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‘And rhubarb?’
‘Rhubarb is the dozen roses for me. You can’t make a crumble and custard with bloody roses.’
‘Ah, well, look at that – I got you, what, an acre?’ Jack chuckles next to me, a peep of white teeth, that gorgeous, gorgeous dimple and – I want to press myself into him. I want to kiss him.
‘And thanks, as well,’ I say, ‘for always .?.?. sort of, rescuing me.’
Jack shrugs, and throws me a sideways look. ‘Rescuing you?’
‘I don’t know. I feel like my whole life got turned upside down when those emails got sent. And you’ve just .?.?. been there.’
‘I haven’t rescued you, Millie. You do a decent job of rescuing yourself.’
‘Oh, yeah,’ I groan. ‘I have agreatreputation for rescuing myself. I bake cakes to appease.’
‘And you volunteer at meaningless rugby games even though they don’t deserve you. Fetch jacket potatoes.’
‘Ugh,’ I cringe, chomp my teeth together. ‘I don’t want to even think about that rugby game.’
‘Well, don’t.’
‘Oranyof it. Or glitches, or the phantom email sender who might be right under my nose—’
‘Thendon’t,’ says Jack again gently, and this time he stops, steps in front of me. ‘You don’t have to think about any of that stuff. It’s all shit that’s happened, or shit that might. Doesn’t exist.’
I smile, gaze up and his handsome face. The hazel eyes, the straight nose, the sharp jaw, the slightly crooked, pink, pouty mouth. ‘I wish I could be more like you,’ I say.
Water drips. Wind blows outside, branches scratching on the roof, the occasional pop of a candle wick. The hundreds of tiny, tear-drop flames, dance. And as Jack smiles down at me, hair dangling over his eyes, I’m sure he can hear my heart. It’s thumping, like a bass-drum.
‘You don’t need to be like anyone, Millie,’ he says, putting a hand on the top of my arm. ‘You’re perfect as you are.’
I swallow, hard. ‘I think many would disagree .?.?.’
‘Nobody who matters.’
His hand stays there, then drifts slowly, slowly, down, leaving goosebumps in a trail, until it reaches my hand. His fingers gently, smoothly slide into my palm, rough fingertips tickling the soft skin. Tingles cascade down my body. He holds my hand, eyes meeting mine. He slowly brings my hand up, to his mouth, presses his warm lips to it. Goosebumps tighten every inch of my skin. He lowers my hand, eyes on mine again, loosens his grip, and under my cardigan, his warm hand slides around my waist. My breath catches in my throat as he pulls me gently towards him, and – I want him. Here and now. I can think of nothing else except kissing him.
I whisper his name, tip my face towards his, and he finally leans, his warm lips hovering, at first, breathing against mine. And slowly, Jack kisses me. Slowly and deeply.
I close the gap between us, slide my hand around his neck, and oh, he’s a good kisser. He grips my waist tighter, pulls me in to him; his strong, solid frame. And as my thoughts scramble, melt away, at the feel of his strong hands at my waist, that rumbling moan at the back of his throat, I decide, this doesn’t need to be anything more than what it is.
I don’t care, I don’t care.
What matters now, is Jack’s soft mouth against mine, hands and arms, entwined. The soft light in the middle of darkness, tricking us both into feeling nothing exists, beyond this moment; beyond us.
Chapter Twenty-One
From: Vince Gudgeon
To: Millie Chandler
Subject: Email feature
Hi,
As per what we were discussing in my repair room last week (the theory of someone in this place maliciously sending your email drafts), a thought occurred to me on my commute last night. Back in Feb 2020, our email providers installed a new ‘scheduled send’ feature, which also allows for a bulk/mass email send-out. (Unsure how u do this.) This being accidentally set or switched on could explain what happened to u.
Might be worth pinging IT. Not my area.
