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He clears his throat. I tug at my T-shirt.
‘Just going to grab that shower,’ he practically growls.
While he’s busy, I get myself set up. Everything I could possibly need is right by my side of the bed, which should help to avoid any further butt-flashing incidents for the rest of the night. I found a couple of towelling robes in the wardrobe so I’ve got one folded up next to me ready to fling on in the morning, too. I’m blaming Wales for this weird frisson between us. There must be something in the air.
Oh crikey, he’s coming out of the bathroom and he’s just got a towel wrapped around his waist and I can’t look. I physically have to snap my eyes shut. I find myself wondering if I’ve developed a crush on Joe. No, that’s ridiculous. It’s definitely the Welsh air.
He climbs into bed.
I decide that a matey pat on the back would be ideal right now.
Joe looks at me curiously. ‘We could top and tail if that would make you feel more comfortable?’
‘I’ll do it!’ Seizing the chance to not be side to side with a semi-naked Joe feels like the only sensible option. I grab my pillows and practically fling myself down to the other end of the bed.
Only, in my enthusiasm to create some distance and therefore less frisk between us, I accidentally kick him square in the face.
‘Fuck,’ says Joe.
He sits up straight, pressing gingerly at his face, and I scramble back up the bed to see the damage I’ve done.
‘Can I look?’ I ask, easing his hand away from his mouth.
He winces. ‘It’s fine, honestly.’
It is not fine. As I gently move his hand, I see that I’ve given Joe a fat lip.
‘Oh my god! I’m so sorry. You’re, um, bleeding quite a bit.’ I rush into the bathroom to grab tissues. By the time I come back there’s blood trickling down Joe’s chin and he must read my concern because he insists: ‘I’ll be grand, don’t worry.’
I perch next to him on the bed.
‘Here,’ I say, dabbing at the wound with a tissue. ‘It’s quite a cut.’
I’m acutely aware that our faces are so close I can hear the rise and fall of his breath. Quite mesmerising.
‘I barely felt it,’ he insists, which we both know is a huge fib.
‘Oh really?’ I reply. ‘You must have special magic lips that are completely impenetrable to blunt trauma, then?’
Why am I talking about Joe’s magic lips? I should be tending to his wound in a matronly manner, definitely not a flirty one.
The lecture to myself does not work. How have I not noticed what beautiful lips he has before? Full. Soft.
Temptation to press myself up against half-naked Joe: high to critical.
‘How’s it looking, Dr Rogers?’ Joe murmurs, his gaze pinning me to the spot. A flash of something crosses his deep-blue pupils.
Steady breaths.
I lift the tissue away and at least attempt to take a clinical look.
‘It was hit and miss for a while there, but I think you’ll survive.’
‘That is a relief.’ He lets out a low laugh before wincing.
‘No more laughing for Joe,’ I instruct, and I manage to get up to try and break this weird spell we’re under. ‘In fact I prescribe some paracetamol and absolutely no smiling whatsoever while that heals.’
His eyes are still on me as I move away from the bed.
