Page 9 of (Not) The One
As he slides his hand into his pocket, I splutter a panicked, ‘What? No!’
‘Ah, but you see, I know this cat doesn’t belong to you.’
‘He doesn’t belong to you, either,’ I retort, suddenly annoyed and no longer concerned about being on my hands and knees, stuck half in and half out of his doorway. If I’m a thief, I must be the worst in metropolitan London.
‘No, but it is in my house.’
‘Then by that marker, so am I.’
‘Perhaps you belong to me, too.’
‘Erm, no.’ Or maybe yes please.Partially.‘But as neither of us were invited, are you going to call the police on him, too?’ I point a finger at David Meowie.
‘I think it might be better if we continue this conversation face to face.’
‘Well, that would be wonderful but for the small matter of mybeingstuck.’
He seems to ponder this for a moment, obviously still entertained by our exchange, before setting the cat down on the glass tabletop, who proceeds to curl himself up in a ball on top of an abandoned newspaper. The kitchen, now that the light is on and I get a moment to take it all in, consists of walnut cabinetry, dated beige tiles, and antique-looking accents. An old-fashioned kettle, the kind that whistles, sits on the stovetop, and a cookery book lies open on a stand.
It sounds weird, but he really doesn’t look like he belongs here. It’s like that song fromSesame Street, the one about things not looking like the other.
‘Now, let’s see what’s to be done.’ Before I can answer, he drops to his haunches in front of me. ‘May I?’
I nod, not able to find words because his eyes are a brilliant peacock blue this close. I can’t say I’ve ever seen eyes this shade before, and it’s absolutely unfair that God would give this man such ultra-thick lashes when I have to resort to an expensive mascara to get a similar effect. It’s hard to guess his age, but he’s definitely older, though not old. Early thirties, maybe? His lips quirk in something that isn’t quite a smile, the skin around his eyes is creased in the outer corners as though he finds amusement in everything. Though I suppose there is plenty to find comical in my current predicament. Only I could get myself into—
The thought goes unfinished as his hand brushes the side of my ribs, crossing my waistband. I inhale a sharp breath, rolling my lips inwards to contain the consequent sighing exhale. Don’t judge, I can’t help I’m tactile and a little touch starved.
‘Hm. I see what the issue is,’ his deep voice rumbles from above. ‘The zipper of your skirt seems to be caught on the hinge.’
‘Can you pull it out?’
‘That’s not the first time I’ve been asked that.’ His tone is so low and rumbly, I’m not sure this was meant for my ears. I find myself answering anyway.
‘I’m not going to ask why.’
‘Sensible girl.’
I’m not going to ask because I can guess as I recall the cock can in his shorts.Coke can, I mean Coke can!
‘I’m afraid it’s rather stuck. If I pull, I’ll have to pull hard.’
‘Go hard or go home, I always say.’
If I no longer feel tipsy, then why do I keep saying stupid things?
‘That answers a lot of questions.’
‘Such as?’ My reply is little more than a squeak as he swaps one foot for his knee, effectively thrusting his can of cock into my face.
‘Almost ... there. Got it! Ah.’ The latter accompanies the sound of tearing fabric and the sensation of cool air on skin not often exposed. ‘How fond are you of this skirt?’ he asks carefully.
‘It’s Michael Kors. And it’s only the second time I’ve worn it.’
‘Oh dear.’ Funny how he doesn’t sound sorry at all.
‘But I suppose it’s not like I can stay here forever.’
‘No. I imagine you’d have a boyfriend somewhere who’d eventually wonder what happened to you.’
