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Her dimples hovered as she glanced at him. “Are you getting hangry?”
Oliver folded his arms across his chest “No.”
“You are, I can tell.” She sounded like she was soothing a toddler. “Shall I go buy you a bag of crisps?”
“The servo just closed.” He’d watched with a lip curl a few minutes ago as, bang on five, Sue pulled the blinds down and flipped the sign over on the door.
With a little head shake—damn it, he was sure she was smothering a smile—Felicity lifted her bag onto the bed, unzipped it and pulled out a brightly coloured sarong. She rolled it into a neat sausage and placed it down the middle of the bed.
“What are you doing?”
She pointed. “Your side, my side.”
“No, you have the bed.” Why was his mouth suddenly dry?
“Oh yeah. Where’ll you sleep? In the shower alcove?”
Oliver fought the urge to curl his fingers into his hair and tug. Hard. “I’ll put my sleeping bag at the foot of the bed. See, here.”
“Oliver, I wouldn’t make my cat sleep on this floor. Come to think of it, I’m not sure Digby would even deign to sleep on the bed.” She bounced down on it and gave a little grimace as a spring pinged audibly.
A survey of the linoleum made Oliver’s skin crawl. There were marks on it where it had clearly been cleaned with a less than pristine mop. A piece of fluff wafted across the floor. He stifled a shudder. Well, he’d wanted spontaneity and now he was getting it—in spades.
Felicity cast him an encouraging smile, no doubt the same one she gave small children who were dragging their feet after playtime. “It’s only one night. And there’s a kettle, so we can drink copious amounts of tea. Wait a minute.” Her face lit up. “I packed a couple of emergency pot noodles into the van. And there’s a bottle of red wine too.”
“Fantastic!” he said sarcastically.
“Oliver, please retrieve your sense of humour from your arse.” She said it so matter-of-factly he blinked. “Look, I’m sorry I stuffed up with the diesel, I’m sorry we’re having to share this poky little room, I’m sorry you’ll have to eat carbohydrates with the nutrient count of a piece of cardboard, but… you know, there are worse things.”
She was right. Of course she was. Here was Felicity’s theory of life in full glorious technicolour. He thought about how Leonie would react in the same situation. She’d be in floods of tears by now, making sure he knew it was his fault. Not that it would have come to this, because there was no way Leonie would stay anywhere that wasn’t five star.
And here was Felicity, grinning away, that little gap in her teeth making her look almost otherworldly, and the feeling he’d had so often around her unfurled in his chest, ballooned out through his veins. Made him want to—laugh. From way down deep in his belly.
Truth was, red wine and pot noodles were the least of his problems. Because her body would be lying within touching distance, and while he seemed to have got the horny yak problem under control these past few days—courtesy of his excessive alcohol consumption at the wedding, most probably—there were no guarantees it wouldn’t emerge again, given her proximity.
But then, Oliver reasoned, she’d probably just laugh if she saw his erection tenting the sheet.
“I’ll get the noodles,” he said, and exited with a smile hovering on his lips, his humour extricated from his sphincter and her words echoing in his ears: “Don’t forget the wine.”
