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“Wow,” he says walking into the center of the living room, “you weren’t kidding.”
“About the size?” I grin. “No. She’s super small. But she has a lot of character.”
He puts his bag down and turns around, looking up at the coffin hatch, then at the big black beam over the fire. “That’s from the Armada?”
“Yeah, a lot of the houses in the street have them.”
He runs his fingers across the bumpy cob wall. He’s so big—he seems to fill my tiny room. I can’t believe he’s here, larger than life. I love the way the sleeves of his tee stretch over his biceps, and his gorgeous tattoos. I’m having trouble tearing my eyes away from him.
“You’ll have to watch your head on the way into the kitchen,” I announce, because I can’t think of anything else to say.
He glances up at the beam, then back at me and smiles. Then, as he turns away, he tips a picture on the wall with his elbow. As he hurriedly tries to stop it swinging, he bumps into a shelf and knocks two of the books onto the floor.
“Sorry,” he says, bending to pick them up. “I’m a bit like Gandalf when he visits Bilbo in the hobbit hole.”
“You must be tired,” I say, chuckling. “Do you want to go straight to bed? Or would you like a coffee and a slice of toast?”
“Toast sounds fantastic. I’m ravenous, and it smells great.”
“I made it this morning.”
“The toast?”
I lead him out into the kitchen, making sure he ducks beneath the beam. “No, the bread.”
“Really? With all the kneading and rising and stuff?”
“No, this is easy bake. No yeast—you use beer instead.”
“Beer? In bread? Now you’re talking.”
I chuckle, take the slices out of the toaster, and retrieve some Lurpak from the fridge. “Spread that on,” I tell him, “nice and thick, and I’ll make the coffee.”
We stand side by side, him buttering the toast while I make the espresso and steam the milk. I feel as if I have a celebrity in my home—a rock star, or a member of royalty. I’ve known him for so long, and he’s my brother’s mate, but I feel shy now he’s here, and more than a little tongue-tied. I sneak a glance at him, and he meets my eyes, takes a step closer, and bumps my shoulder with his. I chuckle and pour the milk over the espresso, trying not to blush.
When we’re done, we take the mugs and plates into the living room. He sits in the lone armchair, and I sit on the two-seater sofa, the only furniture that will fit in the tiny living room. The lit candles on the coffee table cast flickering shadows across his face, and the jazz music spirals to the beams as we crunch our toast and sip our coffee in companionable silence.
I have to say something. I wipe some crumbs from my bottom lip. “Titus…”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For being concerned, and driving all the way down here. There aren’t many guys who would have done that.”
“You’re Huxley’s kid sister,” he says as an explanation. He takes a bite of his toast, his eyes gleaming. “And I was influenced by our romantic history.”
That makes me laugh. “I still can’t believe you did that. I’d never kissed anyone before.”
It stops him in his tracks, and he stares at me. “What? Seriously?”
“Nope. I thought you were going to give me a peck on the cheek. I didn’t expect a full-blown Frenchie.”
“Shit. No wonder you looked so shocked.”
“I was. You totally corrupted that innocent sixteen-year-old.”
“Something to put on my CV,” he says, and we both laugh.
“Huxley says you’re doing well here,” he comments. “You’ve settled in well at the school?”
