Page 19 of The Man Upstairs

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

“Tea, please.”

“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 were 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 leant 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 really have noticed if I’d have 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 saviour. Again.

“I really 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 prime position. I’d happily make do on the sofa. I had no expectation of romance novels coming to life, or turfing him out of his own bedroom.

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

He looked puzzled, still holding his tea.

“Oh, no. No, don’tyouworry. 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 appetising.”

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 favourite.”

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.”