Chapter 6
Chloe
The flat is silent in the specific, judgmental way that only happens after midnight. Not peaceful. Not calm. Just quietly accusatory.
I drop my keys into the bowl by the door and stand there for a second too long, bag still on my shoulder, heart still doing an impression of a malfunctioning appliance.
My body has not caught up with the decision my mouth made earlier.
My brain is sprinting laps. My dignity is somewhere between the restaurant and the car park, possibly hiding behind a wheelie bin.
“Do not,” I tell myself. “Absolutely do not unpack this right now.”
I kick off my shoes with way too much élan.
Hadrian is under his heat lamp, immobile and smug. He opens one eye. Closes it again. The betrayal is immediate.
“Oh, so you’re alive,” I say. “Good to know.”
Hadrian does not respond. This is consistent with his brand.
I dump my bag on the sofa and head for the kitchen, because if there is one thing I know about myself, it is that emotional regulation pairs beautifully with vodka. I pour a measure that is not strictly speaking a measure and carry the glass and the bottle back to the living room.
I take a sip before dropping onto the sofa beside the vivarium.
“He is not my type,” I inform Hadrian. “At all.”
Hadrian’s tail twitches. Possibly because the lamp has shifted. Possibly because he enjoys drama.
“He’s infuriating,” I continue. “Bossy. Stubborn. Too competent. He alphabetises things for fun.”
Hadrian remains unmoved.
“And I am,” I say, gesturing vaguely at myself, “chaos. Opinionated. Deeply allergic to being told what to do. We are not a match. We are a cautionary tale.”
I get up and pace. Once. Twice. Sit. Immediately stand again. My skin feels too tight for my body.
“He plans things,” I say. “Properly. In advance. He has systems.”
Hadrian blinks.
“I once lost my passport inside my freezer,” I remind him. “For two weeks.”
I drop back onto the sofa. The cushions sigh like they’ve been waiting for this.
“This does not make sense,” I tell the ceiling. “We are cats and dogs. Oil and water. Beige kitchens and… me.”
The flat smells faintly of clean laundry and tea and the perfume I put on this morning with absolutely no intention of seduction.
Lies.
I press my palms to my eyes and breathe.
My chest does something irritating. Heavy. Warm. Unhelpful.
“That,” I say through my fingers, “is not attraction. That is adrenaline.”
Hadrian shifts one foot.
“And possibly,” I add, “gratitude. He fed me. That is not romance. That is hospitality.”
Hadrian’s tongue flicks out once, entirely neutral.
“Stop judging me,” I mutter.
I take another shot of vodka. It burns less this time, which feels like a warning. I refill the glass anyway, marginally more responsibly. Growth.
“I do not like him,” I say firmly. “I am simply reacting to competence and kindness like a stray cat who’s been given a warm box.”
Hadrian stares straight ahead.
I lean back and let the what-ifs try to creep in. I shove them away with the heel of my hand.
“This does not get to be a thing,” I tell the room. “I do not do things.”
Hadrian finally moves, crawling a few inches closer to the glass, peering out at me with mild curiosity.
“Exactly.”
I smile despite myself. Small. Crooked. More tired than amused.
“I’m fine,” I say quietly. “I am absolutely fine.”
Hadrian settles back under his lamp, content, untroubled, already over it.
I sit there a while longer, vodka forgotten, heart slowing at last.
Tomorrow, I will be sensible. Normal. Entirely convinced that men like Tom and women like me exist happily in separate ecosystems.
Tonight, I allow myself one last thought before I switch off the light.
Cats and dogs can’t work.
Unless, of course, the cat is bored.
And the dog is very patient.
I press my forehead briefly against the cool vodka bottle.
“Or,” I say slowly, “and hear me out here, this could be hormones.”
Hadrian opens one eye. The audacity.
“I am forty-five,” I tell him. “Which means I am technically peri-menopausal, well more than technically… actually peri menopausal is probably closer to reality even if I have been aggressively ignoring that fact like it’s a parking ticket.”
He does not care.
“And perhaps,” I say, warming to the theory, “the sudden urge to argue with a chef and then kiss him like he returned from a one year expedition through the arctic is not a personality flaw but a temporary chemical event.”
