lead again, his tail wagging good and proper. I crouch and scratch his ear. ‘Just let me peel some carrots for Mrs Potts,’ I tell him. ‘Then we’ll go for a walk.’ I could do with the fresh air, that’s for sure. I need to clear my head and prepare my reassurance speech for Mrs Potts and Mr H.
Standing and brushing down my dress, I go on the hunt for some carrots. I open cupboard after cupboard, finding no carrots. ‘The pantry,’ I realise, heading to the tallest cupboard and pulling the door open. A wire racking system greets me, and I begin to scan the baskets, bending as my searching gets further south. ‘Bingo.’ I spot a sea of orange next to a sea of spuds and grab a few, raising and shutting the door.
‘Oh dear.’ The soft words come from nowhere, and my feet leave the floor from fright, the carrots tumbling from my hands.
I’m raging already, and I haven’t even clapped eyes on him yet. ‘You startled me.’ I push the words through a tight jaw as I slowly pivot to confront him. He’s leaning up against the worktop, looking all yummy, his glasses on. He’s staring at me, his hazel eyes particularly green, as he munches his way through an apple. He seems to have composed himself after our little . . . moment in the library, and his little . . . chat with his grandad. The man I heard sounded like he was in emotional turmoil. This man looks far from it. Did he speak to his therapist? Maybe he’s had . . . his words suddenly register in my startled mind.
Oh dear.
Oh shit.
Did he listen in on that little episode between his grandfather, Mrs Potts and me?
‘So, you’re immune?’ he says, like he’s read my mind.
My cheeks burn up, but I ignore his question and fire one of my own. ‘What do you want?’
He shrugs and inhales deeply, looking down at his feet, which are still bare, annoyingly. He starts to casually scuff them on the kitchen floor, like he knows I’m rapt by them. I rip my eyes away and return them to his pouting face. Stupid. It’s always a lose–lose situation when I’m in Becker’s company. There’s nothing I can look at that lowers his sex appeal, so I have to rely on his ‘charm’ to deter me. And I’m willing it on right now. All of it. I’ll take every bit. I know it’s coming, so in an effort to move things along, I cock my head to prompt him to say more.
He grins. The fucking bastard. ‘I love it when your cheeks go all red.’
I scowl.
His grin stretches. ‘Imagine how red they’ll be when I’m through with you.’ He takes a tactical bite of his apple. And there we have it. Loud and clear. He should get a new therapist, pronto.
‘Weren’t you supposed to be somewhere this morning?’ I ask, referring to his supposed meeting about the Spanish tapestry, the one that required me to be at work an hour early. He’s still in his sweats at midday. I dip and collect my scattered carrots.
‘Rescheduled for this afternoon.’
I huff to myself. It’s likely that the so-called meeting was never arranged for this morning in the first place. I reach for my final carrot and make to stand, but Becker crouches in front of me, his hand resting over mine on the carrot. The warmth paralyses every muscle in my body.
‘I’d love to see how rosy I can make all of your cheeks.’
I flip my stunned eyes up. His face is deadpan. Beautiful. Mesmerising. All my cheeks? I can’t do this any more. It’s draining. I want no part of this game he’s playing. It’s beginning to frighten me, for no other reason than how it will end. Which, basically, will be me unemployed and bitter.
I force myself to hold his angel eyes in a show of strength. ‘You’re incorrigible.’
‘Does that mean you like me?’
‘No, it means you give me a headache. Stop it.’
‘Stop what?’
‘You know what.’
‘Okay, then. You stop it, too.’
‘Me?’ I gawk at him.
‘Yes, you.’
I give up. I snatch my hand from under his and stand, escaping to the other side of the kitchen. I yank drawers open until I find a vegetable peeler and a knife, then slap my carrots on to the worktop and start a carrot massacre. My hand viciously yanks the peeler down repeatedly until I have a pile of bald carrots. Then I