Chapter 9 #2
“Are aprons making a comeback in the world of workplace fashion?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “In my opinion, they never should have left.”
I snort, and a smile hovers at the edges of his mouth. “Thank you for the pads and Post-it notes,” I say softly. “Where on earth did you get them from?”
“I rang reception and requested them.”
“Good grief. What it is to have staff at your beck and call.”
“You have them too, but oddly don’t appear to have thought of that.” He steps back and gestures for me to enter the kitchen. “In here, please.”
“Oh, are we having sex on the appliances? Yay ,” I say, trying for enthusiasm but ending with a slightly peevish edge.
“Not today, Satan,” he says briskly. He steps back as I walk past him and then almost bumps into me when I stop dead.
“Where did that come from?” A bowl of soup is steaming gently on the table, along with a basket of bread. I step closer and touch a piece of the bread. It’s still warm. I look back at Mac. “You did all this?” I say wonderingly.
“All what?”
“Cleaning the flat, getting me stationery, and now food.”
“The flat was offending my eyes and nasal passages, and my stomach actually recoiled at the sight of what you’ve been eating. It was for me, not you.”
“Okay, Pinocchio.”
“Sit down and eat. It’s just tomato and basil soup with ciabatta bread, which will be light on your stomach.”
“Oh, I can’t,” I say immediately. “I haven’t got time, and I feel sick anyway.”
“You feel sick because you appear not to have slept for a week.”
“I did have the crate of energy drinks to help me through.”
“Yes, and how grateful we all are to the manufacturers. You need proper food.” He smiles at me. It’s a kind smile that looks good on his handsome face. “You’ll feel better with some decent food in your belly.”
I nod and slide into the chair he pulls out for me. The soup looks delicious. Steam floats delicately from it, and I smell herbs. My stomach rumbles. I pick up my spoon and hesitate.
Mac settles into the chair opposite me. “Oh dear, have you forgotten how to use cutlery, or did you never know how to use it in the first place?”
I snort. “No. I just wondered where your food was?”
“Mine?”
“Yes, aren’t we eating together?”
“Oh. No, this is just for you. I had a business dinner earlier in the evening.”
“Poor you. Aren’t the words business and dinner oxymorons?”
He chuckles, and I avoid staring at him, but it’s difficult because he’s seriously hot when he laughs. His whole face lights up, and he looks younger somehow and much more carefree.
“Eat,” he commands.
I do as I’m told, watching as he gets up and moves around the kitchen, taking off the apron and pouring me a glass of iced water and a scotch for himself from the expensive bottles in the cupboard.
He settles back at the table, sipping his drink and reading something on his phone.
His jaw is shadowed with an evening beard, and his shirt is open at the neck, showing a thin sliver of pale skin.
It’s rather domestic, and I feel myself relaxing and enjoying the food.
My worries drain away in his steady presence, and it comes as a surprise when my spoon scrapes the bottom of the bowl.
He looks up at the sound. “Finished?”
I nod.
“Was it good?”
“It was lovely. I ran out of the ingredients for my favourite meal a few days ago, so this was a nice change.”
“I know I will regret asking this, but what is your favourite food?”
“Cheese and baked bean toastie.”
“Good god ,” he says in a revolted voice. “Do you actually eat that?”
“No. I make one and then look at it. Of course, I eat it. They’re delicious.”
He shudders.
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.”
“The last time someone said that to me, they were referencing foie gras. Suffice it to say I can now knock it.”
“Isn’t that goose?” He nods, and I grimace. “Poor geese. At least no animal died for my cheese and bean toastie.”
“No, but your digestive system is probably screaming for help.”
I laugh, pleased as ever to hear his humour. I tap the empty bowl. “Well, the soup was very nice. Did you make it?”
He laughs. “Fuck, no. That wouldn’t have been edible. I’m a terrible cook.”
My interest flares, and I want to ask the hundred questions flooding my brain.
He only has to open the door a tiny way, and I’m ready to kick it open.
He obviously senses that because he puts up a defensive hand.
“No, to whatever you’re going to ask me.
” I subside, and a smile hovers on his lips. “So obedient,” he drawls mockingly.
I straighten up. “And now sex. I’m raring to go now I’ve recharged my batteries.”
He gets to his feet and grabs his jacket from the back of the chair. “Let’s leave them on charge. You’re going to need them.”
“What?” I gape at him as he steers me out of the kitchen. “Why?”
