13. Ollie
Chapter 13
Ollie
I’m on the sofa, tucking into another serving of Mrs Porter’s frankly god-tier lasagna when Megan finally appears, looking more than a little sheepish.
“Please don’t tell my dad about the lock,” she says quietly.
“I wasn't planning on it, but I'm curious about why you don't want me to?”
“Do you think he’d ever let me live it down if he found out his daughter fit a lock on the wrong side of the door? He’d die of builder shame.”
I lean back against the plush cushions, trying not to laugh. “He would. Especially if he found out you didn’t even get the right type.”
“What do you mean?”
“You got the kind that’s like a bathroom lock,” I tell her. “You’d only be able to lock it if you were in the room. If you want to keep people out, you need one with a key.”
She buries her face in her hands, barely able to catch her breath as laughter, a beautiful sound, pours freely from her chest. “Oh my gosh, that is so embarrassing. I really am that stupid.”
I haven’t seen this side of Megan yet, the relaxed, playful side. Fitting a lock on her door isn’t the best start to our situation, but if I can make her laugh like this every now and then, there’s a chance living together won’t be so bad.
“Do you want me to fit one? I’m happy to, if it will make you feel more comfortable.”
She inhales deeply, then releases her breath slowly as she pulls out the seat across from me and sits down. “Do you promise you won’t steal my underwear and sell it on the internet?”
That’s what she’s worried about?
“What the fuck? No! Why would I do that?”
“There’s good money in used underwear. Apparently. According to my friend.”
“I promise I won’t steal your underwear and sell it on the internet.”
Though I am now, through absolutely no fault of my own, wondering what her underwear looks like. What she’d look like filling it out, and then what she’d look like taking it off.
I need a distraction, fast, and pick up the jar sitting in the middle of the table. It's surrounded by rocks and dried flowers and other bits of crap. Normally I'd have tossed it, but something tells me it means something to Megan.
“What's this?” I ask, turning it over in my hands.
She sighs wistfully, staring down at her lap. “It’s my happy things jar.”
“Should I be concerned that it's empty?” I laugh, and she snaps her head up and glares at me.
“No, I only started it on New Year’s Day. I'm supposed to write one happy thing every day and put it in the jar, but obviously I’ve been a bit preoccupied.”
“Why?” The look she gives me tells me that was a stupid question.
“Well, you know, Hattie moving out, the break-in, you moving in.”
“No, I mean, why are you supposed to write one happy thing every day?”
Megan props her elbows on the table, rests her chin in her palms.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she sighs. “I saw it online and thought it was a cute idea. At the end of the year, you open it and look back on all the good things that happened.”
“That's actually really nice. I like that more than the burning purge my old roommates did in the garden.”
That raises another one of her pretty smiles. “Were they awful? Dad said they were awful.”
“Yeah. He didn’t know the half of it.” I'd rather not think about it ever again, to be honest. Megan doesn’t push it, going quiet on me again. “Well, I have one happy thing for you.”
“Yeah?”
I return the jar to the middle of the table. “There’s one more portion of lasagna with your name on it, but I’m pretty hooked on it now, so if you don’t hurry up and eat it, I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”
“Yeah,” she says, heading for the kitchen. “Mum’s lasagna is like crack. I’d fight you for it, and you’d lose.”
I only take the tiniest peek at her bum as she goes.
“There’s enough for two portions here,” she calls out as I finish the last of my meal. “Do you want seconds?”
“Sure.”
She comes back to collect my plate and our fingers brush lightly as she takes it from my hand.
This is good progress, Megan and I, sitting next to each other, sharing a meal. I think we’ll be OK, as long as I can keep my dick in check and remember whose daughter it is I’m living with.
I’ve landed on my feet here, and I’d be the stupidest man on the planet to fuck this up. Megan’s place has more than enough space for two people. It’s clean and tidy, and the shared bathroom has a working shower and actual toilet paper. Multiple rolls.
“We should talk about what you need from me for bills and stuff. Your dad didn’t go over any of that.”
“OK,” she nods, setting her fork down. “Well, there’s no rent, because Dad owns the place—”
“I appreciate that, but I’m no freeloader,” I interrupt. She already suspects I’m some sort of criminal or pantie-sniffing creep, I don’t need her thinking I’m taking advantage of her financially, too. “If you want me to pay rent, then I will.”
