There’s something in his words that sounds desolate.
The bee on my earlobe darts off towards the kitchen. Outside the window, the bees do a final, lazy turn about the compost pile and settle in for the night.
I break away from Rafe’s gaze and move through to the kitchen, conscious of Rafe following me, of everywhere on my body where his eyes touch. I fix us a simple supper – cheese and chunks of sourdough from Celeste, piccalilli and pickle, handfuls of raspberries andstrawberries from the garden, cups of steaming chamomile and lavender tea. When I come back through to the sitting room, Rafe has tidied all the cushions and set all the knick-knacks back on the shelf. He stands by the sofa, staring down at something unrolled in his hand. The quilt. I’d forgotten that I left it crumpled behind the cushions.
“You made this,” he says.
“With my mum. It’s one of the first things I ever sewed. My grandmother dyed all the fabrics using dyes she made from plants. My favourite is the red of the flower petals. I can’t believe how deep and vivid the colour is.”
“It’s beautiful. You shouldn’t shove it behind the sofa.”
“We don’t have a lot of wall space left.” I gesture around at the photo wall and the shelves overcrowded with books and Warrick’s fishing trophies. “I made supper.”
I hand him a plate and cup, and we eat in silence, the air charged with unsaid things. I wash the dishes and he dries them, moving around my kitchen like he’s lived there all his life. Upstairs, where the two bedrooms and bathroom are under the eaves, I pull out a fresh toothbrush from the stash under the sink and show him how to work the temperamental shower. He’s so tall that he has to stoop to get under the rafters. His tail accidentally knocks a photo of Warrick off the wall. Or maybe it’s not an accident?
While he showers in our bathroom, I clean my teeth in the kitchen sink downstairs. Back in my room, I open my drawer. My hand brushes the silk nightie Warrick brought me three Christmasses ago, the one with the delicate little rosebuds on it. My cheeks burn when I think of how excited I was to wear it for him, and my whole face and neck heat when I think of wearing it for Rafe.
I skip over it and choose my favourite old, faded pyjamas. They’re covered in bright little bees. They’re also flannel and meant for winter. I’ll be boiling, but at least there will be absolutelyno skin showing whatsoever. No one can accuse me of impropriety if I’m wearing these pyjamas. I certainly can’t accuse myself.
I pull them on in a hurry and clamber into bed as the bathroom door creaks behind me.Don’t look don’t look don’t?—
My head turns towards the bathroom as Rafe emerges, his bottom half wrapped in a too-small towel, his hair damp and mussed from the shower, and his skin glistening. I’m mesmerised by a droplet that falls off the end of his hair tuft and rolls down the orchids framing his abs before reaching that V of muscle…
My tongue dries to the roof of my mouth.
Rafe grips the doorframe, looking from me to the corner of the bed and back to me again with an expression that, for the first time since I met him, appears unsure.
“You look…” he chokes out. “Extremely cosy.”
“Thank you.” I beam at him. My heart hammers against my ribs.
Why do I feel like my frumpy pyjamas are more revealing than his nakedness?
“There’s…um, only one bed,” I pat the mattress at my feet. “We don’t have a spare room. Well, wedo, but that’s off-limits. And I’d prefer if you sleep on top of the covers.”
“That’s okay,” he says softly. “We can share. Luckily, I’m small.”
“Rafe, you are a filthy liar,” I grumble as I pick up the luxuriating cat for the fifth time and move him back ontohisside of the bed. “You said you’re small. Small cats don’t take up three-quarters of the bed.”
I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t keep moving,he grumbles inside my head.I just get all comfortable and warm and then you move away and take the warm with you.
“That’s because I’m boiling hot! And I feel weird with you all pressed up against me,” I say. “This is the bed I shared with Warrick, and…”
If you’re so warm, why don’t you put on something that’s not made for an Arctic winter?
“I’m not defending my pyjama choices to a cat.” I smooth the blankets over myself and turn away from him. “Stay on that side of the bed.”
He hops over onto my pillow and gives me a look of utter desolation.You said I’m not allowed under the blankets, so if I don’t press up against you, I don’t get warm. I’m left out here in the desert of frozen tundra, bereft of the one comfort that could keep me from freezing?—
“Okay, okay,fine.” I lift my arm. “You can nestle in here. But absolutely no funny business.”
I assure you, My Lady of the Fuzzy Pyjamas, I am a beast of utter seriousness.
Rafe flops down against me, his head resting on the pillow. In a few moments, his tiny body reverberates with the biggest, loudest purr, followed by an adorable little whistle through his nose. It’s like sleeping beside a tiny, rumbly train engine.
Okay, this is actually quite nice…
I wake up with a start to light streaming in the windows and a tremendous sense ofwrongness.
