7. Ollie
Chapter 7
Ollie
Even with a bandage wrapped around her head, Mr Porter’s daughter is fucking stunning.
Hanging proudly on the wall of his office is a huge canvas of Megan in a bright pink hard hat, with a tool belt slung around her waist. She's got a hammer in one hand, a plastic pink drill in the other, and she can’t be more than six years old. I’ve never thought to ask how old she is now.
The way he speaks about her made me think she was a teenager who still lived at home. Turns out she’s a fully grown woman, and a hot one at that. And here I am, squashed up beside her in a beat-up van, wearing her dad’s old clothes. Thank fuck I showered.
When I pull up outside their house, he helps Megan out of the van while she insists she can manage on her own.Understandably, his priorities are no longer on the vent, and the gaping hole in my roof will have to wait for another day.
After sitting in the hospital car park all that time, I’m even colder than I was when I woke up this morning. I hope that loser has disappeared from outside my door because I’m desperate to get home to my bed and get warm.
I roll down my window and call out. “Hope she's OK, boss. I’ll see you Monday.”
“Absolutely not,” he says. “You said you’d stay for dinner, so you’re staying.”
“Honestly, it’s all good. You’ve got your daughter to look after now.”
Megan storms off into the house. Mr Porter stares at me through the open window, then jabs his thumb back over his shoulder. “Are you gonna go in there and tell my wife you’re not staying for dinner? Because I’m not. I’ll never hear the end of it.”
It’s pretty funny how quickly you can tell that Mrs Porter is the boss in their relationship, even though she seems like the sweetest woman on the planet. Right on cue, my stomach rumbles loudly. I’ve barely eaten today and a hot, home cooked meal would be amazing right now. I’m not stupid enough to protest. “OK. If you insist.”
“I do, but let’s get that vent fitted before we go in, or you’ll find the inside of the van covered in ice.”
He grabs the sealant, and we work quickly to finish the job, but the spark he had this morning has gone. His brow furrows, and he keeps looking back at the house.
I want to ask what happened to Megan, but it’s none of my business. On the drive here, he said something about me and him catching someone. I’d do a lot of things for Mr Porter, but I’m not sure how much help I’d be if he called for violence. I’ve never thrown a punch in my life.
“Perfect timing,” Mrs Porter says, poking her head out from the kitchen doorway when we venture inside. “I’ve just set the table.”
“Thank you, Mrs…” I pause when she fixes me with a hard stare. “Val. Thank you, Val. I just need to wash up.”
“You know where the bathroom is.”
I can feel myself warming up already in their home, the tread of the stairs now familiar as I climb them for the second time today. The moment I push the bathroom handle down, the door pulls inwards, and I find myself face to face with Megan.
Megan in a towel.
A towel that’s tucked tightly around her chest.
A towel it would be safe to assume she’s naked underneath.
Her hair is wrapped up in a smaller one, leaving an incredible amount of skin on show. Damp shoulders shimmer under the hallway light, her neck delicate and smooth. My gaze lands on a trio of freckles at the top of her right breast, before it’s drawn towards a drop of water trickling down until it disappears into her cleavage.
Beneath my trousers, my dick twitches, and I snap my eyes up to find a furious pout on her face.
“Did they send you to listen in on me showering?”
“I just came to wash my hands before dinner.” I wave them between us, as if she doesn’t understand what I’ve just said, which, to be fair, might have come out as jumbled garbage.
I’m not sure I know what words are right now, which goes to show just how long it’s been since I’ve had a semi-naked woman in front of me.
“Oh. OK. Mum said I wasn’t allowed to be alone. She threatened to sit in the bathroom with me.” Her expression softens, and she adjusts the towel on the top of her head, then sucks a sharp breath between her teeth.
“Are you OK?”
“I’m fine. It’s a bit sore. I didn’t fancy eating dinner with blood in my hair.”
Jesus. How did this woman end up with blood in her hair?
“Understandable. Your Mum said it’s ready. Sorry, I didn’t know you were in here.”
I’m blocking her path, so I step aside to let her out of the bathroom. She scoots past and disappears down the hallway while I lock the door and force myself not to look anywhere near her.
Looking is not an option. I’ve got a great job, with the best boss I could ask for. I will not repay his kindness by thinking about what’s underneath her towel, or how much I wanted to follow that drop of water with my tongue.
