6. ARIES
6
ARIES
M y heart is thudding when I enter my bedroom. I close the door and lean against it, letting my head rock back.
Was that a step too far? Too suggestive? I’ve only just arrived. I really need to tone down my Aries-ness. But he was the one who dropped the underwear bomb into conversation. A sign of what was going through his mind... Surely?
Or maybe the man is just that awkward.
But he didn’t look awkward… a little bit surprised, maybe. But not embarrassed. In fact, there’s something so un-awkward about him that it doesn't fail to be reassuring. Like he could handle any situation. He’s… unflappable.
I take a deep breath. Even if the underwear thing was nothing more than thoughtlessness, or the verbal association of words… things you drop … the way my heart is still crashing against my sternum is enough to let me know there’s definitely something happening here. Even if it is wholly one-sided.
I have a crush on my boss.
Out of nowhere, my mother’s words pop into my mind. You don’t like men. You don’t trust them. And I realise it very suddenly. Not only do I find Mr Hawkston attractive, but there’s a depth to him that pulls me in. He feels… safe . Sturdy. Like he’s part of the building itself. Like there’s no chance he’s going to run away in the middle of the night and desert his home and kids. He’s a man you could lean on if you needed to, although he’d probably have to grant you permission first. He’s a tad frosty, and even though I don’t know him that well, my overwhelming gut instinct is that I like him. And I’m not entirely sure it’s a good thing.
My stomach rumbles, drawing my attention to more bodily concerns. I haven’t eaten anything since the popcorn I had during the movie, but I can’t go back downstairs. Not now . Not after the underwear comment. I hold my breath, listening for the sound of the lift that will take Mr Hawkston back downstairs, but it doesn’t come. Instead, I hear muffled footsteps pass my door.
He’s taking the stairs.
My stomach rumbles again. I’m not just hungry… I’m starving. Crap. I’ve also left my handbag in the cinema room.
Well, I’m not going downstairs again. Not when I could turn a corner and slam right into Mr Hawkston. And I already checked the kitchen up here. It’s empty. Mrs Minter left a note for me, saying I should make a shopping list and give it to the chef, but I haven’t got round to it yet.
I open my suitcase, which I still haven’t fully unpacked, and search the zip pockets. There I find a packet of Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers and a bar of tablet, that uniquely Scottish crumbly fudge.
I actually have three bars of tablet and some macaroon too, in all its coconutty sugariness… I’d bought extra as token Scottish gifts for the family, but now that I’ve seen a bit more of Mr Hawkston, I’m not sure he’s the kind of guy who’d eat a bar of tablet. He’s probably all lean chicken and steamed broccoli. Maybe protein shakes.
Anyway, it’s all I have, so I start with a Caramel Wafer, which I gobble in seconds, and then crack off a chunk of tablet. This food might be extremely calorific and nutrient deficient, but Mum always said food is only bad for us if we believe it is. So while I munch, I try to pretend I’m eating broccoli. Which fails, because not even I can imagine cruciferous vegetables when I’m eating this much sugar.
As it’s seeping into my bloodstream, I feel a pang of homesickness I haven’t felt yet. I take out my phone and check my messages. There’s one from Mum asking if everything’s all right. I reply that I am. Then, because it’s not enough, I type another message.
Me: Are you doing OK?
Mum: Stop worrying about me. Enjoy yourself. Enjoy London. I’ll see you in a couple of months. Not long. I’m always here if you want to speak.
I sigh. It’s true that it’s not long, but mum’s cancer is terminal. Terminal, but she could live another five years. But she also might not. Uncertainty screws my insides up like a used tissue. She won’t always be there if I want to speak.
I go to put the phone down when another message pops up from an unknown number.
You should save my number. ICE .
I read it again. ICE? What kind of sign off is that?
Another message pops up.
It’s Mr Hawkston.
Ah, that explains it. My fingers type faster than I can think and I send:
Me: Oh. Cool. ICE cool.
