Into the Fire
8 of 12

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 6,570 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

I could have been SO MEAN... :D


Chapter 8.

He sat up, looked for and got the attention of the server, who came promptly with their ticket. After retrieving his jacket and tie from behind her on the chair then slipping the jacket back on, he pulled out his wallet and left enough cash on the table to more than cover their bill. When the show reached a break, he stood, offered his hand to her, and helped her to her feet.

He felt like someone else was directing his limbs, pulling the strings allowing him to walk while he observed what was to him an improbable scene, his hand hovering on her waist as they went for the car. It was only upon reaching it that he felt as if he were moving under his own power again; their gazes locked, and it was then, as he leaned her back against the passenger door, that he brought one hand up to wrap his fingers around the nape of her neck, his thumb grazing on her cheek. As he drew her closer to pull her into a kiss, her lids, his own, fluttered closed in anticipation.

The fire of his attraction combusted in the very moment their lips touched, and in direct reaction he roughly covered her mouth with his own; with all constraints now dissolved away, there was nothing tentative about the way he kissed her. She made a soft sound in response and threaded her fingers into his hair, arching up into him. He brought his hands to her hips, and it took a concerted effort on his part to keep them where they were; though it was relatively deserted, they were, after all, on a city street.

She pulled back. As his eyes met her sparkling ones again, he felt her fingers on his cheek, then nails gently drawing down along the pulse in his throat. "Take me to your place," she quietly commanded, her voice raspy.

Were it anyone but her he might have proceeded without hesitation. Caught up in the moment, in this whirlwind of physical desire, she might have serious regrets in the light of day. He placed his hand over hers and asked, his voice gravelly, "Are you absolutely sure this is what—"

"Yes, Mark," she interrupted. "I've given this a lot of thought. I was sure you'd noticed how much." She tilted her chin up, brushing her lips against his, triggering another passionate kiss between them. He tightened his fingers on her hips as she raked her nails down over his chest. She then broke away, whispering, "Your place."

He brought himself up to his full height, cupping her face with his palm, giving her a quick peck before stepping back with as much dignity as he could muster given the desire he presently felt.

She clearly had felt it as well, judging from the a crooked smile upon her face as he opened the door for her. She sank into the seat. He closed it for her, then walked quickly around to the other door to take the wheel.

It was a miracle he did not lose control of his car, crash into a light pole or end up in the Thames; driving with her idly grazing her nails over the back of his hand, leaned back in the seat with her dress riding up, was terribly distracting. At the red light he looked to her; her brows raised at the undoubtedly exasperated expression on his face. "You're making it very hard for me," he explained.

She pursed her lips together, trying not to laugh. He probably could have phrased that differently.

As he turned the corner onto his street, he noticed she became a little more awestruck. "I didn't know you lived here," she said reverently as he pulled into his drive.

"What do you mean?"

"It's really posh here," she said. "I mean… really posh."

"So I'm told," he said. "This matters why?"

She offered a smile again, this time tentatively. "I am, er, not posh."

"I would have thought you'd noticed," he began, lobbing her words back at her, "that I think you're better than posh."

At this she giggled a little.

He rose from behind the wheel and went around to offer a hand to her to help her get out of the car. She beamed a smile up to him. He had a straight line of vision down her dress, and he suspected she knew it.

He opened the front door and allowed her to enter first; the house was dark save for a small amber lamp in the foyer. The place seemed unnervingly quiet; her heels echoed very loudly on the glossy parquet floor. He slipped out of his suit jacket as he watched her walk almost as far as the staircase before she turned to face him again, her dress seemingly floating on the air around her as she did.

"Do you want something to drink?" he asked.

She shook her head, smiling demurely.

He walked up to her, reaching to take her hand in his; he knew if he kissed her again he would not want to stop, and the middle of the marble floor of the foyer or on the staircase was not the place to allow passion to take control.

However, if he thought that he was going to just primly lead her to his bedroom, he was very badly mistaken.

"Oof!" he said as she leapt up, putting her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, nearly causing him to stumble backwards. By sheer reflex he caught her in his hands; it just so happened that it was her bottom that he caught, hands half on bare skin, half on silk and lace.

She grinned impishly. "I didn't put your back out, did I?"

"Not even a little," he murmured.

"Think you'll be able to carry me to your room?"

"Know I will," he said, adoring the feel of her in his arms, pressed against him, soft and warm and curvy.

He scaled the stairs—during which she apologised for not realising he would have to climb quite so many—and went straight for his bedroom. He had barely passed through the threshold when he dove upon her with a kiss, landing them both squarely in the centre of his king-sized bed. He did not want to be hasty, though; as much as he wanted her, he also wanted to relish her. His hand slid up her leg to the hem of her dress, which he then took in his grasp and tugged upwards. She helped in this endeavour by sitting up and allowing him to pull it up and over her head.

