Dirty Seduction

ROSIE

I was up from my numb ass before he could rethink his offer. my legs were stiff from how long I’d been sitting there with my back to my door.

I needed him. Just like last time.

The man upstairs didn’t speak as he led the way up. He used one single key with no keyring to let us in, stepping aside to let me pass him. He scrabbled to clear the coffee table, rushing into the kitchen with three empty mugs and a couple of shot glasses. I followed him, hating his obvious embarrassment.

I had plenty enough embarrassment of my own. If only he knew how many book heroes I’d imagined him as…

“Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

His kitchen was practically barren, like the rest of his place. His fridge was buzzing loudly, and his microwave looked about twenty years old, and there was no sign of a dishwasher, just an old sink with a dripping tap. He put the mugs in there and rinsed them clean while I leaned against his big, white-washing machine.

“Would you like a drink?” he asked. “Tea? Coffee? Sorry, I don’t have much else.”

“Tea, please.”Content © NôvelDrama.Org.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Both, please. Two sugars.”

I noticed the way he deliberately blocked the cupboard from view with his frame, grabbing two teabags and dropping them in a pair of mugs before he put the kettle on to boil. Each of the mugs was different, including the ones in the sink, just like ours were. A jumble that didn’t match.

I glanced in his fridge as he took the milk out. There was just one solitary stack of ready meals on one shelf. He sniffed the milk before he poured it, making sure it hadn’t gone off. Not that I’d have cared, to be honest. The very fact I was off the cold corridor floor and in someone’s place was a welcome relief. He could have had nothing but sour milk and I’d have still preferred it to holing up with Trisha.

He handed me my tea.

“My apologies again. It’s a terrible brand.”

He wasn’t lying. It was even weaker than the crap we used downstairs.

He was still in his suit, tie hanging loose, and his shirt hanging loose along with it. His hair was ruffled, and he had rough stubble, but he still looked gorgeous, gaunt or not. In my eardrums, he’d been billionaires, dirty therapists, and hot older professors. Hell, he’d even been a lumberjack, but I couldn’t imagine that so well.

I leaned back against the washing machine, letting the situation sink in. I was in the kitchen of the man upstairs, and Scott was dancing around the living room with my lovestruck mum like I didn’t exist. The depression finally reared its head in me, facing the truth about my sad, lonely existence. Would anyone have noticed if I’d wandered off into nowhere this evening? Would anyone have cared if the guys from block seven had been out there, threatening to pin me to the wall and use me however they wanted? They were known for spouting that kind of rancid crap at people who passed them.

The only one who seemed to care I was out in the hallway was Julian. Just as he’d been the only one to answer my screams for help.

I looked over at him, grateful. Lumberjack or not, he was my savior. Again.

“I appreciate the invite,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Steady on.” He laughed a sarcastic laugh. “It’s hardly a five-star hotel. You haven’t seen the state of my bedroom yet.”

The thought gave me one hell of a lurch in my stomach. It sounded as though I’d be staying in his bed. He didn’t need to give me the prime position. I’d happily make do on the sofa. I did not expect romance novels coming to life, or turfing him out of his bedroom.

“I’ll gladly take the sofa,” I told him. “Don’t worry.”

He looked puzzled, still holding his tea.

“Oh, no. No, don’t you worry? I won’t be staying in my bedroom with you! No need to be alarmed!”

We’d both got our wires crossed.

“No,” I said. “I mean, if you want your bed, I can take your sofa. I’ve been a sofa surfer plenty of times before.”

He laughed. “Ah, I see. No need for that. The sofa is even more uncomfortable than the bed. You’ll be pleased you accepted the offer.”

He changed the subject by opening his fridge again.

“I don’t have all that much in the way of variety, so I’m sorry if you’re hungry. I tend to stick with the easiness of the same boring ready meals every night. It’s not exactly appetizing.”

I’d almost forgotten I had pizza still wrapped up in foil in my bag. I dug in to pull it out. Four slices. Two for me, two for Mum. She wouldn’t be needing hers now, though. I opened the foil in front of him.

“We could eat this?”

“Lovely,” he said, with a genuine smile. “That looks delicious.”

He took out a plate and opened the microwave, and I handed the pizza over with a grin.

