Page 25 of Secret Paths

Come over.

The pause lasts long enough for me to wonder whether I have read the whole thing wrong.

Peter

You sure?

My mouth curves.

Me

Yes.

Peter

Me and my dick can be there in fifteen.

Me

Sounds like a plan.

I put my phone on the counter before he can send anything else.

Fifteen minutes is enough time to change out of my walking clothes. I take my rain jacket upstairs, wash my face, then pull on soft black trousers and a dark green top that does not look as though I have made an effort even if I have.

When the doorbell rings, there is a flutter of what I assume is nerves although I’m not sure why I should be nervous.

Peter stands on the step with rain darkening the shoulders of his jacket and damp curls falling across his forehead. His hands are in his pockets, and his smile is smaller than it is when he is performing for a room.

There is that flutter again.

Ridiculous.

Chapter 3

Peter

Mandy opens the door before I have time to decide whether arriving at gone eleven makes me look keen or pathetic.

She has changed out of her walking clothes, her blonde bob framing her face and a dark green top soft against her skin.

I manage to look at her face before my brain embarrasses us both.

“Evening,” I say. “I’m here about your repeat order. I should warn you, the dick has terrible customer service but excellent availability.”

She stares at me for one long second. “You drove over here to say that?”

“I had fifteen minutes to prepare.”

Her mouth twitches. “You are a deeply silly man.” She steps back from the door. “Get inside before I change my mind.”

I step over the threshold and the warmth of her kitchen hits me like a wall.

Her house smells of something citrussy, a candle or one of those diffuser things, and underneath it the faint clean floral scent I have come to associate so specifically with her that catching it anywhere else would stop me cold.

The door clicks shut behind me and the sound settles into my chest with a finality that has nothing to do with locks.

She pours two glasses of wine, and I watch the way the dark green fabric moves against her back. The top is loose, almost floaty, the kind of thing she would never wear to the surgery. She is barefoot on the wooden floor.