Page 89 of Pretty Mess

“Well, if they can march on—” I check the menu. “—rhubarb souffle tart, mille-feuille, and French toast, more power to them. I ordered enough for two.” I put up a hand as he starts to object. “Just know if you don’t eat it, I can easily put it away.”

He hesitates, casting a look at his bag, and I wonder if he’s about to start working again. It’s not a move I approve of, but I won’t say anything. “Are you going to do some more work?” I ask, bracing myself for him to move away. It’s so lovely to have him here. The suite seems full of colour and life again. For a quiet man, he certainly makes an impact.

He bites his lip. “I should do some while it’s quiet. I have a meeting first thing in the morning, and I need to go over the notes.”

I make myself shrug casually. “Or you could go and have a shower, eat dessert with me, and relax for a change. You’ll work better tomorrow with a clearer head, Mac.”

To my surprise, he nods. “You’re right.”

“Am I? What anovelconcept.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he says before leaving the room.

Several minutes later, the desserts are delivered and Mac returns to the lounge. He’s dressed in checked pyjama shorts and a white T-shirt. I’ve never seen him in anything this casual, and the sight of him hits me as being more intimate than when he’s naked. His hair is wet and brushed back from his face, showing its thin patrician lines. The bruise-coloured shadows under his eyes make my heart hurt.

I pat the sofa instead of fussing. “Come and sit down.” He glances at his messenger bag, but then, surprising me again, hesettles back on the sofa, easing into the cushions with a sigh. “God, I’m tired.”

“I know.” I pull the trolley towards me. The desserts are laid out on it, looking like something from a food magazine. “Want some?”

He wrinkles his nose. “Are you going to feed me?”

I eye him. “I did consider it,” I say in a spirit of honesty. “But I thought you might threaten to shove the cutlery where the sun doesn’t shine, so I’ll give you your own spoon instead.”

His face lights up in a smile, and he takes the plate from me. The rhubarb tart is a pretty pastel pink against the white china. “I’ll try it, but you’ll probably have to eat most of it yourself.”

“I can certainly do that,” I assure him, making a start on the French toast.

Five minutes later, he sits back, rubbing his flat stomach. “Christ, I ate all of it.”

I wink at him. “It certainly looks like you did.”

“It’s like you’re Satan with a surfer hairdo.”

“Do not knock my waves. Did you enjoy the tart?”

“It was very nice, but don’t get any ideas about running my life.”

“Wouldn’t think of it,” I say peaceably. “The House of Lords would struggle with the concept.”

“I should go and do some work,” he says almost reluctantly. I look at his tired face and make a decision. Reaching for a cushion, I put it on my lap and gesture to him. “Come here.”

“Why?” he asks warily.

“You can rest your head in my lap.”

His face clears. “Oh, did you want a blowjob? You only had to ask.”

“No.” I consider that and amend it to, “Well, Idousually want a blowjob, but not at the moment. Put your head in my lap. You can watch the storm and listen to the rain better.”

“I’m not sure,” he says, looking as uneasy as if I’ve asked him to tap dance on a high wire.

I roll my eyes. “Just do it.”

“Thank you, Nike.”

Finally, he does as I order, lying full length on the sofa and resting his head on the cushion. I reach for the duvet and draw it over him, so he doesn’t get cold. After a moment, he releases a long sigh, and his body relaxes.

I raise my hand tentatively and stroke the thick black strands of hair from his face. His eyes, which had slid closed, open a little, but he doesn’t object, so I send my fingers through his hair. The silky strands are thick and damp, and I stroke them, digging my fingers into his scalp.