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“Your wrist is out of the splint.”
He took his hands from his pockets and looked down at them briefly. “Ah, yes. Figured I’d need both hands in action for today.”
“It doesn’t hurt?”
“Just a little stiff. But I’m sure it’ll be all better in time for lesson three.”
She could only imagine what he meant by that, but the doorstep wasn’t exactly the best place for this sort of conversation, so she stepped back, letting him into the house. “Do you want a drink of anything?”
“Do you have beer?”
“No.”
“Scotch?”
“I’m not sure we have any alcohol except for some leftover cooking wine.”
“I’ll pass then.”
She nodded, then led the way upstairs to her bedroom.
“You know, we can hold hands anywhere,” said Jay as he followed her into the room, eyeing the double bed, then looking around with open curiosity. There wasn’t much to see. It was an old-fashioned room, very floral, with few remnants of her childhood still on display, a collection of Beatrix Potter books on the small shelf near her bed.
“It’s just for privacy,” she said. “My mother is out, but if she does come back early, at least she won’t walk in on us.”
“Holding hands?” teased Jay.
“Seeing that would be enough of a shock for her. I’m not sure she’s your biggest fan.”
“No one is.”
Sophia frowned a little at that but walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge of it, patting the duvet next to her for Jay to sit too.
He did so, that amused, teasing smile on his face the whole time. He was wearing a pale grey jumper of some thin material that clung a little to his shoulders and slender torso, hinting at the muscles beneath. He pushed the sleeves up to his elbows and held his hands out with a little flourish, like a magician about to perform. “Well, here they are.”
Now that he was here, sitting right next to her, so very alive and warm and present, the reality of what she had planned started to sink in. He was a man, his skin lightly tanned, brown hair running up toned forearms, his skin a little freckled. His fingers were long and clever-looking. Pianist’s fingers, she found herself thinking, though she doubted he played piano.
Maybe they got a different kind of exercise, something to explain the strong tendons, their capable look.
They had beeninsideother women.
How many? She almost asked him, but he would laugh at her. He probably couldn’t remember anyway.
She reached out, then paused. “Can I touch them?”
“Of course. That’s what you’re paying me for.”
“It’s not like that.”
“That’s exactly what it’s like.”
“No… It’s a mutually beneficial business arrangement. You make it sound sordid.”
“I make everything sound sordid. That’s my speciality.”
He said it laughingly though, so she smiled a little too, then reached out to touch the back of his right hand with the tips of her fingers. He twitched slightly, almost a flinch, and she glanced up at him to make sure he was OK with this—she would cancel the arrangement the minute she thought he was not—but he was looking down at her hand on his, his expression firmly neutral.
She went back to studying his hand, running her fingers along the back of it, down his fingers to their tips. He was warm and felt…unusually alive…as though some electric current lived under his skin. Or maybe it was just that she’d forgotten what it felt like to touch another person. She hardly ever even hugged her mother.
