Page 3 of Charlie Sunshine (Close Proximity #2)

TWO

CHARLIE - A FEW DAYS LATER

When I wake up, it takes me a few minutes to work out where I am. I’m used to yellowing paper that’s had to be stuck back up with Blu Tack, a curtain that doesn’t quite fit the window, and a lovely view of the bins.

Now I’m looking at exposed brick walls, and wooden floors and beams that are a thick honey-gold colour. It’s fairly bare at the moment, with just my bed, a wardrobe, and a comfy leather chair in it, but I know once I’ve put my bedlinen on the bed and hung my pictures up, it’ll look amazing.

I climb out and immediately stumble over one of the many boxes that are littering the room.

Misha had asked last night whether they were part of some new design trend.

I’d replied that I hoped I didn’t catch his old-aged pensioner vibe by osmosis, because it would be very inconvenient for my lifestyle.

I look at the old navy corduroy beanbag in the corner of the room and my lip twitches. It had made an appearance on my first night here when he marched in and threw it in the corner, saying that doss hole wasn’t quite the vibe he was going for with the flat.

I sigh with happiness at the warmth in the room and queue up my Christmas playlist. It’s not my Saturday for working, so I’ve got the whole day off to get everything unpacked and feeling homey. But first—tea and tablets.

I grab my medication and swallow it with a big gulp of water.

I was horrified when I’d learned that I’d have to take medication for the rest of my life.

My mum’s a total hippie and has always relied on natural remedies for everything, and that’s the way I was brought up.

It took a long time to get my medication sorted.

So many different types of pills and so many different doses.

It was a bit like being experimented on.

And each tablet seemed to give me different side effects.

Hello to migraines, vomiting, constipation, and my personal favourite, impotence.

Luckily, none of them stayed around, but it was a bloody awful time.

I pull on a pair of pyjama shorts and, winding my hair up in a top-knot, I wander out of the room, only to come to a complete stop. I barely manage not to swallow my tongue at the sight of Misha.

He’s walking out of his bedroom dressed in only a towel.

The navy-coloured fabric hugs his lean hips and accentuates his sleek olive skin.

He’s obviously just got out of the shower because water droplets decorate his chest. I swallow hard.

His broad hairy chest. I’m fascinated. I haven’t seen Misha nearly nude in a few years and the last time was in a changing room, and he was very skinny then.

Now he’s all lean lines and tight muscles.

“I imagine this is what David Gandy must feel like,” comes an amused voice.

“Hmm,” I say absentmindedly. Misha has very tight V lines. He’s like a statue.

“Yes, I imagine that David frequently has to say, ‘My eyes are up here, Charlie.’”

That gets through my fog. “Why would he be saying that to me? Why on earth would I want to look at David Gandy’s eyes when there’s so much other treasure to view?”

He’s watching me steadily, a glint of amusement in his deep blue eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so methodically stripped in my life, Charlie. Shame on you. My eyes are up here, not in my crotch. ”

“That’s very disturbing.” I consider the thought. “I suppose if that were the case, we’d all walk around naked on our bottom halves.”

“Why?” he asks faintly.

“So we can see. Keep up. Your three-eyed penis wants to have a clear sight of what’s ahead.”

“What’s ahead is a short stay in a mental institution,” he advises me.

I laugh, but it sounds alarmingly dreamy as I lick my lips and look at the trail of dark hair that runs down from his belly button.

He tightens his towel. “Okay, this isn’t awkward at all. Well done, Charlie.”

His voice is heavily sarcastic, and I blink to clear my eyes of my temporary madness, relieved that he’s acting normal.

Unlike me, who’s acting as if I haven’t seen a naked man in a century.

I think back and wince. Actually, there might not be so much acting involved.

And I’ve got a boyfriend who’s not happy about the lack of nudity time.

I dismiss the thought as I realise Misha’s still watching me intently.

His eyes have darkened into a deep navy, and his gaze is steady and intense and seems to be concentrated on my abs.

I swallow hard, and the nervous clicking sound in my throat seems to bring him round and put an end to our mutual insanity.

“Let’s …” He clears his throat and then gets his words back. “Let’s agree never to do this again.”

“Vote seconded and carried.”

“Aye,” we both say together.

He tilts his head slightly. “Charlie, what is that awful noise coming from your bedroom?”

