‘Your working hours are nine to five,’ she says, placing the watering can down and dusting off her hands on her apron.
‘Mr Hunt has a meeting at Christie’s at nine. I need to get him the file on the Spanish tapestry before he leaves.’
‘And he couldn’t get it himself?’
I just shrug, with a lack of anything else to do or say.
Mrs Potts sighs. ‘I apologise, dear. The man is a menace.’
‘It’s okay. I couldn’t sleep, anyway.’
She raises curious grey eyebrows at me, reminding me that Mrs Potts knows I had a date last night. ‘Oh, I see.’ A slight blush creeps across her cheeks.
‘Oh, no.’ I laugh, quick to put her right. ‘I was home by nine thirty, tucked up in bed.’
Her blush recedes, being replaced with curiosity. God, what would she say if she knew what happened last night? Come to think of it, what would she say if she knew my date was Brent Wilson? I decide it’s best not to tell. Besides, it’s done. No more dates.
‘I’ll be in the library.’
‘That’s fine, dear. Help yourself to tea in the kitchen.’ I hold up my empty Starbucks cup, showing I have no need for tea, and she smiles. ‘I need to get Donald up and at ’em.’ Mrs Potts moseys off across the courtyard, and I head for the Grand Hall, navigating my way through the masses of antiques, my focus set firmly on getting to the library. I very nearly make it to the other side of the giant room, feeling my eyes tugging upward to the glass box that floats above the space, but I defiantly resist looking up, knowing it will only distract me again.
I’m nearly at the door.
Not far to go.
I lift my hand, armed with my card, ready to swipe the moment I make it there.
My eyes flip up involuntarily, seeing a familiar shadow beyond the glass.
Damn!
My stride slows, my lips part. The silhouette of the tall physique is perfect. I can make out every edge of the body, telling me it’s naked. No clothes, just sharp, crisp, clear outlines.
My steps eventually come to a stop, my neck craned upward, and I fall into a trance. Not even the smugness he’ll flaunt knocks away the desire to stare.
Then something happens, and it throws me off balance. Literally. My legs wobble as his hand touches the glass and he moves forward, bringing himself out of the shadows. My heart begins to race as I gaze up at him standing in his boxers, his face unadorned by his glasses. And his scorn. He looks sleepy. Like he just woke up.
‘Morning,’ he mouths.
My head tilts, my brow bunching, and he smiles a little at my surprise before looking over his shoulder and moving back into the shadows.
My eyes drop. Morning? Was he being nice? ‘He’s a fucking enigma,’ I say to myself, hurrying for the door and swiping my card through the reader. Marching down the corridor towards the library, I try to wrestle the mental image of him virtually naked from my mind. ‘Morning?’ I mutter, frowning. ‘Morn—’ Something gets tangled between my legs, and I throw my coffee cup in the air so I can grab something to save myself. ‘Shit,’ I cry, grappling at the wall and knocking a René Magritte painting askew, coffee spraying the wall. I gasp my horror, quickly straighten it up, and snatch a tissue from my bag to wipe up the coffee. Jesus Christ.
My eyes fly to my feet when the sounds of whimpering registers, finding a big ball of fur cowering. ‘Oh God, Winston.’ I drop to the floor. ‘I’m sorry, boy.’ He whimpers and whines, backing away from me. ‘C’mon,’ I whisper, trying to earn his trust again. He likes me. Mrs Potts said so, and weeks of petting him has only brought us closer. Oh God, don’t hate me.
I remain on my knees, my bum resting on my heels, and pat my lap, clucking and cooing. He eventually takes a cautious step towards me. The elation this tiny action brings overwhelms me. ‘That’s it. Come on.’ He takes another step, and I shuffle forward a tiny bit, extending my hand to him. He sniffs warily, then takes one more step, so I reach up to his ear. But he doesn’t let me rub behind it. Instead, he rolls on to his back and lets his tongue flop from his mouth, panting. I laugh loudly and make a real good job of apologising, scratching his belly until his back leg starts to twitch. ‘You like that?’ I ask, like he might reply. ‘Oh, yes, you do.’ I speed up my back-and-forth scratching, laughing harder when his whole body seems to go into spasm. ‘C’mon,’ I say, stopping when my fingers start to burn with the friction. ‘I’ve got to get some work done.’ I stand, delighted when Winston flips on to his paws and sits at my feet, looking at me all gooey-eyed. ‘You wanna come with me?’ He answers by trotting past me towards the library, and my eyes follow his path until he reaches the doors and drops to his arse again, looking at me. ‘I’ll take that as a yes.’ He lets out a deep bark, and I smile, gathering up my coffee cup and joining him by the doors. ‘Want to compare notes on Michelangelo and Raphael?’