After washing up and composing myself, I hover in the kitchen doorway.
“Can I help with anything?”
“No love, you take a seat,” Mrs Porter says, carrying a dish to the dining table with gloved hands.
The table is set for two on each side, but there’s no sign which is for the guest and I’m here first. In my parent’s house, seats were chosen long before I was born, and I didn’t dare deviate from the plan unless I wanted a flick to the back of the ear from one of my big sisters.
“Go on, anywhere you like,” Mr Porter says, setting down a basket of bread rolls. I pull out the chair closest to me, with my back to the door, and tuck myself in under the table.
“You want a beer?” he asks.
“Sure, whatever you’re having.”
“Can I have a glass of wine, please?” Megan asks, appearing in the doorway behind me. I shift to one side and out of her way.
“Absolutely not, young lady. You’ve just suffered a very serious head injury, you will not risk more damage by drinking alcohol.”
“It’s a bump, Dad. I’m fine.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
As my boss, Mr Porter is one of those guys you can have a laugh with, but he’s firm and fair, and you know you wouldn’t get on the wrong side of him. As a father, he’s terrifying.
Megan rounds the table and slumps into the chair opposite me. I’m not sure whether it will be worse to look across at her, or sit by her side. At least she’s wearing more clothes now, and she looks right at home in her old tracksuit bottoms and a faded sweatshirt.
Which makes sense, because this is her home. Or was, I guess. I know nothing about her current situation, or how often she finds herself back here.
Mr Porter places a glass of water in front of Megan and a beer in front of me, but as soon as his back is turned, she reaches across the table, snatches the bottle up to her mouth, and takes a long pull. My eyes land on her pretty lips, wrapped around the rim of the bottle, then down to her throat, where it rolls as she swallows.
I stare at her, wide-eyed, and she just shrugs and hands it back to me.
“Don’t judge me,” she whispers, straightening up and letting out a heavy sigh. “It’s been a long day.”
This woman gets more and more interesting by the second.
Over a delicious dinner of lamb casserole, with roast potatoes and steamed vegetables, I stay quiet as Megan fills her parents in on exactly what happened to her. My fist tightens around my beer bottle when she describes how some little shit grabbed her and shoved her, splitting her head open on a metal door. Thank fuck a neighbour was there to help her. A knot twists in my stomach at the thought of her lying there bleeding and alone.
“And where was Hattie when all this was happening?” her mum asks.
“Oh, get this,” Mr Porter booms. “She's only gone and moved in with her boyfriend.”
“Has she really? Well, that’s exciting. You must text me her address so I can send a card and a house-warming gift.”
Her dad is clearly less thrilled. “You’ll be needing a new roommate, Megan. You’ll get lonely otherwise.”
Megan buries her head in her hands. “I can live on my own. Besides, I'm thirty-two, who would want to move in with me?”
“I don't like the thought of you living there alone, sweetheart. Do you want to move back home? Your room is always here for you.”
“God, no. Sorry. I'll be fine.”
Their concern is touching to witness, despite her insisting she's a grown woman who can handle herself. I can't imagine my own parents making such a fuss over me. Now and then, I catch her looking across the table at me. I’m sure she’s wondering what the fuck I’m doing here, and why she has to defend herself in front of a stranger.
After a pudding of apple crumble and custard, Megan licks her spoon clean, then takes her empty bowl to the kitchen. “I’m heading to bed.”
“You need to stay up sweetheart, we have to monitor you in case you have a concussion.”
“I’m allowed to sleep. Rob said you only need to worry if I can’t stay awake. I’m fine, just exhausted.” She rattles off the alphabet, though it takes me a few seconds to realise she’s singing it backwards. “See? Just as smart as always.”
Mr Porter fishes his phone out of his pocket. “I’m setting an alarm and I’ll check on you every two hours.”
“That's ridiculous,” she says with a huff, her mouth pulling into a tight pout as she regards me one last time. “Goodnight… everyone.”
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” her mum says.
“Love you, princess. Sleep tight.”
Oh yeah, the boss is showing all his soft sides today.
“Goodnight,” I add, standing to help Mrs Porter clear the table. She waves me off, then leans across the room to check Megan's out of earshot.
“You sit down, Ollie. Danny’s got something he wants to talk to you about.”