Page 12 of (Not) The One
‘A woman who’d risk being charged with breaking and entering wouldn’t be afraid of a little sting.’
‘Shows what you know.’
He doesn’t answer but pulls out a kitchen chair with a flourish, indicating I should take a seat.
‘Did you go to the same school of bullying as my grandmother?’ I fold my arms and stay where I am. ‘It never worked for her, either.’ Actually, I used to cry quite a bit as a child. Especially when I was visiting that vicious old bat.
The child should never need the lavatory,she’d complain volubly,because she’s always crying.
It took me years to work out what she meant. It’s not like I could help having a very fine emotional trigger. It took me years to learn not to cry at the smallest thing. And you know what makes a child cry harder? Being made to feel like an idiot for crying.
‘I suppose you could just wait for the scratch to get infected, your knee to become inflamed, your body to be overcome by a fever, and for your leg to eventually fall off. That’s one way to treat it, I suppose.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Whisky?’
‘I’m not sure that kind of alcohol is supposed to be applied topically.’
‘I meant to drink. You said you needed cheering up.’
‘No, I didn’t,’ I retort, my brows pulling in.
‘Maybe I should try novelty underwear.’ He suddenly drops quite heavily to the chair he’d pulled out for me. ‘Do they usually do the trick?’
‘God.’ I cover my face with my hands. ‘Can we stop talking about my choice of underwear? They’re not called unmentionables for nothing, you know.’
‘That was a serious question, actually. If they cheer you up, I might give them a shot.’ He stretches out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles, then folds his hands behind his head like the picture of masculine ease and confidence. Somehow, I can’t see him in Care Bear undies. ‘And whether you’re happy or not, I could do with a drink after the evening I’ve had.’
‘Look, I said I was sorry. It’s not like I planned to get stuck there.’
‘Your appearance was an improvement on the evening. It’s not every day I come home to find a beautiful girl trapped in my kitchen.’ He sits forward quite suddenly and rubs a hand down his face as though to stifle a sigh. ‘I could do with a drink and some company. Your earlier predicament is the only reason I haven’t already hit the bottle.’
‘I can’t offer you a drink.’ I shrug lightly. ‘This isn’t my house.’
‘The truth always comes out,’ he answers quite slyly. ‘Just as I thought.’
‘What? That I’m squatting? Just because it’s not my house doesn’t mean I don’t live here. I told you, I’m the cat-sitter,’ I add with a shrug. A shrug to cover my discomfort in front of this incredibly sexy man. ‘So I can’t offer you a drink. Sorry.’
‘Got it.’ He rubs his hands down his thighs and back again, the movement almost hypnotic. ‘I see what you mean.’ He jumps to his feet, and I’m immediately, and maybe inexplicably, a little frantic. This is it—he’s going to leave, and we’ll never meet again. Is this a chance I should be taking? The perfect rebound? In a heartbeat, he’s at the back door. ‘I’ll go home and grab a bottle,’ he says as he turns back, his gaze falling over me in an appraisal that’s anything but cool. ‘I’d suggest it might give you a few moments to slip into something a little more comfortable, but...’
My gaze flicks down my bare legs.
Ah, hell.
4
Miranda
I can’t believeI’m currently rummaging through my suitcase, looking for something suitable to wear for a drink with a stranger. A stranger in a stranger’s house, no less.
Actually, that’s not right. I can’t believe I’ve just been talking to a stranger while wearing little more than my underwear.
‘I must be losing my marbles,’ I mumble, gingerly pushing my legs into a pair of yoga pants that have been discarded on an armchair next to the very Victorian looking fireplace. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging in the middle of the wardrobe, this room having last been decorated sometime back in the ’70s, by the looks of things. ‘I can’t wear a work shirt and yoga pants.’ Separate, each item is perfectly functional. Together, they make me look like I have issues dressing. But why I care is a subject I don’t care to address. Because, yes, I can admit that the man is total rebound material, but if I examine beyond this, I might pee myself.
Whether from excitement or fright is anyone’s guess.
Go on, do it, whispers the devilish little Miranda sitting on my shoulder. Though she looks like me, this little devil sounds suspiciously like Heather. Meanwhile, little angel Miranda is deluding herself.A drink is the least you can do when the man rescued you from baring your bum to the urban wilderness.