"You're beautiful." The breathless words escaped him the moment he'd seen her, full breasts and hips and creamy skin that was like velvet to the touch, and which now was flushing pink in evidence of her self-consciousness; she was bare save for a lacy matching pant set and the shoes, a combination he found oddly sexy. Still blushing, she raised her hand. He thought she was going to run her fingertips over his cheek again, but she instead reached for the next button down on his shirt, flipping it open deftly.

He plucked each of those buttons open with record speed, peeling off his shirt, then undid his belt and zip before divesting himself of those too. As he sat in his undershirt and boxers, toeing off his shoes and socks, he realised she was regarding him with as much curiosity and appreciation as he'd been regarding her. Simultaneously they began to chuckle.

When they then leaned towards one another their laughter quickly faded, replaced by a reignited spark of passion, which leapt out to meet him before his lips even touched hers again. He pulled her to him and into a kiss that escalated faster and more ardently than any before it. With his fingers flitting over her body, her nails raking over his skin, he made love to her, they made love to each other, once, twice… more than he could ever recall making love with a woman in a single evening. It was well into the wee hours before they curled contentedly into each other's arms, her silky hair splayed on his shoulder as he held her close to him. He fell to sleep with her perfume lingering in his consciousness, and a solid, untroubled sleep it was.

The distant sound of a telephone ringing stirred Mark from slumber. Behind the drawn blinds the sun was already up and blazing, evident in the way the edges glowed and filled the room indirectly. The ringing stopped. Mark turned over to reach for Bridget.

She wasn't there.

Slightly alarmed, he sat up, looking around himself. He called her name. She came tiptoeing out of the loo dressed in his robe, which seemed three sizes too large for her. She looked tentative, troubled.

"Good morning," he said, determined not to panic and assume that she had regretted staying the night, even though it seemed exactly like that to him.

She offered a small smile. A polite smile. "Morning," she responded.

"Everything all right?"

She nodded, her features slightly distant. "Yeah."

He had not expected things to be this awkward.

"Shall I make us some coffee?" he offered. "You can… shower if you like—"

"Mark," she said abruptly. "How long have you lived here?"

The question caught him off guard. "What?"

"How long have you lived here?"

"Um…" He struggled to recall when he had closed on the house. "Four years?"

"And in all this time, this hasn't driven you mad?" she asked fervently.

"I have no idea what you're—"

"White," she said, looking apprehensive. "Everything's bloody white! Even this insanely high scary white chair!" She pointed to the chair next to the fireplace, which, to be fair, had a very high back culminating in exaggerated wings. She jumped as if startled when she saw the hearth. "Oh my God. There's a fireplace in here!"

She was agitated about the décor?

"Bridget," he said, as if calming an escaped mental patient. "What are you going on about?"

"And your bed's the size of a landing strip," she went on. "It's huge!"

He tried not to chuckle. "Bridget," he said. "Come here."

"Why?"

"So that we can talk about what's upsetting you."

"I'm not upset," she said, though her tone seemed to indicate otherwise.

He looked at her unblinkingly. "Come here," he commanded.

Sheepishly, she sat on the bed. He moved closer to where she was.

"Are you…" he began, not sure how to delicately broach the subject. "Do you wish you hadn't stayed the night?"

"No," she said emphatically. "I'm sorry. It isn't that at all." She looked around herself. "This is like… all out of a magazine or something. You're just so frighteningly… adult."

At that he did burst out with a laugh, pulled her into his arms for a hug. "I just have a bit of a head start, that's all," he said.

"A bit? You have a mansion—"

"It isn't a mansion."

"—and I have a sofa in—" She stopped dead. "Oh, fuck."

"What?"

"Tom. I never said goodbye last night."

"It'll be fine," he said, pulling back to look into her luminous eyes. "Surely he knows you're with me."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said. "He doesn't know you like I do. I should probably just give Tom a quick—oh, double fuck!"

"Language, Bridget," he said. "What's wrong?"

She pulled her lower lip through her teeth. "I think I left my handbag at our table last night. With my phone in it."

A quick check of the foyer indicated that she had indeed brought her handbag, but her phone was not in it. "I'm sure it couldn't have fallen out," she said glumly. "I'm sure of it."

He folded her into his arms. It was not exactly how he'd envisioned their first morning together. "It'll turn up," he said. "Don't worry about it." He drew away then took her face in his hands. He was thinking about what to say next… then decided simply to kiss her.

