I Owe You One(87)

Twenty




The light dazzles my eyelids and I feel a mouth softly kissing mine, and I find myself looking dazedly up at Seb’s face.

Seb … Oh my God … The whole thing rushes back into my disbelieving, joyful brain.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t know what time you wanted to wake up.…”

“Yes,” I say, rubbing my face. “No. I … Thank you. What time is it?”

“Eight.”

“Right.” I think for a moment, then find my phone in the tangle of clothes on the floor and text Greg to take charge of opening up.

“OK.” I flop back on the pillows. “I’m off the hook.”

“So am I,” admits Seb. “I’ve called into the office, told them I’ll be late. I didn’t want to rush away.” He sits on the bed and looks down at me. “Right now I don’t want to go anywhere.”

We’re silent for a while, just looking at each other. Memories of last night are flickering through my head and, I’m pretty sure, his too. As though reading my mind, he reaches for the coffee sleeve, which is lying discarded on the floor.

We scribbled a bit on that last night. It was a bit of a thing. It was fun.

“How’s my debt payment coming along?” he says, tracing his finger down the entries. “I can’t quite tell from this.…”

“Oh, you’re doing well.” I grin at him. “You did me a few favors, remember?”

“I think we were about even on that score.” His eyes widen as he reads the scrawled writing, and he looks up. “Miss Farr, you have a dirty mind.”

“You can talk!” I grab the coffee sleeve off him and feign shock as I read it. “This is X-rated.” I jab at his last entry. “And I don’t even know what that means.…”

“I’ll illuminate.” His eyes gleam at me. “Later. Breakfast?”

As I follow him out of the bedroom, I glance around curiously. I didn’t get much of a look at his flat yesterday. There’s a big main reception room with a kitchen off it, where Seb is filling the kettle. It has wooden floors and some modern art on the walls and two low sofas, covered in gray felt. It’s impressive. It’s cool. Although, weirdly, it doesn’t seem very him.

It’s not as nice as his office, I realize. His office is full of books and ornaments and character. This is a bit sad-looking. A bit hotel-like. The only hint of character in the place is a massive stack of magazines piled against one wall. I mean, massive. In fact, it’s lots of stacks. They stretch nearly all the way along the wall, and are at least three feet high.

As I wander over to them, I realize that some of the magazines are still in their plastic—in fact, most of them are—and they’re all titles about music: Total Guitar. Vintage Rock. Country Music. Some are quite old, but the newest ones are from last week. Does he play the guitar? He never mentioned it.

“Cup of tea?” Seb says, bringing one out. “Or I can do coffee if you prefer?”

“Tea is great.” I smile back at him. “Thanks. Nice flat! Swanky!”

It suddenly occurs to me that he probably inherited some money or whatever when his mother died. Shit. It’s probably really tactless to say how nice his flat is.

“So … music!” I say, changing the subject. I gesture at the piles of magazines. “I had no idea.”

“Oh no.” Seb follows my gaze. “That’s not me. James was the music nut. My brother.”

“Right,” I say after a pause. “Of course.” I have no idea where to go next with this conversation, because my head is full of questions but I don’t want to ask any of them aloud. Why have you got so many magazines still stacked up? Why are you still subscribing to magazines you’re not interested in? Isn’t this a bit … weird?

“I should cancel the subscriptions, I guess,” says Seb easily. “I’ll do it one of these days.”

“Right,” I say again, and his voice is so relaxed, I find myself relaxing too. It’s only a quirk of his. We all have quirks.

“I know you’re a professional chef,” says Seb, interrupting my thoughts, “so I hardly dare suggest this, but I could make you some pancakes, if you like. Or waffles?”

“Waffles?” I say, impressed. “Homemade waffles?”

“I like cooking. Although I might have to go and buy some ingredients—”

“Don’t buy anything,” I say firmly. “Let’s have whatever you’ve got. Toast. Or nothing. Just tea is fine.”

We make toast and take it back to bed, and breakfast turns into more sex and then lying in each other’s arms, neither of us speaking. And I want to stay here forever.

“I can’t,” I groan at last. “I can’t. I must go.”

“Same.” Seb sighs.

“And I’ll have to go home for some clothes,” I say, in sinking realization. “I must get up.”

I have a quick shower; then, while Seb’s in the bathroom, I get dressed and roam around his flat. I notice the good knives in the kitchen—he obviously really does like cooking—and look through his DVDs. Then I venture down the hall and come to another door. I can’t resist trying the handle, but it won’t open. It’s locked.