“Finals are a test of your endurance as much as your knowledge.”
Immediately, my situation comes flooding back to me in all its grisly glory, and I dig in my heels, making us both stop walking. “I’m going to be revising all night,” I say, glancing at my folders.
“Wes, I took my finals too. It may have been a while ago, but I still remember certain things.”
“What things?”
“Well, I can safely say that anything you revise now will not stay in your head tomorrow. Because you’re panicking.”
“I am not panicking.”
“Of course not. That note of hysteria in your voice is just foreplay. I get it.”
I sag. “I actually am panicking.” I look up at him pitifully. “I need a cuddle,” I say and blanch. “I’m pretty sure that’s not on Julian’s list of things that are okay. I’m so sorry. Ignore me.”
He shakes his head, and I gasp as he draws me into his arms. His body is hard and warm against mine, the smell of his cologne and fabric softener somehow the most comforting scent I’ve ever smelled, and when he pulls me tight and rests his head on mine, I give a long sigh and feel my body finally relax.
It’s as if he can hold back the world with those arms of his.
I wonder how long it has been since someone has simply hugged me. I’d forgotten how nice it is.
“This is lovely,” I say, hugging him tighter.
He sighs in an aggravated fashion that makes me want to laugh. “Someday, I must sit down and discuss these rules Julian gave you. Tell me, is he a very optimistic person?”
“Not so I’ve noticed.”
“Then how on earth did he ever expect someone like you to follow them, my little rulebreaker?”
His voice sounds almost affectionate, and I have to see his face. I pull back slightly, but his expression is as inscrutable as ever. “Thank you,” I whisper.
His mouth pulls into a half smile that’s very wry. “Please don’t mention it.”
“Do you really think it’s not worth revising tonight?”
He cups my face in his hands and examines it as intently as if he can see my future there. “In my opinion, yes. How long have you been revising for this?”
“Oh god, at least two months on and off.”
“Then you should be fine.”
His calm reply makes me raise my eyebrows. “Just like that?”
“Wes, you’re incredibly bright. I knew that from the second I clapped eyes on you.
You’re quick and canny.” He taps my forehead.
“Everything you need is in there.” He steps back, and I immediately miss his embrace, but one glance at his set expression tells me not to mention it.
“But at the end of the day, it’s up to you,” he says briskly.
“You’re your own boss. Do you want to revise some more? ”
I consider that and then shake my head. “No, I think you’re right. Nothing that I read is staying in my brain anymore.”
“That’s because your brain is already full.” He gestures at me. “Come along. You can get into bed.”
I find myself obeying him without thought, taking off my towel and handing it to him.
His mouth quirks for some reason, but he folds the towel neatly and puts it on the chair.
I slide under the cool sheets and give an involuntary sigh of pleasure.
He goes to move away, and I grab his hand before I can think better of it.
“Where are you going? Don’t go.” He stares down at me, and I offer him a cajoling smile. “Stay for a bit.”
“You’ll be asleep in a minute.”
I shift and wince. “I doubt it. My shoulders and neck are killing me.”
There’s a slight hesitation, and then he sighs before stripping off his jacket and throwing it on the chair. “Turn over,” he orders.
“I’m so glad we’re having sex.”
“Well, don’t get too happy. I don’t usually favour fucking dead things.”
“You old charmer, you.”
“Turn over.”
I obey. “Why? Does it make it easier for you to escape from the flat while my back is turned?”
There’s a funny pause. “Maybe I don’t want to.”
I blink. “Eh? I mean, pardon?”
“Nothing.” There’s a rustle of clothing, the click of a cap and the smell of coconut.
I recognise the scent of my body lotion, and then the mattress moves, and I groan loudly as his hands come down on my shoulders and start to knead them. “Oh my god, that’s so lush ,” I breathe.
“I’m positive that you would possess the ability to talk through your own funeral.”
“That’s probably true. My mum said she’d have remembered my first words if there hadn’t been five thousand others that immediately followed them.”
He laughs and then we fall silent as he massages my neck and shoulders, pushing his talented fingers into my hair and gently massaging my scalp until my eyes cross with pleasure.
I stir. “I’m sorry I angered you about Pharoah’s Island,” I whisper.
“It’s your house and whatever you do with it is your business. ”
His fingers stop, and there’s a long moment of silence. “I wasn’t angry with you. I was angry with myself.”
“Why?” I say in surprise.
He doesn’t reply, but his fingers go back to work.