‘He’s allowed to make mistakes,’ I say, trying not to show I’m in pain. ‘Snapping at him isn’t going to help.’
‘I’m so sorry, Nella,’ says Theo.
‘One more fuck-up, and we stop for the night,’ says Mark.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, ignoring my throbbing foot.
Mark circles to stand behind me. ‘Keep your eyes on me, Theo. I’ll point you in the right direction so you don’t break Nella’s metatarsals.’
‘Okay, thanks,’ says Theo, looking sheepish. ‘Just give me a second to practise this by myself.’ He moves towards the sofa to give himself space away from other people’s body parts. Yan, whose suggestion this all was, is frowning at his phone. On one of his dating apps, no doubt.
‘Are you sure you’re fine?’
Mark’s low voice startles me. He’s leaning forward so the others don’t hear.
‘Don’t worry about me.’
He’s frowning, but he quickly rearranges his expression when Theo returns.
Once Theo has psyched himself up, we try again, and this time he remembers to lead with his left foot.
We continue slowly walking through the four steps – Theo in front of me and Mark literally breathing down my neck.
I feel like ham in a sandwich.
Theo’s beginning to relax when Mark reaches across and taps the underside of his forearm to stop it from sagging. The contact makes Theo lose count, and he steps forward when he should step back. His momentum propels me into Mark. The top of my head collides with something suspiciously nose-like. The crack is alarmingly loud.
‘Fuck,’ Mark mutters, in pain.
‘Shit, sorry!’ exclaims Theo. ‘Is it bleeding?’
I spin round. ‘Yep.’
Yan jumps up. ‘Watch the carpet. I’ll never get blood out.’
Mark lifts the bottom of his T-shirt and brings it to his nose to stem the flow of blood. I stand back so I’m not quite so close to his exposed skin.
Yan was right about the rock-hard abs.
‘Let me have a look,’ says Theo, but he doesn’t get a chance because his phone starts ringing. ‘It’s Tig,’ he says, panicked. ‘She’ll get suspicious if I don’t answer.’
Yan is back from the kitchen with a wet towel, which I assumed was for Mark, but instead, he drops to the carpet and starts dabbing the fibres.
‘For God’s sake,’ I mutter. ‘Is no one going to help the man who’s actually bleeding?’ It’s a rhetorical question. ‘Let’s get you to the bathroom.’
Mark’s holding his head up, so I guide him along the corridor and into the bathroom.
‘Should I run the cold tap?’
He nods, then leaning over the sink, peels off his T-shirt and dunks it under the cool water.
‘Oh, I was going to get you a towel or something.’
‘No point getting blood on something else,’ he says, holding the wet shirt against his nose.
I stand there, not sure what to do. My eyes skim his back, taking in each well-defined muscle, then my gaze moves to hisstomach, to where the sharp lines of his hip bones jut out from his ripped abdomen, leaving a V-shaped groove. His body is spectacular; no wonder he’s so nonchalant about stripping off.
He catches me watching him in the mirror, but instead of looking away, I hold his eye.