I nod. This is compelling.
“Hot flushes. Mood swings. Raging libido. It’s all very on brand,” I mutter. “The NHS leaflet probably says ‘heightened feelings’ when what they mean is ‘may temporarily lose the plot over a man with forearms’.”
Hadrian blinks.
“Do not look at me like that,” I say. “This is science.”
I sink back onto the sofa, the fight finally easing out of me.
“This does not define me,” I say more gently. “It does not rewrite who I am.”
Hadrian sleeps.
“But,” I add, “it might explain a few things.”
Tomorrow, I will be sensible. Fully clothed in both body and boundaries.
Tonight, I will sleep.
And let my hormones calm the hell down.
After that, we’ll see.
Morning arrives without apology.
The newsroom lights hum with the confidence of something that has never been hungover in its life. My head feels too tight for my skull and my mouth tastes like regret with a citrus note.
I drop into my chair and stare at my screen like it might take pity on me.
Ava looks up from her proofing, pauses, closes her laptop and then looks at me again. She doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches. Which is worse.
“Morning," I groak.
AJ swivels in his chair immediately. “That’s not just tired. That’s choices.”
“I hate both of you,” I mutter, blinking hard and reaching for my coffee like it’s medicinal.
Ava hesitates, then adds, gently, “You smell a bit like… regret.”
I turn slowly. “Excuse me.”
She winces. “Faintly. Like citrus.”
AJ grins. “Vodka.”
“I conducted a thorough investigation,” I say. “The vodka was unreasonable.”
Ava gives me a small, sympathetic smile. “Rough night.”
“No,” I say quickly. “Productive.”
She nods like a woman humouring a toddler. “Of course it was.”
We grab our laptops and head to the conference room for the end-of-week meeting. The last thing I need with my hangover is a group of journalists arguing over prime space in the Sunday edition.
Marie-Louise demands attention in her usual way and the room rearranges itself into something resembling professionalism. Chairs scrape. Laptops open. Someone sighs like the concept of our meeting has personally wronged them. I cradle my coffee and will my skull to stop vibrating.
“All right,” says. “What has next week in store for us.”
The meeting rolls on in its usual rhythm. Deadlines. Column inches. A brief skirmish over photos. I nod where required, sip coffee that tastes faintly of punishment, and make a concerted effort not to think about stainless steel counters or a very talented cock… cook.
Then Marie-Louise looks at me.
“Chloe,” she says. “How did it go at La Cucina di Rosa.”
I straighten automatically. Professional posture. Neutral expression. I have rehearsed this answer. It is concise. Balanced. Entirely normal.
“It was… thorough,” I begin.
Ava’s pen stills.
“Thorough,” Marie-Louise repeats.
“Yes,” I say, nodding a fraction too much. “I spent the evening with the team. Observed service. Prep. Processes.”
“Processes,” AJ murmurs. “That sounds intense.”
I ignore him. “There’s a strong emphasis on technique. Intentionality. Everything is very… deliberate.”
Marie-Louise watches me carefully. “And the food.”
“The food,” I say. “Is… well structured.”
Ava’s eyebrows rise before she can stop them.
“Structured?” Marie-Louise asks.
“Yes,” I continue, my words drifting sideways despite my best efforts. “Layered. Balanced. Thoughtful. The sauces are… not watery.”
AJ snorts.
I wince. “In context.”
“In context,” Marie-Louise repeats.
“Yes,” I say. “With appropriate… restraint.”
Ava bites her lip hard enough to leave an imprint.
Marie-Louise folds her hands. “Do you have what you need for the feature?”
“Yes,” I say far too quickly. “Absolutely. More than enough. It was very illuminating.”
“Good,” she says. “And the restaurateur.”
“He is,” I begin, then stop because that sentence has no safe ending. “Passionate.”
“Passionate,” Marie-Louise repeats, unreadable.
“About food,” I add swiftly. “And standards.”
AJ tilts his head. “He sounds… committed.”
I cough. “That is one word for it.”
Marie-Louise holds my gaze for a beat longer than comfortable. “Any issues we need to be aware of?”
