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“No, and I don’t know you either,” I said, trying to ignore how big the hoodie was on his slender frame. “But as far as I know, you’re not a burglar, and I don’t think you’re on drugs…well, you might be, and if you have any plans on murdering me in my sleep or trying to destroy my flat, can I just remind you that I was once a scholarship rugby player? I still have moves, and you will end up with more than just a mashed face and a broken arm.”
See? I could threaten too, even though I didn’t sound very convincing.
“My arm’s not broken,” he argued, but he was kind of half smiling. “And you can’t even chop an onion without losing a finger.”
“You wouldn’t even eat my cheesecake. Rude.”
“And I’m trying to get my stuff and getoutof here, not in.”
Prickly idiot.
“And what? Get on a train with a bin liner of stuff when anyone with eyes and a brain can see that you should be in the hospital.”
I crossed my arms this time. He sank back onto the bench.
“I…can’t deal with doctors right now,” he admitted. “And I don’t want to tell you anything else. I’ve already said too much because my head is all messed up, and I need to lie down before I—”
“Okay.” I took the bin liner and started shoving the rest of the stuff from his locker into it. See? I could meet in the middle. I could be helpful. I may not have been Mark or Mabel and I definitely had zero motherly skills, but I had mostly functioning arms and legs. So in the bin liner things went. Clothes, a pair of work shoes, a few books, small boxes of miscellaneous stuff, loose change. Yeah. We all had loads of it since most of our customers still tipped us in cash. A pair of trainers. I threw those on the floor in front of him and grunted.
He put them on. Good stuff. We were at least cooperating.
I’d had more stubborn chef trainees than this. Kids who thought they knew how to use a knife and cook a steak. I chuckled to myself at the thought and stretched my scar-ridden hands, contracting them carefully and somehow managing to get them to tie a knot in the bin bag.
“You have a choice,” I said, slamming the locker shut. I was tired, running on stupidity and adrenaline. “You come home with me. I have a sofa. You sleep there and we sort this out tomorrow. Don’t even think of getting on any bloody train, anywhere.”
He grunted.
I stared.
“What’s the other choice?” He didn’t sound amused. He sounded scared to be honest.
“You’re in control,” I said. I meant that. I wasn’t going to force anyone to do anything, and if this Hugo chose to bleed out on some early morningtrain to wherever? That was his prerogative. I’d had enough, and I needed to go home. I needed this bloody day to be over.
Did I need a new reluctant lodger sleeping on my sofa? Probably as much as I needed some super-sharp new chef’s knives for Christmas. Where was Mark to rein me in when I came up with these stupid ideas?
“And?”
I’d zoned out with my forehead against the closed locker door. I turned the key and held it out to Hugo. He took it, still leaning awkwardly to support himself as he picked up his coat. His hand slipped into the pocket. It was filthy. He was filthy.
“We’re getting an Uber,” I said. “Home or hospital, you choose. And if you don’t, then I’m off. Suit yourself.”
He said nothing. I took a breath. He stared at me. I didn’t know him, couldn’t read him. This was probably the biggest mistake of my life. I was inviting a whole new world of issues into my life, and for fuck’s sake, I hated having house guests. It was one thing having Mum visit or Mark snore in my bed, but…fuck. Hugo here was not my problem. What was I doing?
I headed for the door, only stopping at my locker to grab my coat. Home. Shower. Bed.
“Chef?”
I turned around. He’d followed, dragging the bin liner behind him.
My stupid heart was doing that thing again, where I should stand firm and just walk away. But I couldn’t help myself.
“Want me to carry that?”
“Please,” he whispered.
So I did. Because I was a fucking idiot.
Hugo
