Chapter 11
Theo
If cleanliness is next to godliness, my living room slash kitchen is currently a candidate for sainthood.
I have scoured this flat within an inch of its life.
The cushions on my mustard armchair are fluffed, the spice jars are still in alphabetical order.
And since I’m giving Finn the bedroom, my electric friend, the Rabbit, has been safely relocated to the bathroom drawer.
Also, I picked out my safest jammies for later: pink flannel dotted with tiny strawberries. They scream ‘wholesome’ and ‘do not touch’. My force field against the home invasion by Sexy MacSwagger.
It’s not that I don’t want him here.
It’s that I want him here too much.
Even Elvis, my ginger cat, has been brushed into a state of statuesque fluffiness. He now regards me from the top of the bookshelf with a twitching tail and a mild grudge.
‘Don’t glower at me like that.’ I wipe a non-existent smudge from the coffee table.
He yawns, revealing a pink cavern of feline judgement.
My flat is my castle. A curated space of retro prints, scented candles, and calm.
It’s a shoebox, but it’s mine. Now, I’m about to let a human hurricane through the door.
A six-foot-two Captain Chaos with pink hair and a scent that I know will cling to the upholstery and walls for days.
I also know I’ll have to fight the urge to press my face into his cushions and get high on it.
That’s the real problem. Not the potential for mud on my rug or wet towels on the floor. It’s the thought of his addictive scent embedding itself in my space and body and brain.
The suggestion of Finn moving in earlier today triggered a spike of panic that nearly took a crowbar to my composure.
But I held it. I learned long ago, in a house that tiptoed around my mother’s moods, that a still surface is a safe surface.
My job was to be the quiet harbour. Gil reinforced the lesson.
My feelings were inconvenient, my reactions ‘too much’. So I locked it all behind my teeth.
Showing Charlie and Finn that the idea of him in my home made my pulse jump? Never ever.
A stack of Pot Noodles sits on the kitchen counter as an offering to the handsome God of Mayhem.
I’d stared at them in Tesco for a full three minutes, feeling absurd.
But it’s a strategic deployment of snacks to make him feel less awkward.
If that’s even a thing for him. I don’t know. But it is for me, so…
I check my reflection in the hallway mirror. My hair is in a neat bun, and my face is scrubbed clean. I’m wearing grey leggings and an oversized Aran jumper. Not even lipstick.
Part of me feels like a child again, making myself smaller, quieter, trying not to take up too much space in case I upset the delicate balance of the house.
Now I’m wary of him taking up all the space in mine.
If I’d known that this would be the cost of saving my job, I might have applied to fill shelves at Tesco.
Who am I kidding? Of course not. This job is my life.
The buzzer screeches at 6:58 pm, two minutes before the agreed time. Finn Lennox, a man whose entire brand is built on a disregard for rules and schedules, moves in two minutes early. I clock the detail. It’s a deliberate act, an olive branch of sorts.
My heart trips, catches, tries again. I press a hand to my chest, commanding it to behave. It’s seven days. I’ve survived worse. Taking a steadying breath that does absolutely nothing to steady me, I walk to the door, flick the lock, and pull it open.
And there he is.
He fills the doorframe, a riot of pink hair, dark joggies, and a plain black t-shirt that stretches across his chest. Behind him is an expensive Louis Vuitton suitcase.
But that’s not the important thing.
No, the important thing is that he’s holding a ludicrous armful of snacks.
A multi-pack of crisps that could hide a toddler, a box of Jaffa Cakes.
My gaze snags on the tub he’s balancing on top of the crisps.
It’s a family-sized bucket of my favourite mint choc chip ice cream.
The one from the Italian place down the road that costs a fortune.
I’m melting. Pun intended.
He must have asked Charlie. The thought is unnerving and thaws something that I’ve kept frozen for a reason.
Finn offers a hesitant, lopsided grin. The stitches in his eyebrow pull slightly. ‘Snack flatmates?’
A real smile breaks through my defences. It’s small, but it’s there. ‘Come in before you drop it all.’
I step back and he manoeuvres himself and his baggage into my hallway. The space immediately shrinks by half as he takes off his trainers. Elvis lets out a brief hiss from his perch on the bookshelf. I get it. Finn is an invasion of the senses.
‘Nice place.’ He scans the open-plan living room and kitchen. ‘Very tidy.’
‘It has to be because it’s so tiny.’ I close the door and the click sounds final.
‘Naw. It’s cosy.’ Finn sets the mountain of snacks down on my kitchen counter. ‘This is the main event, I take it?’ He gestures around the room.
