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“That’s good, since they’ll come out whichever way they feel like it.”
He cracked eggs in the pan, he put the kettle on, he buttered toast and the simple domesticity of it almost broke her heart. He should have everyday access to a sink and a stove, water and gas. He should be somebody’s lover, husband, family.
“Foley.” His arms around her, his lips on her forehead and that’s all it took, that reconnection. He could have those things, in time, with care. She had to believe in that. “What’s wrong?”
She lifted her face and they kissed and the strangeness of the night frittered away. If she gave him time he might want to have those things above and beyond friendship, he might risk them with her. For now she gave him her tongue and her hands, the tilt of her hips and press of her breasts. She gave him her voice in meaningless murmurs that meant everything if he was listening.
The anxious shock, the sense of forbidden of kissing him had disappeared with the hailstones, but in its place was a warmth that hummed in Foley’s limbs and seared sense from her brain. Drum’s touch reduced her to ruling sensations so shockingly it took the smell of burning to bring them back to the room.
The eggs were rubbery, the coffee had no kick, the toast was cold, but neither of them cared.
The weather was still wild, wet and blustery, and she made him promise to stay at the house. She’d bring more groceries after work, her turn to cook.
An hour and a half later she was sitting in Hugh’s office, ostensibly discussing the Ice Festival, and the latest offer on the land where the Beeton house stood, and effectively gossiping about Nat. Foley had worked it out. Nat had to be doing her boss.
“Nat is porking Nathan Rosen,” she told Hugh.
“What, wait, what? Nat is porking Nathan Rosen. Nathan Rosen, scourge of the mayor’s office, editor of The Courier?”
“Yep.” It couldn’t be anyone else. Nat literally didn’t know any men other than the ones she worked with, and Nathan was the most obvious candidate from both a proximity and a practical point of view.
“Sweet, innocent, head in a website Nat. No?” Hugh took a bite of a ham and cheese sandwich. “Actually, she was never sweet or innocent. Is that even allowed?”
“It’s supposed to be a secret so maybe not.”
“Nat and Nathan. Nat and Nat.” Hugh laughed. “That’s not good.”
“No one calls him Nat.”
“No, they call him pretty please sir to his face and that rotten rat cunning bastard to the back of his head.”
Foley grinned. Nathan was all right. No fool. No pushover. Ambitious and clever to go with it. He had a dashing persona, more in line with a penchant for top shelf liquor and a disposable blonde on each arm than the sartorial mess that was Nat, but intellectually, he and Nat were a good match.
“Nat and Nate, that’s not much better,” said Hugh.
“Nat could care less. It’s been going on a while and he can’t keep his hands off her. She says the sex is mind-blowing.” Foley’s phone chimed, a text message. She glanced at the screen. Nat wanting a call back. Her ears must be burning.
“How? Wait. Don’t. I’m a married man.”
“Apparently he does this thing where he—”
Hugh waved a half chewed sandwich triangle at her. “Stop, this is a professional workplace.”
Foley clamped her lips over a too wide smile. Pretty much everything was making her smile this morning. Not even Gabriella’s overly cheery, “Good morning, did the rain make you late?” put her teeth on edge.
“I didn’t actually mean that you should stop,” said Hugh.
She laughed. “Nat says he does this—”
“Foley, you’re here.” Gabriella in the open doorway, making it sound like Foley in Hugh’s office was an alien invasion. “Well then.” By which she really meant, yo bitch, get back in your place.
“We were talking about the ice thing,” said Hugh and that made it worse, because if they had to explain themselves then there was some implication of guilt. Foley glared at Hugh.
“Foley is aware we have a meeting about that at 10am,” said Gabriella, doing an elaborate sleeve shift and watch check and missing Hugh’s grimace. By which she meant, I hate you, Foley, and I will try to embarrass you by talking about you in the third person as though you’re not sitting here looking directly at me, and are instead five years old and incapable of an adult conversation.
“Actually we were gossiping about a friend,” said Foley, keeping her voice steady and neutral, because that’s something Gabriella and Hugh would never do.
“Way to make us sound professional,” said Hugh, laughing.