His reply comes quickly.
Mr Hawkston: Not cool. ICE: In Case of Emergency.
Me: Oh. Now I feel like an idiot.
Mr Hawkston: That wasn’t my intention.
I save his number and put the phone down, noting that my fingertips are all zingy and there’s energy buzzing around my body at the idea that he’s downstairs sending me messages. Sitting in my bedroom on a sugar high, messaging the world’s hottest boss, is not a good situation to be in if it gets me giddy like this. Especially not when the content of the messages is purely practical.
I’ll have to behave. Stop making suggestive comments and staring at him like I want to lick him. I need to keep this job. I can’t go back to Scotland with my tail between my legs because Mr Hawkston fires me on account of our weird dynamic.
And it is weird. I don’t even know what it is, but bizarrely, it feels more enticing than anything else I’ve ever felt. Being near him makes me feel hyper-alert in the best way, as if something exciting could happen at any moment.
Maybe it’s all in my head. I haven’t got laid for six months. Not since my Friday night sex arrangement with Andy, the guy I met at the local fish and chip shop, came to an end. My hormones are doing a double-trot and my body’s about ready to jump in the sack.
Maybe I’ll get on the dating scene in London while I’m here. That’s definitely safer than nursing a crush on Mr Hawkston. I make a mental note to check with Mrs Minter about dating. I assume there’s no bringing anyone back to the house, but the alternative would be to go to their place.
Ugh. No. I couldn’t do that unless I knew them really well, and that would take weeks. Not that I don’t have weeks, but it doesn’t sort the itch.
Mr Hawkston is suddenly looking like the only viable option.
I laugh at the idea as I head to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I need to shower and brush my teeth. I just ate more than my daily allowance of sugar for dinner.
The kiss is rough and all consuming, and so real I can feel his tongue against my own, as well as the scrape of his stubble against my chin.
Somewhere, deeper than the consciousness of the dream, I know it’s not real. But right now, Mr Hawkston is kissing me and I’m enjoying every second.
A strange noise erupts, but I can’t make sense of it. I try to hold onto Mr Hawkston, but he disintegrates and fades away like dust in the breeze.
The noise repeats, dragging me from the dream.
I blink awake. My room is dark, and the clock on my bedside table says 2.33 am.
A small, shadowy figure stands at the side of my bed. Blearily, I sit up, trying to make sense of what’s going on. “Lucie?”
She’s sobbing and rubbing at one eye. She’s still in her clothes from the day before.
“What’s wrong, honey?”
She doesn’t answer, but keeps crying. I reach out to pull her into a hug, but my hand hits damp fabric.
It takes a moment to register.
She’s wet herself. No wonder. I can’t even remember when she last went for a wee before we sat down to watch the movie yesterday.
I sit up and swing my legs out of bed. “Oh, honey, it’s okay. Let’s clean you up. We need new pyjamas. Can we go to your room?”
I take her hand and we potter along to her room. Thankfully, there’s the orange glow of a night-light which is enough to see by. I strip the wet clothes off her and find some dry pyjamas in the chest of drawers before helping her to the bathroom. I don’t want to run a bath or shower at this time of night, so I do what I can with a sponge and towel, and help her into the fresh clothes.
We go back to the bedroom, and I run a hand over her bed.
It’s soaking.
Shit . I start pulling off the sheets. Luckily, there’s a plastic mattress protector on the bed. Maybe this isn’t such a rare occurrence.
“Do you know where the clean sheets are?” I ask her, straining to keep my voice calm. It’s not Lucie’s fault that I feel out of my depth, but a mild sense of panic is bubbling in my gut. I’m not prepared for bed-wetting. This is only my second night on the job, and dealing with this is like sitting an exam without revising beforehand.
