I sweep past him and start up the stairs.
He frowns, like he’s wrestling a dilemma. ‘I’ll be five minutes. But in the meantime,don’tuse the bathroom. Wait in the kitchen and I’ll explain when I get back.’
What’s wrong with his bathroom? Is something broken?
The answer’s clear once I reach the first floor. The shower’s running.
You sly devil, Yan.
Last night’s visitor has yet to leave.
The kitchen’s a few feet away, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee wafts towards me. Of course, food-snob Yan doesn’t drink instant. Bad for his pores or something.
I’m distracted from the delicious smell by the sound of the shower stopping. A few moments later, the bathroom door clicks open.
Not wanting to intrude on anyone’s privacy, I hurry into the kitchen as originally instructed. And just in the nick of time as, out of the corner of my eye, I spy a glistening male back, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist where a towel hangs dangerously low on an arse that is world class. His calf muscles are chef’s-kiss, too.
Sometimes, I’m appalled by the amount of objectification I fit into a split-second sneak peek. But in my defence, you don’t see many straight men with bodies like that.
I pour a coffee, and while I stir sugar into my mug as quietly as I can, I hear footsteps down the stairs, followed by the slam of the front door as Mystery Man leaves.
A few minutes later, just as I’m thinking about hunting for biscuits, Yan returns.
‘You okay?’ he asks cautiously.
‘I’m not a Victorian spinster who faints at the sight of a male ankle. Although, I admit I did see a bit more than just an ankle.’
Yan looks horrified, and I hastily add, ‘I didn’t embarrass you or anything. It’s not like I accosted him to ask what his intentions were. I caught a tiny glimpse of him, but he didn’t see me.’
He avoids my eye as he fills a pan with water. ‘You didn’t recognise him?’
I frown. ‘From his arse crack? No, it didn’t look familiar.’
He puts the pan on the hob. ‘That was Mark.’
Was this an ex I was supposed to remember? ‘Mark who?’
Yan adds salt to the water. ‘Mark Marino. From school.’
The world seems to freeze. The sounds of the kitchen stop, and all I can hear is my hammering pulse.
Mark Antony Marino. From school.
I’m not sure I can deal with this. Not now. Not a reminder of the most traumatic period of my life.
‘What’s he doing here?’ I trail off, trying not to sound panicked.
‘He’s crashing here.’
‘In your room?’
Yan lets out a bark of laughter. ‘No, of course not.’
‘Then where? Your tiny box room that’s full of junk?’
‘He paid for a storage unit and spent half a day moving everything out. He also bought a cheap bed, although God knows how comfortable it is. But it’s just for a few weeks – until the wedding.’
‘Tig’swedding?’
