‘Why?’ I ask, although the pit of my stomach already knows the answer.
I shuffle towards him, tapping the floor with my foot before each step so I don’t collide with anything.
‘The handle came off in my hand.’
‘Can’t you just put it back on?’
‘The pin fell out. God knows where it rolled to – I can’t see anything. We either have to wait for the lights to come back on or for someone to open it from the outside.’
I follow the direction of his voice, but I can tell where he is even when he stops talking, because I can sense the change in temperature generated by a man-sized slab of heat.
I get the faintest whiff of Hugo Boss. I know it’s what he wears because there’s a dusty bottle in his old room.
He must have shifted forward because the next thing I know, I’ve trodden on his foot.
His arm springs out to steady me. ‘Careful.’
His hand is hot against my skin. I take a step back, and a burning pain shoots up my heel.
‘You okay?’
I rub the tender skin where it feels like I sliced a layer off my Achilles heel.
‘I walked into the same thing you did,’ I say. ‘But without the protection of socks and trainers.’
‘Are you bleeding?’
That’s all I need: to get blood everywhere.
‘I can’t tell.’
‘Smell your hand.’
‘What?’
‘If you’ve touched blood, it will smell metallic.’
I give my fingers a quick sniff. No tell-tale metallic aroma. ‘That’s quite clever,’ I say.
‘Why are you so surprised? You think I’m just a pretty face?’
‘I don’t think your face is pretty,’ I say because I don’t want to sound like one of his adoring females.
He lets out a bark of laughter. ‘Are you saying I’m ugly?’
I try to sound cooler than I feel. ‘I’d say you’re average-looking. Nondescript, unremarkable. On a sliding scale, you’re in the middle, at say, five.’
Jesus, what am I talking about? Objectively, he’s the best-looking man in a fifty-mile radius. Even Granny Maria can see it, and she’s got cataracts.
‘Where are you on this imaginary scale?’
His question takes me aback. ‘Oh, I don’t know. A five, too?’ I don’t mean to, but my voice goes up at the end, making it a question.
‘Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re a solid six.’
‘The way you looked at me when I first arrived says otherwise.’
There’s a beat before he responds. ‘Excuse me?’