“Oh, that’ll be my prisoner,” I say cheerfully. “He’s always very vocal in the mornings until I can drug him for the day ahead.”

Misha blinks. “I think I’d prefer that to the reality of the fact that there appears to be Christmas music coming from your room.”

“It’s Jona Lewie and stop whingeing,” I instruct, walking past him and heading down the corridor.

The lounge is a big room made light and airy by the original floor-to-ceiling windows and patio doors leading to a balcony that overlooks the River Thames.

The building had been a spice warehouse in Victorian times, and the architects who converted the place into flats kept historical details like the wooden flooring, beams, and the warehouse windows.

Misha’s version of interior design was to paint the non-brick walls white and buy an extremely expensive leather settee that stripped off an outer layer of your epidermis if you got sweaty.

With the addition of some modern art on the walls that I’m convinced he bought when he was pissed, it was beautiful but sterile.

After a few days of me being here, it looks drastically different.

My design contribution makes me smile. The black leather monstrosity has gone and in its place is a gorgeous orange velvet sectional settee.

It’s big and deep and insanely comfortable and Misha moaned like hell about buying it, saying it looked like clown furniture, but I noticed he wasn’t complaining when he sat in the thing on the first night.

I think it’s lovely. I like bright rich colours and the orange makes the brick walls look warm and homely.

“I think there’s a reason that Jona Lewie only had a couple of hits, and you’re listening to it,” Misha says, coming up next to me.

“He features heavily on my Christmas playlist. He’s the embodiment of our childhood, Misha.”

“So are Vicks VapoRub and Calpol. I don’t see you rushing to add them to the flat.”

I walk towards the kitchen, aware of him dogging my heels like a sexily half-naked?—

I stop the end of that thought and replace it with, “like a nosy dachshund.”

Jona finishes singing about the cavalry stopping and Michael Bublé comes on, intent on utilising the one period in the year when he’s actually played on the radio.

“Charlie, what the fuck?” Misha whinges. “Christmas music!”

I shake my head disapprovingly as I cross the kitchen and switch on the kettle. “Okay, Mr Grinch. It is the second week in December. Christmas music is allowed.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “And when did you start listening to it?” he asks knowingly .

I slump. “Second week in November.” He laughs, and I wave a teaspoon at him. “It’s Christmas.”

“So you say. Makes no fucking difference to me. I still need to make money for people.”

“Okay, calm down, Gordon Gekko.”

He moves to the side to make a pot of coffee.

I bought him a very expensive coffee maker last year, but he still insists on using the old percolator he’s had for years.

He takes his coffee so strong you could stand a spoon up in the sludge.

I wonder what my chances are of converting him to ginger and lemon tea.

Probably not good first thing in the morning.

“Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?” I ask. He winces, and I narrow my eyes. “Please tell me you’re not doing it all on Christmas Eve again?”

“It’s a good time to do it,” he protests. “Really gets you into the Christmas spirit.”

“Well, it certainly did last year,” I say sourly. “You were so stressed after the shopping that you drank all the Christmas spirit and threw up in my wardrobe.”

Misha shrugs that off blithely, and looks around the room for a diversion. His gaze intensifies as it lands on my pyjamas. “What is on your shorts?”

I raise my eyebrows. “My penis?” I offer.

“On the fabric, you twat.”

I look down. “Little Father Christmas figures,” I offer.

“And you are wearing them because you’re actually five?”

I lean back against the cabinets. “I’m wearing them because I’m not a soul-dead banker who probably starches his underwear.”

“Only if I ever wore any underwear,” he advises me and winks cheekily.

We’ve both made these sorts of remarks before.

They’re an established part of our banter.

But as we stare at each other, the silence lengthens and thickens.

The doorbell chimes, and we both jump. As it chimes again, we look over at the door as if it’s going to answer itself.

I notice out of the corner of my eye that his chest is rising and falling rapidly .

“Who can that be at this time of the morning?” He sounds so much like an old lady that I want to laugh.

Instead, I cross over to the door and peer through the peephole. I look at the figures in the hall, blink and then look again. “It’s my dad and Aidan,” I say.

“Here?” he says incredulously. “At nine thirty in the morning ?”

I bite my lip and try not to laugh.

“Oh shit, I need to get dressed. Let them in, Charlie,” he urges and whizzes past me, his buttocks bouncing tightly under their towelling covering.