how much the Montagues are worth.
And don’t get me started on the view. We’re only twelve floors up, but the terrace must face south, because if I turn to my left I can see all the way to the City of London and beyond to Canary Wharf.
There’s a distant but regular pattern of flashing lights from the planes queuing to land at Heathrow to my right.
This spot must be amazing in the morning. And for sundowners.
I shake my head. He’s a lucky guy. I wonder if he knows how lucky. Unlikely.
There’s a soft Belle behind me, and I jerk my head to find Theo sauntering out onto the terrace.
He comes up behind me, barefoot, in pale blue cotton pyjama bottoms and a white t-shirt.
Thank God he’s covered up. He’s showered, his hair wet and slicked off his face and his t-shirt splattered with wet spots.
What is it about guys’ inability to dry themselves properly before getting dressed?
But the t-shirt is more of an undershirt than a proper item of clothing, and its soft, worn fabric hugs the curves of his pecs in a way that’s pretty damn alluring. It kind of makes me mentally kick myself for not groping his chest earlier when I had a chance. Copping a feel of his flat stomach.
I should have been more opportunistic.
Bugger.
I avert my eyes from his torso and swing back around to the view. ‘This is incredible,’ I observe lamely.
‘Yeah.’ He rests his arms on the wooden rail at the edge of the terrace and leans forward. ‘I never get tired of this. Especially at this time of year.’ He glances down at my chest, making no attempt to hide the direction of his gaze, and smirks. ‘But maybe it’s a bit chilly?’
Jesus. I straighten up and fold my arms over my chest. It’s a really mild, still night, so I don’t want Romeo Montague speculating as to why my nipples have suddenly gone hard.
‘I’m fine.’
‘You certainly are.’ He meets my gaze, and his grin falters. ‘Right. Let’s get some food down you.’