The kiss inevitably deepened, and she was divested of his robe. In the end, he was extremely thankful he had nowhere to be, nothing scheduled in his diary. He could have spent the whole of the day feasting his eyes on the sight of her lovely body… but the amount of physical exertion over the course of the previous twelve hours meant he needed food and really wanted some coffee.

"Mmm," she said contentedly, smiling as she arched and stretched out her arms and legs, forming a graceful curve half-covered by the linens. "I guess I can see the benefits of a landing-strip-sized bed."

He chuckled, propping himself up, running his hand over her abdomen to her hip. "What would you like for breakfast?" he asked.

She looked up to him. "Don't suppose you have chocolate croissants," she asked.

"Sorry, no," he replied. "I'm not sure what I have. We could go exploring in the kitchen."

She grinned. "Okay."

He found a pyjama top for her to wear, which she slipped into as he put on the robe. It was adorable and yet at the same time quite alluring, as the vee neck of the top came down quite low in the front. Together they went down the stairs and to the kitchen. Her reaction to the wall of stainless steel cupboard doors was not unexpected given her earlier statements about frightening adulthood, but in the end, the two of them just started laughing about the ridiculousness of the whole design.

"I suppose it's meant as a deterrent," she said, pulling open a door only to find a washing machine.

"How do you mean?" His contained a pantry with plates and bowls.

"Well, if you can't find the food, you can't bloody well eat it."

He laughed. He loved that she made him laugh so easily and readily.

She yanked open another door. "Ha. Found it," she declared triumphantly. It was in fact the refrigerator. He peered in as she did. It was not a particularly promising collection of food; it appeared a trip to the food market was in order some time in the near future. He'd have to remember to tell the housekeeper to up the amount of food she purchased to accommodate a regular second person. And possibly a few sweets.

"Eggs strike your fancy?" he asked.

"Sure," she said.

First priority was to put the coffee on. Additional searching led them to plates, mugs, silverware, and the French press. He fired up the hob, then brought a frying pan up to temperature, dropping in some olive oil. He then took out a few eggs and cheese, cracked the eggs into a glass bowl, threw in some herbs, salt and pepper as he whisked them together. It all went into the pan, hitting the oil with a great sizzle.

"Smells wonderful."

He looked to where she had perched on a stool at the breakfast nook. She was watching him very intently, a smile playing on her lips.

"What?"

"Nothing," she said playfully. "I just never thought cooking could be so sexy."

He glanced down and back to the eggs, feeling his embarrassment flush over his face. He reached for a spatula to give them a diligent stir. It would not do to serve undercooked eggs and make the both of them sick.

"What's that all about?" she asked, suddenly next to him. He felt her hand on his back.

"What's what all about?"

"The adorable blush," she said. "I find it hard to believe you haven't been called sexy before."

"Well," he said. For the first time in what seemed a very long time, he thought of his ex-wife. "Believe it."

She apparently picked up on his train of thought. "That woman was a fool," she said, leaning in to put her arm around his waist.

It was very difficult to concentrate on cooking breakfast with her leaning into him affectionately. "Bridget," he said sternly. "Hot hob, here."

Holding on to his forearm, she swung around, got up onto her toes and nuzzled into his neck, placing an open-mouthed kiss on his throat, just on his pulse point.

He dropped the spatula.

She began giggling then bent to retrieve it for him. "Five second rule," she said, holding it up. "Not as if your floor isn't clean enough to eat off of."

He smirked.

After a few minutes more to ensure the eggs were not runny and the cheese had melted, he put a portion them on each plate, then poured two cups of coffee, one for each of them.

"Sugar?" she asked as they sat at the breakfast nook.

He was not sure where the sugar bowl was, and admitted as such.

She laughed. "Oh, Mark. Why do you not even know where anything is in your own kitchen?"

He knew she meant it jokingly, but he took it very much to heart. It was rather pathetic to not even know where things were in a room that most people used every day. He poked at his food with his fork.

"Mark?"

He looked back to her.

"I was only kidding."

"Oh, I know."

She stood, then went to him, climbed to sit on his lap and put her arms around him. He accepted and returned the embrace. "Didn't really mean to hit a sore spot," she murmured. "Did she like to cook or something?"

"What?"

"Your ex-wife. Was the kitchen her domain or something?"

At that Mark burst into an unexpected laugh. "Nothing could be further from the truth. I'm just… we ate out a lot. She couldn't be bothered, and I was usually too busy. I still eat out a lot, or the housekeeper takes pity on me and makes me something nice for when I get home."

"Oh," she said quietly. "Poor Mark. How many years did you suffer married to that witch?"

He realised that he must have neglected to mention how long his marriage had lasted. "Weeks."

"What?"

"Weeks, Bridget. We were married for two weeks before… what happened, happened."

Her mouth dropped into a big, round O. "You're joking."

