Chapter 12 #3
Heath is asleep in his beanie like a pensioner after Sunday roast, and I am sitting cross-legged on Mark’s patio eating fish and chips out of paper while trying not to think about the fact that I have now had sex twice in less than twenty-four hours with a man I met in a pub.
Actually, no.
That’s a lie.
I am thinking about it constantly.
The smugness is difficult to suppress.
The afternoon sun has taken the edge off the sea breeze, turning everything gold at the edges.
Mark sits opposite me in a faded black T-shirt and jeans, leaning back with one ankle hooked over his knee, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who has thoroughly rearranged my internal organs before lunch.
I stab a chip into tartare sauce.
“This is all your fault.”
Mark glances up from his food.
“What is?”
I gesture vaguely between us.
“This weekend.”
He raises one eyebrow.
“I’m fairly sure you were there.”
“Physically, yes. Emotionally I feel underprepared.”
The corner of his mouth lifts.
I take another bite before he can reply and glance over to the patio doors.
Heath’s cage is just inside, near the open doorway where the sun spills across the floorboards.
He is curled inside the beanie, only one tiny paw visible.
I fight a smile and lose.
“I thought a bit of daylight might do him good.”
Mark follows my gaze.
“He’s asleep.”
“He’s nocturnal. That doesn’t mean he can’t absorb ambience.”
Mark snorts softly.
“Absorb ambience.”
“Yes.”
I point a chip at him.
“He has had a stressful forty-eight hours. We are creating a healing coastal retreat.”
“We?”
“Don’t undermine the programme.”
Mark shakes his head, smiling into his food.
It still catches me off guard, how easy this has become.
How natural it feels to sit here barefoot in the weak spring sun, stealing chips off his tray, talking nonsense about a traumatised hamster like this is something we do.
Dangerous.
Very dangerous.
I decide not to examine that and reach for another chip.
That is when the shadow moves.
At first it is only a flicker over the patio stones.
Then a violent rush of wings.
A seagull drops onto the threshold with the confidence of an armed robber.
I yelp.
The bird lets out a harsh cry and lunges towards the open paper wrappers.
Inside the cage Heath bolts upright.
Then all hell breaks loose.
He launches into the side bars so hard the cage rattles.
“Oh my God—”
I’m on my feet so fast I nearly send the chair over backwards.
The seagull flaps again, enormous and furious and far too close to the cage.
“Heath!”
Mark moves before I do.
One second he is in his chair, the next he is across the patio.
He snatches one of the paper wrappers and slams it towards the seagull with a sharp shout.
The bird jerks back, offended, then takes off in a storm of wings and noise.
Mark is already through the doorway.
He crouches by the cage and drops his voice immediately.
“Easy,” he says. “Easy.”
Heath is ricocheting inside like a tiny furry pinball.
I am beside Mark now, heart hammering far harder than seems reasonable for a bird incident.
“Oh God, he’s terrified.”
Mark unlatches the cage with calm, efficient movements.
“He’s alright.”
“He nearly had a cardiac event.”
“Philip.”
His voice cuts through the panic.
Low.
Steady.
I stop moving.
Mark reaches in slowly, lifts the beanie first, then scoops Heath into it so the little idiot has somewhere dark to burrow.
Heath vanishes into the wool almost instantly, trembling.
Mark cups the bundled beanie in one hand against his chest and strokes one finger lightly over the top.
“There,” he murmurs. “You’re alright.”
I stare.
At Heath.
At Mark.
At the absurd gentleness of a heavily tattooed ex-army engineer murmuring reassurance to a traumatised hamster in a woolly hat.
My own breathing is still somewhere near sprint level.
Mark glances sideways at me.
“He’s fine.”
I let out a breath that comes shakier than I’d like.
“That thing looked like it wanted to eat him.”
“It wanted chips.”
“It looked open to both.”
That gets the smallest huff of laughter out of him.
Only then do I realise Mark’s free hand is resting against the back of my neck.
Warm.
Steady.
His thumb moves once.
Just once.
Without comment.
The adrenaline rush ebbs enough for me to become embarrassingly aware that I am leaning into it.
I clear my throat.
“Heath,” I say gravely to the beanie, “I apologise. The wellness retreat has suffered a minor predatory interruption.”
Mark chuckles and shakes his head.
Heath remains hidden.
Reasonable.
I glance at the patio door where the seagull had been and shudder.
“I nearly watched a murder over cod.”
Mark’s mouth twitches.
“He survived.”
I look at the beanie tucked safely against his chest, Heath hidden somewhere inside it.
Then at Mark.
And there it is again.
That same stupid, dangerous certainty that has been stalking me all day.
Safe.
He feels safe.
Which is not at all the kind of thought one should be having about a man with an expiry date attached.
I decide immediately to ignore that.
With the same success rate as all my other excellent decisions this weekend.