Page 47 of Read My Lips

“I’ve got no idea what that is.”

“Trust me. You’ll like it.”

Ducking out of the larder, juggling ingredients, Simon tossed an onion at me, and I scrabbled to catch it before it hit me in the face or sailed through another window. We should at least try to avoid breaking all the glazing in the building.

“Slice that for me?”

Slipping his jacket off, Simon donned an apron with a giant lobster on it, tying the strings in a bow at his front. My brain malfunctioned as he rolled his sleeves up, revealing the light fuzz on his forearms I’d only learned existed earlier in the day. He had no right looking so good in novelty kitchen-wear.

“Dad taught me to make this,” he said.

I could picture Simon small enough to need a stool to stand on, with his father standing back, showing him how to do this with the same gentle enthusiasm he now showed me. And I wanted to soak it all up.

Simon magicked up a deep, lidded pan in two-point-four seconds. Because he knew where everything was in this kitchen. He’d probably played Happy Polycules two-thousand times with good old Richard and Temp. And why was I even thinking about them? It was me Simon was sharing this with.

“He always says it tastes better in Rodrigues, but I can’t do much about our location.”

I nodded, clearing a nasty thickness from my throat. Not me getting choked up because he came from people who handed down recipes. Who took time with each other, to do what families were supposed to. It was dinner. He wasn’t letting me in.

Flashing a wide-blade knife, he set to dicing a couple of chillies and a piece of ginger while I hacked the onion to miserable bits on another board.

“Jesus, Ben. What did that poor allium ever do to you?” Wiping his hands on his apron, Simon reached around to shift my grip on the blade, and I promptly forgot how to hold anything.

“Here, look. It’s a lot easier like this.” Sparks firecrackered along the back of my hand where he touched me. “Watch your fingers.”

His shoulder curved above mine. There was air between us. An entire centimetre. But the pull of him prickled all along my spine and I had to fight not to velcro myself to his chest. My brain numbed over as he rocked my hand on the knife again, slicing through the halved onion with easy momentum, already rolling on to the next cut.

His breath hushed damply against the back of my neck. And I didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe. He couldn’t follow what I said unless I turned back. And fuck, his mouth was close to mine when I did.

“Right. Yeah. It is, isn’t it? Easier.”

He nodded, eyes pinning mine. “Much better when you use the shape of the blade.”

My attempt at a smile flittered out of existence. “Thanks.”

He only cared about the onions. And me not totally botching his dish. So why was he still looking at my lips like he wanted to⁠—

“There. Try again. I think you’ve got it.”

Simon stepped back, grinning like he’d done a good thing, and I sliced the rest of the onion into fine little rainbow arcs and tried to forget he’d ever touched me. The flood of warmth in my gut had no business being there at all.

“So, uh—”Brain blank. What had we been talking about? “Where’s Rodrigues..?” Total geographical fail. Thank you secondary school for prioritising colouring between the lines over awareness of other places in the world.

“Mauritius. Indian Ocean. Off the coast of Africa, although hardly anyone thinks of it as Africa. Blue seas, white sand beaches...”

“Oh, ok.” I nodded slowly. “Your family’s from paradise.”

The rhythm of his chopping stopped. “My family’s from Bristol.”

Oh, fuck.

In his echoing pause, Simon raised a sharp eyebrow, looking at me, not the messy, hunked up bits of sausage he tossed into the pan.

I did a goldfish impression – mouth open, no noise. Pork fat sizzled. “That’s not what I – you’re the one who⁠—”

Simon snorted a laugh, eyes twinkling. “Your face.”

“You shit. I know you’re British.”