“No, it’s fine. The bills are all in my name, Hattie and I always put an equal share into an account to cover them. Whenever there’s a surplus, we treat ourselves to a spa day or something, but I can just give you your half back.”
“I can get down with a spa day.”
Her back stiffens, eyebrows arching, then nudging together. “You?”
“Yeah, why not.”
“You don’t seem like the spa type.”
While I never excelled at any of the sports my father tried to push me into, I made good use of the swimming pool, sauna and steam rooms at the club they are members of. I haven't used my pass since I moved out, though knowing him, I've probably been blocked on the system, anyway.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re all rugged and…” I lean back, keen to see where this is going, but her shyness gets the better of her. “My dad would never go to a spa.”
“Well, I’m not your dad.”
Thank fuck, or it would be even more inappropriate that I’m now picturing her in a bikini in a steam room, or laying down on a table getting massaged, slicked up hands sliding over her bare skin, thumbs pressing in at the base of her spine, fingertips ghosting the side of her tits while I slide up her ribcage.
Cool it, Ollie.
I don’t know what’s come over me. I had female housemates at the last place and, sure, none of them looked nearly like Megan, but I’m not normally this much of a perv.
I clear my throat. “What about groceries? Household stuff.”
“Hattie and I used to split that too, and take turns making dinner. We don’t have to do that.”
“I don’t mind cooking for us both.”
“I think,” she continues, her gaze falling back to the table. “We should just keep our food and cooking separate, but it makes sense to share things like coffee and milk and sugar. It’s handy having the supermarket downstairs if we run out of anything. There’s a whiteboard on the fridge. We have, sorry, we had a system where we write up anything we’ve run out of so one of us can pick it up next time we shop.”
“Sounds good to me.” I’m sure there’ll be a bit of time figuring things out, but her way seems fair.
“I have a few house rules I wanted to talk to you about, if that’s OK?”
“Sure,” I shrug.
“Um, well, please don’t smoke in the house.”
“I don’t smoke.”
“Or let guests smoke in the house.”
“I won’t have people over.”
“OK. Please make sure the door is locked properly behind you when you go out. Sometimes it sticks and doesn’t fully close.”
“No problem, and I’ll fix that.”
She looks surprised, clearly forgetting who it is she’s living with now. I can’t stand letting little broken things go when they’re usually so simple to sort out.
“I know it's a pain only having one bathroom, but there’s plenty of water for two. I have to leave for work by eight at the latest, so I shower around seven.”
I know she means two people taking showers, not showering together, but the image has my jeans feeling tighter.
Do not think about her naked and wet. Do not think about her naked and wet.
“That’s fine. I’m gone by then, and I prefer to shower when I get in from work. I’m sure we can fit around each other.”
“In the evenings I have to do a lot of marking, so please don’t play music too loudly.”
“OK.”
“Or video games.”
Jesus, this really is going to be like living with my sisters again, tiptoeing around so I don’t get in their way or disturb them.
I fold my arms across my chest. “Anything else?”
“I guess just, please clean up after yourself, do your dishes, wipe down the counters, no shoes on the carpet, neaten up the sofa cushions before you go to bed. The usual.”
This is common courtesy stuff that I have no problem with, but it still pisses me off being spoken to like a child.
“You have a lot of rules.”
“I’m a teacher,” she shrugs. “We love rules.”
“You know I'm not a fifteen-year-old boy, though, right?”
“You can't be much older than that,” she says, peeking at me over the top of her glass of water. I refuse to look away first, and a pretty blush creeps into her cheeks.
“Go on.”
“What?”
“I can tell you're itching to ask how old I am.”
She rolls her eyes. “Fine, how old are you?”
“Twenty-three.”
“See, a baby,” she laughs.
“Oh, fuck off.” Megan giggles behind her hand while I scramble to come to terms with the rapid realisation that I don’t want Megan to see me like a kid. At the very least I want us to treat each other as equals, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t part of me that hopes she’d see me as something more.
“And how old are you? If you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m thirty-two.”
“Wow, ancient.” I intend for it to come across sarcastically, but Megan gasps, her head snapping back, and I know I’ve fucked up. “I’m sorry, I’m kidding. You’re not old.”
She’s barely started on her dinner, but she stands, taking her plate with her as she heads to her room. Just as I thought we were getting somewhere.