Page 23 of Seen
Alaric laughs. “All right. I believe you, though thousands wouldn’t. But be careful. I know exactly what Neil’s like, and I love him to bits. But he’s not a safe person to develop feelings for. He’ll let you down. Trust me. I’ve had orgasms lasting longer than Neil’s relationships.”
“It’s not a relationship. It’s a thank-you dinner for persuading Ezra he didn’t need to waste a night waiting on a trolley in ED.”
“A thank-you dinner that you’re cooking. In your romantic, seductive little love nest."
“In my ordinary little flat, yes. Because I’m more relaxed at my place than at a restaurant or anyone else’s.” As we reach the hospital main entrance, I put my hood up. “And I’ll be taking no further questions.”
My flat never felt particularly small until Neil steps inside, filling every corner with his delicious scent and his lean, lithe body, which isn’t much bigger than mine but seems to take up double the amount of space. He peers over my shoulder as I put the finishing touches to my chili. Apparently, he eats everything.
“Looks like you’re making the most complicated laxative ever.”
Wearing a hood has its advantages; he can’t see the flush of pink creeping up my neck in response to my ridiculous giggling sound. He’s close enough I can feel the heat he gives off. He’s distracting, a little destabilizing.
“Anything I can do to help?”
He could step back, otherwise he might spot my dick enjoying his closeness far too much.“Maybe open the wine and pour us a drink? The wine glasses are in the cupboard over there, above the tins.”
A quick laugh escapes him. “You trust me with your glassware? With my eyes?”
“The expensive ones are in a different cupboard.”
He playfully taps my shoulder. “That’s not very kind, Dr... what is your last name, by the way?”
“Sinclair.”
“Dr Sinclair. Nice. Mine’s Sainsbury, like the supermarket. Unfortunately, I’m not related.” He opens the cupboard doors. “Woah! You must be, though! We expecting a global famine?”
Confession time. I have a soft spot for supermarkets. No small talk, no eye contact, just me and a trolley and the hum of the muzak, drowning out the static in my head. And now I discover Neil’s surname matches my favourite one. Typical. From now on, every receipt, every tin, and every plastic bag will remind me of him, his enticing scent, and his bloody gorgeous, useless eyes.
This is not a date.
“I shopped after work on an empty stomach. As you can see, now I’m the proud owner of aisle four. The corkscrew is in that drawer there.”
Still chuckling, he brushes past me to get to the drawer.
I can do this, I realise. My anxiety has flown somewhere else for the evening, allowing me to enjoy myself and Neil’s easy company. Maybe it’s because I’m not the only one of us with issues. And maybe I’m flattered that, out of all his close friends, he’s confided in me.
“Hm.” Neil roots around for the corkscrew. “You need to improve your cutlery drawer discipline.”
I snort. “My what?”
“If you’re going to be feeding me more often, Dr Sinclair, then you need to get this thing more ordered. I have a registered disability, you know?”
I love that he’s feeling brave enough to joke about it. And suggesting this evening isn’t going to be a one-off sends champagne zinging through my veins. But… he wouldn’t be here if he didn’t have this eye problem. If he’d never fallen from the stage, then needed my help with his accounts, my existence on the planet would continue to scarcely register with him.
Not that there’s any suggestion that dinner together is anything other than friends. This is not a date.
“My lilies are looking good,” he remarks, inspecting the leaves. “I’m not sure I’ve ever managed to keep one alive.”
“They’re drama queens.” I lay out the food on the table. With him in mind, I’ve covered it in a plain dark cloth, contrasting sharply with my white plates. “Attention seekers. They wilt if you forget to water them but then stand straight upright ten minutes later like nothing ever happened.”
He tops up my glass of red as we sit. The first slips down way too easily. Dinner with Neil is far, far better than I thought it would be, so much so that I’ve hardly paid attention to whatI’ve been putting in my mouth, savouring the conversation, not the food. It’s not fireworks and lightning repartee, but it’s very comfortable. I stopped box breathing and counting the beads on my wrist around the time we sat down to eat. Neil’s easy to be around; he offers up pieces of himself without trying to impress.
“Are you not having another?”
“I’m trying to be good.” He grimaces. “Following doctor’s orders.” He digs into the food. “Also,” he says, “everything I drink runs through me. I’m pissing like a racehorse.” He gives a rueful shake of his head. “Prostate troubleandblindness. Neil Sainsbury is the sexy gift that keeps on giving. This chili is great, by the way. I mean, it’s probably going to run through me as well, what with all the veggies you’ve crammed into it. But great.”
I laugh. “I’m sure your prostate is fine. It’s those eye tablets. They’re mild diuretics. So you need to drink more, not less, to stay hydrated. The specialist explained. She also said the side effects will settle down.”
