Page 30 of The Sound Between Us

His face. That cocky boyish grin. The one that shouldn’t do anything to me. But does.

It’s borderline filthy now, the way I’ve been internet stalking him; a quiet obsession with a man I don’t even like.

I didn’t go to the gig. Couldn’t. But YouTube was right there. And the milkshake came cold. Which felt weirdly thoughtful. And confusing.

I Googled ‘Elementary Live Wembley’. Actually typed it out. With my own fingers; into my own laptop. Loser flu—horrid and humiliating.

The bell rings. Sharp. Echoing from the hall.

“Bollocks. Uncle Vinny probably forgot they’re out.”

“Ugh. He’ll be drunk and want a singsong.”

“See you tomorrow. Make mine an extra strong latte.”

“I always do on Mondays.”

I go to hang up, but loser flu wins. I pause. Let myself dip just once.

“Was it good, then?”

“Aha. I knew it.” Flick is practically smug. “It was very good. Even by your icy, snobby standards. And let me tell you...”

The doorbell goes again. Too long; too hard. Whoever it is can see me. My shadow’s right there on the glass.

“Oh, fuck it. Make sure no one else speaks to Double Shot Latte man before I get there.”

“I’ll beat them off with baguettes, don’t worry. Oh, Seren?”

“Yeah?”

“He was fucking fit. All damp and sexy from the post-show shower. Mate, even your ovaries wouldn’t have survived it.”

I hang up, drop the phone onto the counter, and stalk toward the door, voice raised. “Vinny, they aren’t home. Fuck off.”

The bell goes again. This time with more insistence. Whoever it is, they’re not leaving.

“Do you mi—” The rest of the sentence dies in my throat, swallowed whole.

Because there he is. Harrison Carter. Leaning against the wall of my building, all lazy confidence. Back pressed against the cream stucco; shoulder resting against the drainpipe. He belongs there. The whole world exists just to be leant on by him.

For a second, he looks biblical. A fallen god in a navy coat and builder boots.

I mentally slap myself back into the reality where his music is crap and I don’t care what his face looks like.

His tawny gaze glides across my face, indifferent. Lazy. He radiates could-not-care-less energy.

“So. Serendipity.”

I snap to attention. Full feline. Narrowed eyes; upper lip curled in warning.

“Harrison Carter. Did my note not make it clear enough?”

He pushes off the wall slowly, fluidly, the bricks releasing him reluctantly. “I know who you are.”

Heat flickers in my chest. The housecat bares its teeth.

“And?”