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So you see, it was my fault. All good. Clean slate. Hope your film work is going well. Nice to talk to you.
Nice to talk to me?
I still owe you dinner sometime,I tapped out in a panic.Maybe if I see you at the gym, we can grab a bite after?
I closed my eyes, let the sun warm my face as my stomach dropped. The click of the reply thundered in my head. I didn’t want to look. Perhaps with one eye?
X
What the hell did an X mean? Perhaps it was code for something. He’d mentioned something about being gay. Maybe it was gay code? Like a ‘no thanks, you’re too ugly’? What did I know? Peter, my hair guy, was gay. I could ask him. A lot of people on set were gay too. Why did I not know these things? Fuck it.
I was not asking him out on a date. I thought we’d already established that.
I sent an X back. Because I could.
“Connor, sweetie, do you want another coffee?” Mum called.
I needed to stop this.
I sent another one.
X
X
Then I slammed the phone down on the table and stretched out on the chair. I didn’t need this. This was my day off, and I was going to just forget about the real world. Be me. Here. Safe.
He could take his X and shove it.
Matt
X
X
He’d sent it twice, and it made me smile.
We barely know each other.
I’d meant it as a little joke. I mean, I wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t true, and now he was sending kisses like we were boyfriends.
Kisses. Deep sigh. It was my fault. I’d sent one first, and I hadn’t meant to. It had been a muscle twitch. An impulse. I wasn’t the kind of person who sent random kisses to men I didn’t know.
I did not have a thing for Con Telford. Nope. Not me.
I groaned at the paused TV screen in front of me, where his handsome face was twisted in pain. Well, not him. Detective Cass Powell had just been stabbed in the guts at the end of season three, and Inspector Stella Rubin was holding his face as he writhed in pain.
He’d survive. I knew because I had season four queued up ready to go, after I’d made myself another cup of tea.
God, I was a boring nerd. It was the weekend; I was caught up with most of my lesson planning but had ample work I could have sunk my teeth into. Instead…
Yes. Cass Powell had once again turned out to be a nice distraction. A very nice distraction. No wonder human beings around the world grovelled at his mud-covered feet.
Which made me laugh because how had he lost his shoes? He had nice feet, though. Gorgeous legs, even covered in blood and gore.
FML.
My kitchen was clean and tidy as I toddled out there in my sleep socks. Don’t judge me. I got cold at night, and sleep socks were one of my few guilty pleasures. Fluffy warm little things of happiness that screamed comfort and home. So was the knitted cardigan I tended to live in at the weekends, bunched up around my waist as I adjusted the string holding my pyjama bottoms up over my hips.