Lucie’s still half-asleep, but she manages to shake her head. I run through my options. I can search the house for sheets, but I don’t know how long it will take, and I don’t want to keep Lucie up too long in the middle of the night. I could take her to my room and let her sleep in my bed, but I’m not sure how Mr Hawkston would feel about that. I could put her in one of the many other bedrooms, but that doesn’t seem like a good idea.
I could take her to her dad’s bedroom.
No. That’s the worst idea yet.
Lucie begins to wail again. “I want Daddy.”
Oh, crap.
“Daddy’s sleeping, honey. You can sleep in my bed.”
The wailing gets louder. If this continues, she’ll wake him up anyway.
I crouch down and put my hand on her shoulder and a finger of the other hand on my lips. “Shhh. It’s nighttime. Everyone’s sleeping.”
She opens her mouth so wide I can see her tonsils, and the noise that’s about to erupt will wake the dead, I’m sure of it.
I hoist her up into my arms, and the scream she was about to release never materialises. Instead, she tucks her legs around my hips. “Okay. Let’s go find him,” I whisper, stroking a hand down her back.
The tension in her body dissolves, and her head rests against my shoulder as I take the stairs. The lift at this time of night seems excessive and disruptive.
I remember where Mr Hawkston’s suite is from the tour of the house Lucie gave me when I arrived. When we reach his room, I knock on the door.
No response.
“He’s sleeping,” I say.
“Mm. Want Daddy,” she mumbles.
This is a really bad idea. Maybe if I wait long enough, she’ll fall asleep in my arms and I can put her in my bed. I could sleep on the floor. Problem solved.
“I want to sleep in the big bed with Daddy,” she says before she peels her head off my shoulder and looks at me with huge eyes that are way too wide awake for this time of night.
Okay. The big bed. That sounds like somewhere she’s familiar with. Maybe this is something that happens a lot. Divorce can be unsettling for a young kid. Maybe she sleeps with her dad sometimes.
But neither Mrs Minter nor Mr Hawkston mentioned it. But then they didn’t mention bed-wetting either. I curse them both under my breath.
“No. Sorry, honey. He’s asleep. It’s too late. You can sleep in my bed.”
I back away from the door and as I do, Lucie lets out the most almighty scream. It’s blood-curdling. She sounds like she’s being murdered.
No . She sounds like I’m murdering her.
The door to Mr Hawkston’s room flies open, and he’s standing there in nothing but his boxers. I don’t know how he got out of bed so fast.
His muscular chest is on full display, and his hair is unruly around his face like someone just had their hands in it. The picture is way too intimate, and I half expect a woman to follow him out of the room.
Guilt spikes as I realise I’m gawking at him while his face is contorted with panic. “What’s wrong?” he asks.
Lucie reaches out to him. “Daddy.”
“She wet the bed,” I explain.
His features smooth over and he audibly exhales. His palms graze my forearms as he takes the tiny girl from my grip, and his touch sends goosebumps spreading over my skin so fast I almost gasp.
Lucie clings tight to him. I can only imagine how safe and comforting it must feel to be held like that.
“Did you change the sheets?” he asks.
“No. I stripped the bed, but I didn’t know where to find fresh sheets. If you tell me, I’ll do it now.”
“I don’t know where they are.”
“You don’t know?”
He bristles, and I realise too late that there’s more judgment in my tone than I intended.
“I don’t do the laundry,” he hisses, looking pissed off that he’s resorted to defending himself. “I don’t know where they are. Mrs Minter ought to have shown you.”
“She didn’t.”
He mutters under his breath. “Fine. Leave it for now and sort it tomorrow.”
“I want to sleep in the big bed,” Lucie says.
Just how big is this big bed? Is it big to a little kid, or would I think it was big?
“Sure thing, sweetheart,” he says. “Just for tonight, okay?”
She nods against his chest and over the top of her head he shoots me a look which is somewhere between a ‘ thanks ’ and a ‘ get out of here before you piss me off any more .’
The door closes, leaving me alone in the hall with a sensation that’s beginning to feel all too familiar: I fucked up.