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Julian noticed the difference in those few tiny seconds, straightening up and putting his mug back on the counter.
“What would you like to eat?” he asked me, as a clear distraction. “I know your work shift starts soon, so I’ll get my chef hat on.”
It didn’t start for another ninety minutes, but his tone said a lot. I’d have taken his response as an ultimatenoand rebuttal if I hadn’t seen him suck in a breath behind his fake innocent smile.
He opened the fridge.
“I have eggs. Smoked bacon, too. And the best Cumberland sausages. Would you enjoy a full English breakfast on a Sunday afternoon?”
“I’d love one, thank you.”
“Excellent,” he said, then gestured me through to the living room. “Make yourself at home at the dining table. I know it’s a poor excuse for one, but it will accommodate the two of us, I’m sure.”
I’d barely noticed the table before, it had been wedged in a corner under a stack of newspapers, but it was positioned differently when I headed back in with my mug of tea. I took a seat as he’d suggested, still running through options in my mind.
Did I carry on with theseductionroute? Giggles and eye flutters? Maybe some more lip biting? I couldn’t imagine it would look authentic, but maybe it would state the obvious. Did I try to find the courage to talk about it directly? Bring up a conversation about his words that night at the door?
It’s not your mother I’m going to be wanting, Rosie. It’s you.
It felt like I was there a lifetime, mulling things over, listening to the pans sizzling as Julian made our food. Part of me wanted to go back in there and keep chatting, but I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t want to turn the conversation too… ordinary.
When he arrived and presented the two plates they were like a dream. Everything from mushrooms, to hash browns, to black pudding.
“Wow,” I said, and he smiled wide.
“I’m glad you’re impressed. I really did used to be quite the chef, once upon a time. I do enjoy cooking.”
I could see that.
I tucked in, still holding back my words as my eyes kept flitting over to him. It was obvious after a minute or two that he was avoiding meeting my gaze.
“This is delicious,” I said, and he smiled again.
“Thank you.”
“No, thankyou.”
“You are more than welcome.”
Still, Julian wouldn’t meet my gaze. He ate his food, and drank his mug of tea, smiling but not speaking.Holding back.And I got a twist in my stomach, a fear and a knowing, that if I didn’t address this – if I didn’t at leasttry, then we’d fall into a pattern. Him taking care of me, closing me off as nothing more than a girl downstairs who needed looking after.
That wasn’t what I wanted. I needed totry.
We ate in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, just a little tense. I felt something brewing in me. It needed to. I tried to make my voice sound confident when I spoke.
“I really love being eighteen, you know. It gives me loads more freedom. For so long I was just a kid, and felt like one, but now things are different. I’m different.”
I was sure what I’d just said sounded dumb. I felt my cheeks warming and I wondered if he could see right through me.
“Rosie, eighteen is far too young to understand what situation you may be stepping into. The age gap between us is just too big to explore.”
Yes, of course he could see right through me. Our eyes met, his burning with what I’m certain was lust. I burned up some more, must have looked like a frightened rabbit.
My words came on instinct.
“No, it’s not too big. It doesn’t matter. If you want it, that is. Because… I do. I want it.”
He looked away, picking up his mug.
