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“It’s me,” he said when I hollered down the line, as if I’d know who ‘me’ was from his voice alone, which I did, surprisingly, since we could probably count the words we’d spoken to each other on one hand.
Instead of doing the sensible thing, I’d buzzed him in and then stomped around in frustration wearing my pyjamas.
Yes. Pyjamas and sleep socks. It wasn’t like I entertained at night, and…fuck.
There he was. In my doorway.
I exploded into a fit of giggles. I needn’t have worried about the pyjamas and sleep socks because he looked ridiculous.
“Please tell me you haven’t worn those all day.”
“I have. Couldn’t find my clothes, and these were in your laundry basket.” He grinned and held out a bunch of flowers. “For you. A very feeble apology for…being me. And stealing your clothes.”
“Those are obscene.” I didn’t mean to say it, but I was in shock. Honestly. I wasn’t always this rude, but the man in my doorway made me nervous. And the flowers…
“I know,” he sighed. “I didn’t choose them. My runner did, and if anyone is insane, it’s her. She also got you this.”
Looking embarrassed and a little terrified, he stepped into my hallway, trying to hide behind the flowers. My T-shirt was several sizes too small for his bulky frame, and those were my cleaning joggers, the ones with a paint mark on the thigh. Also? He offered me the flowers again, along with a shopping bag.
“Con. You don’t need to give me presents.” I had to stop and take a deep breath because this situation was out of control, and I couldn’t just stand here in my flannelette bottoms and pretend my life was fine. Right now, my life was as inconceivable as those flowers, and Con looked like he was about to faint.
“Come on,” I said, taking the flowers from him. “In you come.”
I sounded like my granny, and not in a good way. Next, I’d be calling him Poppet and force-feeding him stale sweets from the eighteenth century.
He closed the front door, toed off his shoes and followed me to the kitchen, where I dumped the flowers in the sink.
“I don’t own any vases.” I cringed. Way to go, Matt.
“Bucket?” he suggested, holding up the puke bucket still sat in the middle the floor. It was clean, as were the sheets on my little kitchen table.
“Classy.” I grinned.
He smiled and brought the bucket to the sink, filling it from the tap as he carefully unwrapped the greenery.
Five minutes later, there was a yellow bucket on my kitchen table, full of huge, showy flowers with green sprigs sticking out from every angle.
“I’ve never bought anyone flowers before.” Con grinned. “And you’re right. They are…a bit over the top.”
“Funny, though. Especially in a bucket. We could start a new trend. Bucket vases.”
He laughed, while I was internally screaming. I was officially a total nerd, unable to hold a proper conversation.
“Sorry,” he murmured.
“God, don’t be. I love that you bought me…these.”
“I didn’t even buy them. Aisha did. My runner.”
“You have a runner? Like a slave?”
“Yup.”
He grinned again and reached out and stroked my cheek. I tried to ignore how ridiculous he looked in that T-shirt, the fabric straining over his muscles.
“Your bruise is almost gone. It’s almost strange seeing you without it. I’ve never known you without my wrist imprinted on your face.”
“I should’ve had it tattooed. I could have become quite popular in your fandom…or something.”
