Chapter 11 #2
I watch them, this beautiful calamity of a man and my cute little demon, and something inside me melts.
It’s a reckless, unwelcome feeling, like the first leak in a dam.
He didn’t only bring the right ice cream.
He tamed the beast. It’s a superpower I didn’t know he had, and it’s ridiculously attractive.
I click my tongue, dragging my thoughts back to practicalities. ‘Have you had dinner yet?’
He lifts his head but doesn’t stop stroking Elvis. A brave man. ‘No.’
‘Okay.’ I gesture to the counter. ‘I bought Pot Noodles. I assumed that might be your thing.’
His eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘You know me so well. Or, how about some ice cream?’
A pause hangs in the air, filled with the sound of Elvis’s purring.
‘How about both?’ I suggest.
A wide grin splits his face. ‘We’re going to get on just fine, List Girl.’
And that’s how I find myself sitting at my kitchenette table ten minutes later, a steaming pot of chicken-flavoured noodles in front of me, while Finlay Lennox sits opposite, happily tucking into his own.
The bucket of mint choc chip sits between us, two spoons already sticking out of it.
The scene is absurd. It’s a photograph of a life I don’t have, with a man who shouldn’t be here. His knee brushes mine under the table.
He doesn’t pull away.
Neither do I.
The ice cream tub is half-empty. For the last twenty minutes, we’ve talked about nothing. Rugby stats. My questionable taste in seventies detective shows. The structural integrity of Jaffa Cakes. It’s been…easy.
Until my brain, the ever-present project manager, kicks back into gear. ‘We should get some content.’ I push the last spoonful of mint choc chip around the tub.
Finn has moved on to scratching Elvis’s chin. ‘Content?’
‘A little appetiser before the main course of the magazine feature.’ I stand and start clearing our mess, a sudden need for activity. ‘Show, not tell, and all that.’
‘You want to take a selfie together?’ He sounds amused.
‘I want to stage a photo that is effortlessly candid and screams “happily ever after”.’ I turn from the sink, and wipe my hands on a tea towel. ‘It’ll give the press something to chew on that isn’t your arse.’
His grin is slow and appreciative. ‘You’re an evil genius.’
‘I know.’ I nod towards the sofa. ‘Sit and try to appear comfortable.’
He obeys, sinking back into the cushions, and pats the space beside him. I shake my head. ‘No. We need to up the stakes.’
I take a breath. This is a strategic manoeuvre.
I walk over, my heart thumping a protest. I turn and lower myself onto his lap, arranging my legs so I’m sitting sideways, one thigh resting over his.
The world tips sideways for a second. He is dense and muscular beneath me, radiating heat that seeps through my leggings.
His hands hover in the air for a second, uncertain. ‘Where…?’
‘Waist,’ I instruct, my voice impressively calm. ‘Gently. Like you belong there.’
My breath jams halfway at his touch, and a flaming zing barrels through my centre. He pulls me a fraction closer until my back is flush against his chest. I feel the thud of his heart against my shoulder blades.
‘Okay?’ His voice is a low rumble by my ear.
‘Yep. Fine.’
That’s a stone-cold lie. I’m the opposite of fine. I’m a system overload, every nerve ending firing at once. Underneath the sheer panic, there’s heat rising up my spine. The sense of being held and protected and so, so close to…him.
It feels good enough to wreck my judgement.
I angle my phone to find the right frame. My hair has come loose from its bun, a few strands falling around my face. Finn seems almost possessively tender. His mouth is a breath from my neck, his gaze soft in the phone’s screen.
It’s a perfect lie.
‘Smile like you’re enjoying this,’ I murmur.
‘Not easy when I’m trying to keep you at a safe distance.’
‘Safe from what?’
‘Let’s say…you’ve seen it in certain leaked photos.’
‘Huh?’ It takes a second. ‘Oh.’
‘Aye, oh.’
Oh god.
I’m almost sitting on his dick. I’ve been a few inches away from it this whole time and now I know it and he knows I know it and my brain is fried.
I stiffen. Pun not intended.
But why would he… I mean, I’m not his type. Even though he says he doesn’t have a type, I’m definitely one hundred per cent not it.
He lets out a low breath. ‘Relax, it’s okay. Nothing’s going to happen. It’s just a reaction to how…convincing you are.’
Something about his voice makes me believe him; he sounds more amused than anything else. Finn Lennox. Rugby wild child and bad boy extraordinaire. The Dennis Rodman of Scottish rugby, so to speak. And I—
Anyway, back to business. Right the fuck now.
I snap the picture. And another. Then I scramble off his lap before my body forgets this is all performance. The air in the room is charged. I stare at the photo on my phone. It’s disgustingly convincing.
‘We’re getting good at this.’ His voice is a little rough.
‘We are.’ I clear my throat, eager to get back on safe and neutral territory. ‘But we should probably practise a bit more. For the shoot tomorrow. We need to act natural.’
‘Practise?’ He raises an eyebrow, that crooked edge already curling at his mouth. ‘What did you have in mind? Please say more lap-sitting.’
‘Shut up. No, watching a film.’ I ignore the heat that fuses my cheeks. ‘On the sofa. Together. Get used to physical proximity.’ I sound like a malfunctioning, overheating robot. ‘As friends and colleagues, of course.’
‘So we’re friends, now?’ His grin widens. ‘I’m honoured, Theo. A real promotion.’
‘Don’t let it go to your head, Lennox. It’s a temporary post with a strict probationary period.’ I scroll through the streaming services on the television. ‘What do you want to watch? And if you say a rom-com, I will smother you with a cushion.’
‘God, no. My heart couldn’t take the schmaltz.’ He thinks for a moment. ‘What about Life of Brian?’
