Page 178 of How to Fan the Flames

Not one anyone will name.

But there.

At half past nine, I walk into the kitchen and find him alone.

Of course.

Because apparently the building has a sense of humour.

He is standing by the counter, rinsing a mug that is not his. His jacket is off, sleeves rolled up, forearms damp where water has splashed. The radio on the windowsill mutters quietly. The rest of the crew are somewhere between the bay, the office and the crew room.

He turns when I come in.

For one second, we just look at each other.

Just him, me and a mug under running water.

“Hi,” he says.

I close the door halfway behind me.

“Hi.”

His eyes move to the door, then back to me.

“You all right?”

There it is again.

Simple question.

Impossible question.

“Yes.”

His mouth twitches, not amused exactly. “You keep saying that.”

“It remains true.”

“Okay.”

He turns the tap off and sets the mug on the draining board. Then he dries his hands on the tea towel, slower than necessary, as if giving me time to decide what this conversation is.

I have no idea what this conversation is.

That is the problem.

My body remembers him all at once, which is unreasonable because it has had no time to forget. The heat of him. The weight. His mouth at the back of my neck. The low, wrecked sound he made when control finally broke.

He is standing three feet away in my workplace.

I am thinking about his hands on my hips.

This is a disaster.

He takes one step towards me.

“I didn’t want to make this awkward,” he says.