“No,” I say. “None. Everything was entirely as planned.”
Marie-Louise’s mouth twitches, just slightly. “All right. I look forward to reading it.”
She pauses, glances down at her notes, then looks back up at me.
“I’ll need the feature by this evening,” she adds. “I want it to run on Sunday.”
There it is. The kill shot.
I stare at her. “This evening.”
“Yes.”
“That’s… ambitious,” I say carefully.
She raises an eyebrow. “You’ve had full access.”
“I’ve had,” I say, “a very immersive experience.”
“So I gather,” she replies smoothly. “You’re one of our strongest writers. You can manage it.”
I open my mouth to argue. Close it again. Nod once, because this is not the hill to die on, especially not with witnesses.
“Of course,” I say. “This evening.”
“Good,” Marie-Louise says, already moving on. “That’s it for today everyone.”
Chairs scrape. People stand. The room dissolves into movement and low chatter. I remain seated for half a second too long, recalibrating my life.
Ava is at my side almost immediately, quiet but intent. AJ joins her with the enthusiasm of a man who smells chaos.
“Why,” AJ says, “are you being weird?”
“I’m not,” I reply, standing up and gathering my notebook with unnecessary force.
“You said passionate very weird,” he says. “Like there is more.”
Ava tilts her head. “You also didn’t breathe for about three minutes.”
“I was conserving energy,” I say. “For writing.”
AJ grins. “Something happened.”
“Nothing happened,” I say, too quickly.
Ava’s mouth tightens. “Something happened.”
I look around. Marie-Louise is already deep in conversation. The newsroom hums. No one is paying us the slightest attention.
I gesture sharply. “Corner. Now.”
We huddle near the filing cabinets like conspirators in a low-budget thriller.
I inhale. Exhale. Then, apparently deciding chaos is my brand today, I say, “I slept with him.”
AJ’s face lights up like Christmas. “YES.”
Ava freezes. “Chloe.”
“It was a mistake,” I say immediately. “A catastrophic, hormonally influenced lapse in judgement.”
AJ claps a hand over his mouth. “You slept with the angry chef.”
“Lower your voice,” I hiss.
Ava closes her eyes briefly. “You slept with the man you have only ever argued with… fiercely.”
“I am aware of how ridiculous this is,” I snap.
AJ leans in. “Was it good?”
“Not the point.”
“So yes.”
Ava opens her eyes again, all calm and reason. “You said you can’t stand each other.”
“Yeah, well,” I whisper-shout, “apparently mutual irritation paired with competent forearms is my kryptonite.”
“Chloe!” Ava exclaims.
AJ makes a delighted, deeply unhelpful noise.
“I hate both of you,” I mutter.
AJ nudges my arm. “So. Enemies to lovers.”
“Shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” he adds cheerfully, “my ex was obsessed with that trope. She couldn’t get enough of it.”
“This is real life, not a book,” Ava protests.
“Exactly,” I say, seizing the point like a lifeline. “We are done. We agreed. No more.”
I make a vague hand gesture that could mean sex is over or assembling flat-pack furniture, depending on your optimism.
AJ raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”
Ava studies me for a long second. “That gesture doesn’t mean anything.”
“It means,” I say firmly, “that I am a grown woman making sensible decisions.”
They both look at me.
Then at each other.
Then back at me.
AJ grins. “Text us when you change your mind.”
“I am not changing my mind,” I say, already knowing this will age badly.
Ava sighs. “Just… try not to burn your life down.”
“I am not burning anything down,” I snap, straightening my jacket. “I am calmly walking away.”
I take one step.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t look at it.
AJ’s grin widens. “Is that him?”
I glare at the floor. At the ceiling. At the concept of consequences.
“Absolutely not,” I say.
The buzzing stops.
I exhale, relieved.
"Definitely not him," I mumble.
Five seconds later, my phone buzzes again.
I close my eyes.
“Don’t,” Ava warns.
“I’m not,” I lie.
And then, because I am nothing if not predictable, I check it anyway.
Just before remembering he doesn’t have my fucking number. So, unless he’s psychic, it can’t be him.
Why the fuck am I disappointed about that?