I stop scrolling and turn to him. Monty Python. Of course. It’s absurd and brilliant. ‘Always look on the bright side of life?’
‘It’s thematic,’ he says with a shrug.
A real laugh escapes me. It’s rare and wonderful. ‘Fine. But I’m not singing along.’
‘We’ll see.’
I pull the sofa bed out to give us more room. We pile it with cushions, and I grab the woollen blanket from the back of my armchair. He sits, those strong legs making themselves at home. I hesitate, then sit beside him, leaving a careful, professional six inches between us.
He takes in the gap and smiles. ‘Come here, darlin’. You said physical proximity.’
‘Yeah, I remember.’
Being close to him is a bad idea, I know that. My body doesn’t. It perks up like it’s been waiting for this. Silly body. This isn’t about wanting; it’s about work. Practice.
I shuffle closer until my hip is pressed against his. He lifts his arm, and I lean into his side, resting my head on his shoulder. He drapes his arm around me, his fingers toying with the sleeve of my jumper.
It’s awkward for all of ten seconds.
Then he settles, and I settle. The blanket is cosy, and the room is quiet except for the opening credits of the film. He strokes hypnotising, soothing circles on my arm with his thumb.
Elvis leaps onto the sofa, pads directly onto Finn’s lap, circles twice, and collapses into a purring ball of fur.
I’m flabbergasted. My traitorous cat is now seriously snuggled up with the intruder.
Finn lets out a content little rumble, a low vibration that I feel through my entire body.
He shifts slightly to accommodate the cat, his arm tightening around me.
‘See? The whole family’s here.’
My brain fumbles for a foothold, for an argument, a reason to pull away. This is not real. It’s a means to an end. But my body isn’t listening. My body is sinking into him, lulled by the movement of his thumb and the rhythmic purr of my cat.
Humans benefit from occasional, non-threatening touch. It’s a socio-biological fact. I’m merely fulfilling an evolutionary need. It’s safe, I tell myself. It’s safe because it doesn’t mean anything.
On the screen, a man is being hailed as the fake messiah. Here on my sofa, I’m being held by a real man who feels like salvation, and tonight, I let myself believe the lie.
The credits roll, the jaunty whistling tune that feels entirely too cheerful for the sudden silence in my living room. I am no longer just a woman watching a film; I am a woman watching a film with Finlay Lennox sprawled on her sofa bed, my cat asleep on his thighs, my hip welded to his.
I untangle myself, the loss of his warmth is immediate and unwelcome. ‘Bedtime, I think.’
Finn stretches, and it makes the muscles in his arms bunch under his T-shirt. Elvis grumbles in protest.
‘Aye, captain.’ Finn gingerly moves the cat onto a cushion. ‘Bathroom’s free?’
‘All yours.’
He nods, gets up, and disappears inside, closing the door behind him. I start folding the blanket to restore order. I hear him moving around in there, the dull clack of the toilet seat, the squeak of a tap. It’s all so normal. So domestic. And slightly weird.
The bathroom door opens, but I don’t look up from my vigorous cushion-plumping.
‘I was looking for the towels.’ His voice is different. It’s laced with a specific kind of amusement.
I turn slowly.
He’s leaning against the doorframe, holding my Rabbit as if it’s a priceless archaeological find. It’s bright purple, unmistakable, and currently the sole cause of my impending death by spontaneous human combustion.
My brain ceases all function. My mouth opens, but only a small, strangled squeak comes out.
‘Found this little fella in the drawer under the sink,’ he continues with that smug, shit-stirring sparkle in his eyes. ‘Seems friendly.’
‘Give. Me. That.’ The words are a low, furious hiss. And the heat on my face could power the whole grid.
He doesn’t move, just inspects it with a connoisseur’s eye. ‘It’s a classic. Good choice. Reliable motor, I’ve heard.’ He throws me a gaze with an infuriating glint that means he’s having the time of his life. ‘Self-care is important, Theo. Good for you.’
He says it with such breezy sincerity that I’m momentarily disarmed.
There is no judgement in his tone, only cheeky approval.
Gil would’ve recoiled, wounded pride and quiet disappointment.
He’d have said something like, ‘I didn’t realise you needed that sort of thing.
’ Followed by sighs and a silence that said I’d let him down.
It would’ve become another thing I kept hidden.
God, I’m so glad we never lived together.
But Finn’s acceptance invites closeness I am not prepared for.
‘It’s for…muscle tension,’ I ramble.
‘Aye, I bet it is. The best kind of muscle tension.’ He strolls forward and places it gently on the small coffee table, as if it’s a perfectly normal appliance. ‘Night, little guy.’
My composure has been reduced to rubble.
I march into my bedroom, shutting the door.
When I emerge a few minutes later in my clean and wholesome strawberry-print jammies, he’s in the bathroom, shirtless, brushing his teeth.
The air carries the scent of mint and him.
He’s already made the space his. I grab my own toothbrush, determined to reclaim my territory.
We stand side-by-side in all our domestic glory.
I spit into the sink, the sound loud in the small room.
I risk another glance at him in the mirror.
My brain supplies a vivid, unwelcome fantasy.
It’s a detailed, high-definition daydream of his mouth replacing my vibrator.
The thought hijacks my brain and makes my knees weak.
I need to get a grip. This is the man whose dick was a national news item and who’s now sleeping on my sofa bed as a PR stunt. The probability of my fantasy coming true is lower than the chance of the real messiah descending upon humankind.
Finn rinses and spits, catching my eye in the mirror. He’s not smiling. He saw something on my face, the flicker of the daydream.
Then he leans closer, his voice a low murmur. ‘For future reference: I’ve got a lot more settings than him – and much better angles.’