‘This is it. Living room, kitchen.’ I point to the armchair and the sofa. ‘You can take the bedroom,’ I say, too quickly. ‘My bed’s bigger. Better for someone with…you know, muscles.’
‘That’s not happening. It’s your bed.’
‘Don’t be noble. It’s the only decent mattress in the flat.’
He pauses. ‘Are you calling me fragile?’
‘I’m calling you a professional athlete. Your spine’s an asset. I’m not getting you benched because I made you sleep on a cheap coil-sprung death trap.’
He gives me a look. ‘Theo. I get tackled into turf by lorry-sized mutants with no necks. I’ll survive your Ikea pull-out. In fact, it’s going to feel like a cloud.’
‘No, it’s lumpy. I sit in meetings and at my desk. Only one of us needs proper lumbar support. You’re taking my bed.’
Finn saunters over to the sofa and flops down with a theatrical groan, making my meticulously plumped cushions gasp for mercy. ‘This is a five-star resort. My lumbar feels fully supported. Cared for. Cherished.’
‘I’m serious, Finn.’
‘So am I. I’ve survived much worse.’ He stretches his long legs out and man spreads the shit out of my tiny living room. ‘See? Comfy as fuck.’
‘I’m not letting you martyr yourself on my shitty couch.’
‘And I’m not kicking you out of your own bed like I’m some kind of diva.’
‘You are a diva. The biggest one I’ve ever met.’
‘Only on Thursdays. Tonight I’m a gentleman.’ He folds his hands behind his head, smug as hell. ‘Look at me, being gallant.’
‘No, you’re being ridiculous.’
‘I’m taking the sofa bed, List Girl. End of.’
‘Okay, fine. Whatever.’ I nod toward the closed door off the hall. ‘That’s my bedroom. And that,’ I jab a thumb at the other door, ‘is the bathroom.’
He’s watching me as if he won something. I cross my arms, refusing to let him fry my executive function any further by his mere presence in my home.
‘Listen, Theo. I’m aware this is a massive pain in the arse for you. I’ll try not to be a total nightmare.’
‘I appreciate the effort.’ Now is the time. I grab the laminated sheet from the counter. ‘To that end, I’ve prepared some rules.’
I hand it to him and he takes it, his fingers brushing mine. A spark zings up my arm and I snatch my hand back.
He reads the title aloud. ‘House Rules for Temporary Cohabitation.’ His lips twitch. ‘So official. Did you use a special font?’
‘Just read it, Lennox.’
‘Rule one: shoes off at the door.’ He glances at his own socked feet. ‘Check. I’m already acing this. Rule two: no houseguests. There’s zero room for any houseguests if we’re both here at the same time. Rule three: do your own laundry, we’re not mixing our delicates, and I’m not your maid.’
‘Most definitely not.’
‘Rule four: always knock.’ His attention drifts to the bedroom door, then back to me. ‘Goes without saying. But Rule five: no sleeping nude might be a problem.’ A slow, wicked grin takes over his face. ‘I can’t be faffing about with jammies.’
‘Oh, you’d better faff,’ I say as firmly as I can.
‘You’re a tyrant, MacMickin. A cute, terrifying tyrant.’
He’s trying to put me at ease. To turn my rigid list of anxieties into a joke we can share. That’s his thing. And damn him, it’s working. The clamp in my gut unspools a fraction.
Elvis decides he’s seen enough. He leaps gracefully from the bookshelf via the chair, landing on the rug with a thud. I brace myself for the usual display of hostility. The hissing, the flattened ears, the slow, menacing tail-swish he reserves for all visitors.
But he just trots forward, tail up like an antenna.
Finn goes still, watching the cat approach. Elvis circles his legs once, and rubs his face against Finn’s ankle with a startlingly loud purr.
I stare, speechless. My cat has defected.
‘Well, hello there, handsome.’ Finn reaches down slowly, letting Elvis sniff his knuckles before stroking him, from the top of his head to the tip of his tail.
Elvis arches his spine into the touch, his purr escalating to the volume of a small engine. He promptly flops onto his side, exposing his belly. A sacred act of trust he has never, not once, bestowed on a stranger.
I’m floored. ‘Elvis doesn’t do that.’
‘Doesn’t do what? Demand affection from devastatingly handsome men? Seems like a smart cat to me.’ Finn grins and scratches Elvis right under the chin.
My cat’s back leg starts to twitch in ecstasy.
‘He…hates everyone,’ I say, still staring. ‘He actively despises other humans. I’ve seen him draw blood for less than risking a glance at him. Ask the plumber.’
‘Maybe he knows I’m one of the good guys.’ Finn’s voice is soft, his attention fully on Elvis.
He’s turning my cat into a wanton belly rub slut.