“It’s got olives on it,” I said. “And jalapenos. I know they’re not everyone’s favorite.”

The look in his eyes was so warm. “I really couldn’t care less what’s on it. It looks excellent. Much better than a ready meal.”

We stared at each other as the microwave hummed, and I couldn’t help his words spinning into my head. It’s not your mother I’m going to be wanting, Rosie, it’s you.

Was that still true? Really? Would he want a girl like me? Surely not. He couldn’t do it. I wasn’t exactly a storybook minx.

I decided to touch on the last time we’d spoken.

“I know Mum came up here that night.”

He turned his attention back to the microwave, avoiding my eyes.

“Indeed, she did. I’d planned to ignore her calling, but unfortunately, she was getting rather enthusiastic. I didn’t want the poor chap on crutches to be hobbling up to my door.”

I couldn’t help but smirk, imagining it. “Yeah, Bertie. He would’ve poked his nose in. He’s a nice guy, though.”

“Bertie. Right. I didn’t know his name, let alone his temperament.” He met my eyes again. “How long have you lived here?”

“My whole life, pretty much. My mum was still with my dad when I was born, but not for long. He disappeared and the council gave Mum our apartment, and this is where we stayed.”

“Are you still in touch with your father?”

“No,” I said. “I never met him.”

“That’s a shame. Maybe he would have sorted your mother’s disgusting boyfriend out and kept him away from the both of you.”

I’m sure my cheeks must have flushed beetroot, and he looked horrified.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “I overstepped the mark there.”

He looked grateful when the microwave pinged. It would have been so easy to use the distraction and veer the conversation away to something lighter, but I didn’t want to. I couldn’t help but want more. Some kind of human connection in a world where Mum had chucked me out of hers. I needed that right now.

“You didn’t overstep the mark. It’s just weird. I dunno.” I paused. “I didn’t think it would come to this with Scottie. Whenever Mum split up with him, she always said it was really over, for good, and we’d never see him again. I wonder if she still believes it when she says it. She seems to.” His eyes locked straight back onto mine, as though I’d touched a nerve.

“I can only imagine she does. Resolve can seem very strong when you declare it, but a lot harder to maintain.” He smiled a sad smile. “In my experience, anyway.”

He ripped off two pieces of kitchen roll, picked up the plate, and gestured through to the living room.

“How about you plonk your butt down on the Chesterfield and see how comfortable it is for yourself? We can watch some TV if you like.”

TV was the last thing I wanted. I wanted him. I wanted his closeness and his concern. And more. Sad and crazy, but true. Even though it scared the crap out of me, I couldn’t deny it. The swirl of tingles wasn’t going away they were getting worse. Far, far worse.

He was better than any of the billionaires, therapists, or professors I’d been imagining. He was real. It was Julian. He was the savior upstairs.

I sat down on the sofa, and he sat as far away as possible on the other side. He smiled as he pulled the coffee table closer and set the plate and the sheets of kitchen roll down between us, then he waited until I took the first slice before taking one of his own. Instinctive manners. Scottie would have dived straight in there.

I couldn’t stop scouting the place out as I bit into hot cheese and olives. A small TV, a bookshelf stacked with well-worn paperbacks, and an overhead light without a shade. His coffee table was scuffed, and the leather on his sofa was faded to hell, but none of it mattered. His presence was enough to counter all of it.

Still, I couldn’t work out how a man like him came to live here, in crappy old Crenham Drive. Should I ask him? Would that be ok? I didn’t want to poke into his business, so I kept munching on pizza, hoping he’d say something about himself, but he didn’t. He nodded to acknowledge how good the food was and wiped his gorgeous mouth with the kitchen roll, but that was all. His silence only added to the intrigue. What was he hiding? What was the story of his life? Why did they call him a sicko, when he seemed like anything but?

I tried a different approach.

“Did you go to the Brewery Tavern tonight? I heard that you go there.”

His eyes were sharp, scoping me out.

“I do sometimes, yes. I stayed longer than usual this evening. I’ve had a long week at work.”

“What kind of job do you do?”

“I’m an insurance clerk. I order stationery and process paperwork, in the main.”

“A lot of it, from the sounds, if it keeps you busy.”

“Yes. The harder you work, the more work appears on your plate, don’t you find?”