“Something you will no doubt complain about.”
I groan and then hotfoot it into the shower.
The water is hot, and the pressure is good, and I twist under the spray, feeling it work the muscles on my shoulders. My legs are aching because Reuben did a route march around the fucking island yesterday. He’d wanted to photograph some rare plant. What that had to do with me, I’m still yet to figure out, but apparently Reuben has decreed that we’re joined at the hips, so wherever he goes, I have to tag along. In pursuit of that, we’ve walked all over the island, jogged together, and on one memorable occasion, cycled. We’d had to abort that when we discovered I had the balance of a newborn baby.
I roll my eyes. Reuben’s attitude towards drug use is apparently that it can be cured by fresh air and aggravation, and he’s delivering both in great measures. He’s marched me up and down more hills than if I worked for the Duke of York, and at night, he’s unearthed game after game. We’ve competed over Monopoly, Cluedo, and Trivial Pursuit, which he always wins, and we even made a competition of tiddlywinks. He’s been my loud and fierce opponent/companion during the night hours when I’m restless and antsy. I’m presuming he was very thankful that last night I’d slept through the night for the first time. I’m not sure I was. I missed him.
I soap my chest, inhaling the scent of his shower gel. Dean had sent a huge box of skin and body care over, saying tactfully that he guessed Reuben didn’t use the good stuff. He’d be right. The man seems to think that his shampoo can also function as a conditioner and body gel. He probably uses it to grease his car engine, too. I shudder and reach for the shampoo Dean sent that smells of oranges, bergamot, and the tears of my bank manager.
I’m certain Reuben will notice the difference between my shampoo scents and the shower-gel scent. He notices fucking everything and uses the details he stores in his big brain to manipulate me. Like how he knew to ignore me the first coupleof days I was here and kept trying to wind him up. He’d obviously sensed how shitty and tired I felt, because the moment I began to feel better he began my fitness regime.
Marching everywhere with him has left me strangely vulnerable. For one thing, it’s obvious I like the exercise and spending time with him. My constant ragging has sounded insincere even to my own ears. I’ve somehow lost my armour, and it feels more like when I first met him, when the universe felt full of possibility because I’d met the person who felt completely right to me. Reuben was funny, impossibly loyal, and kind under his gruff exterior. He still is. And he’s the only man I’ve ever met who likes my sharp side. In fact, he actively seeks it out. An obvious character defect.
I turn the shower off and step out, shivering in the cool air and towelling myself briskly. I catch sight of myself in the mirror and blanch. I have a smile on my face. I immediately contort it into a grimace. That’s better.
I can control my emotions. I can and I will. It would be for the best—for my protection and for Reuben’s—if I can show him I’m not the young, passionate, and headstrong nineteen-year-old I was back when he was obviously suffering and about to leave for a warzone.
We’d both made ridiculous decisions the first week we knew each other. We would never have worked out. He probably did me a favour?—
I shove the towel against my face. No, I can’t believe that last bit. But I can believe it’s stupid to keep trying to hurt him for the past. I’ve done it for years, and I’m tired of it.
If nothing else, this past week of sickening healthiness has proved that I don’thaveto feel tired about everything. I drop my towel and look for moisturiser?—
“Are you getting ready this millennium?” comes the roar up the stairs. I huff, ignoring how, in my reflection, my eyes light up.
Five minutes later, I make my way downstairs wearing a pair of Carhartt cargo pants, a grey T-shirt, and a thick navy hooded cardigan that I found in Reuben’s wardrobe. I come into the kitchen and groan when I see the heaped plate. “Did you hear me about coffee and cigarettes?”
His lip twitches when he spots the cardigan, but he just says, “Not on my menu this morning.”
“Well, make a new one.” I peer at the plate. “Couldn’t you put something green on here?”
He blinks. “On a fried breakfast?”
“An avocado, maybe from the ones you got yesterday.”
“The ones you made me buy.”
“It’s a salad vegetable, not an illegal weapons haul.” I grimace. “Reuben, you have to eat something other than meat and the contents of a butter dish.” I freeze. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
It’s a horribly fond look that makes my ears burn.
“No reason,” he says softly. “Coffee is over there.”
I stride over to the huge industrial-looking coffee machine and grab a couple of the chunky handmade mugs that a friend of his makes. I haven’t worked out whether it’s a male or female friend yet, but the mugs are still lovely. I look up to find him still watching me.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing. It’s just nice to have you here, that’s all.”
“Reuben.”
“What?” He raises his hands in an innocent gesture. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
I stare at him. “No, we are not. We are lovers to enemies.”
“Still?” His voice is a little too hopeful, and my heart clenches, or the organ that masquerades as my heart.
I shake my head. “It’s too early for this. What torture have you got planned for me today? Are we scaling a mountain, swimming in a tsunami, or walking along a minefield?”
