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I slip down from the counter and do my best to compose myself, but it’s an epic fail. I feel like I could spontaneously combust. I’m so hot. Flustered. Lustful.
‘What the fuck, Winston?’ Becker asks when his eyes finally find his dog a few feet away. Winston answers by resting his arse on the floor, staring at his owner. This dog really does have doggy facial expressions, and right now he’s giving his owner a miffed look. Becker stares right back, equally miffed. It’s a glaring deadlock. ‘What?’ Becker throws his hands up in the air. ‘You want her?’ he asks seriously. Winston growls, making Becker take a wary step back, a stunned look on his face. It’s hysterical, but I’m still too muddled to truly appreciate the comedy value. He’s in a full-blown row with his dog . . . over me.
I take the situation into my own hands before they start wrestling. ‘Here, boy,’ I call, crouching, my voice shaky. Winston comes to me instantly, his backside swaying as he swaggers over and plonks himself at my feet, tail wagging in victory. I give him the fuss he’s demanding and cautiously look up at Becker. His mouth is hanging open in disbelief and for the first time, I’m not so smug about Winston’s blatant favouritism. In fact, I feel embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not sure what his problem is.’
Becker looks at me, all what the hell? before snapping to life and making a vain attempt at pulling himself together. Being hunkered down, I’m eye level with his thighs, and when his hand drifts to his crotch and he tries to discreetly rearrange himself, my stare wanders up a little and catches evidence of his . . . condition. He steps back, pulling his hand away when he realises where my eyes are focused. There’s no concealing it, not beneath the loose, soft material of his sweatpants.
He’s rigid.
My bottom lip slips between my teeth and bites down, my brain ignoring my stern demand to look away.
‘Eleanor.’ Becker’s soft calling of my name pulls my attention up, and I find a pained expression on his face. Because of his current hard problem? Or because of what just happened? His eyes shut and he pulls in the longest breath. ‘That shouldn’t have happened.’ His statement slices through me like a machete, yet I hear no conviction in his words. None. ‘I can’t . . . it’s just not . . .’ His fists clench into tight balls, his jaw pulses. ‘You don’t want me, trust me.’
I actually do trust him on that. He’s warning me, just like Mrs Potts and Mr H. I should be grateful. So why am I aching everywhere with hurt and disappointment? And why his sudden change of heart? Has he remembered what his grandfather yelled at him? Has he kissed me and not enjoyed it? My confidence takes a bashing when I consider the latter. I’ve seen the women he’s used to. God, he had one stuck to his lips right before me. I’m nothing like them. I have an arse, for a start. Oh my days, I’ve just willingly taken part in another round of his stupid game. Idiot.
I leave Winston and stand up straight, putting on a brave face. I have nothing else. ‘I apologise, Mr Hunt.’ I turn on the formalities automatically, falling straight back into protective mode, my focus now set firmly on keeping my job. ‘It won’t happen again.’
His jaw tightens, and a million expressions pass over his face, but it’s the regret I catch most acutely, and I focus on that. I feel regret, too. I don’t know where we would be by now had Winston not gone into psycho-dog mode. On the floor? Naked? Sweating?
‘I was going to take him for a walk.’ I blindly point to the space at my feet where I know Winston to be. ‘Do you mind?’
‘Course not,’ Becker answers without hesitation. ‘He probably needs to let off some steam. Might be why he’s so’ – he frowns at Winston – ‘touchy.’
‘Maybe.’ I mirror Becker, looking down at his dog.
‘I need to make a call.’ Becker pulls his phone from his pocket and starts toying with it, almost reluctantly. Something tells me it’s his therapist he needs to call. I bet he or she is on speed dial.
I waste no time leaving him to it. I grab the lead and I’m out of there fast, desperate to escape the awkward vibes. I don’t need to call for Winston to come. He follows me out, all bouncy and chipper. I, on the other hand, want to curl into a ball of disgrace and hide. I’ve let myself down.
Winston didn’t need to let off any steam at all. He doesn’t bound across the park and run free. He just ambles alongside me, looking up at me now and then, like he is checking to see if I’m all right. I’m not all right. I’m ashamed. What on earth have I just done?