"I'm not."

"Surely you dated for a while beforehand?"

"About a year, year and a half, if you could call dinner and social occasions 'dating'," he said, wondering what on earth had been wrong with him not to see it for the farce it had been. "We didn't spend a lot of time here."

She stroked his face tenderly before her nails combed up through his hair. He closed his eyes and sighed. "Poor, poor Mark." Her lips were suddenly on his for a sweet kiss, then another, then she parted her lips and persuaded him to do the same. It was not so sweet a kiss for long.

She turned on his lap and straddled it, and with her wearing nothing but the pyjama top and Mark clad only in the robe, it rapidly went from snogging to doing something he had never done in the kitchen before. He suspected it would be difficult in future to eat there without a fond smile.

"Thank God," she said, panting into his ear afterwards in a very satisfied manner, "for modern chemistry and the microwave."

He too was thankful for the fact she was on a contraceptive pill, but breakfast was likely tepid, sparking him to say, "Oh, hell."

"It's okay," she said, laughing lightly. "I think you needed that more."

In that instance he came so close to just saying "I love you"… but thought after a single night (well, into the day) of making love, it might appear to her to be too much, too soon. Instead he just smiled and kissed the tip of her nose.

He did locate the sugar bowl as well as the microwave, though there was some doubt at first of the existence of the latter. Bridget declared it a day of major accomplishments as she tucked into breakfast at last. "It's very good," she said, "the food, I mean. You're much better at cooking than I am."

"Again: head start."

It was on the way out of the kitchen after eating that Mark noticed the light blinking on his answerphone. He drew his brows together. He had no idea who might have been calling. "Go ahead and listen," she said. "I'll leave if you like."

"No, that's fine." Whoever it was, he really had nothing to hide from her.

He pressed answer play.

"Bridget." He did not know what startled him more: that it was for Bridget, or that it was a man's voice booming out of his machine. There was a melodramatic pause. "I hope worrying me sick to death, convinced I'd find you in pieces in Hyde Park, was worth it." Another pause; the tone of his voice was somewhat lighter when he resumed speaking. "Hope you're having a nice time, love. And in case you're wondering how I knew where to call, you left your mobile in the flat."

Bridget turned scarlet, but began laughing. "Tom," she managed between breaths.

He smiled too, sure he was equally scarlet.

She punched in Tom's number just to let him know via brief return answerphone message that she was in fact not in pieces in the park, then turned back to Mark. "I could go for that shower now."

He was prepared to allow her to go first, figured he could make the bed, pull some clothes out to wear and otherwise tidy up. However, when he hung back as she entered the bathroom, she turned around and gave him a curious look.

"Towels are in the linen closet," he said, anticipating what he thought her question would be.

"Mark," she said. Then with the corner of her mouth quirked upwards, she raised her hand and beckoned him closer with her index finger.

He felt a sheepish smile spread across his face, and proceeded forward.

He very much enjoyed running his soaped-up hands over her body, as much as she seemed to enjoy being washed. She also seemed delighted at returning the favour, deciding that the most efficient way to wash him was to soap up then hold herself against him. He wouldn't have called it efficient by any means, but he did very much like her body sliding against his, his hands slipping over her skin as they kissed then made love again.

He had not been this libidinous before to the best of his recollection, not even when he was her age, and as they towelled themselves (and each other) off afterwards, he considered why that was. It seemed all too obvious: she was young, energetic, and very attractive; however, his attraction to her was not based on her appearance, at least not solely, but in conjunction with and primarily because of her personality and intelligence.

"You're looking very sombre," he heard her say. He turned her eyes to her.

"It's nothing," he said. "I'm not sombre at all. Rather the opposite." He offered her a smile, which seemed to placate her.

"How about we… I don't know. It's a lovely day. Let's go for a walk."

His legs were a little achy after all of their amorous activity, but he smiled and agreed. He found a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt while she slipped her dress from the night before over her head, then smoothed it down in an effort to shake out the wrinkles. "Hm," she said, examining herself in the mirror. "Wet, mad hair and no makeup. Don't suppose you have a pair of ladies' sunglasses lying around?"

He thought she looked lovely, and said so. She pursed her lips, but was smiling too.

"You sort of have to say that, don't you?" she teased.

"What?"

"Well, you know, after shagging me all night long."

He felt his face flush with heat. "I would never just say so," he said defensively.

Her eyes softened. "You mean it."

"Of course I mean it," he said.

She reached and took his hand. "Let's get some air."

In a comfortable silence they strolled around the neighbourhood, beautiful and clean with abundant greenery, her hand cradled in his. He knew at some point they would have to talk about this; he was intensely curious about when her own feelings had developed, whether they were anything as strong as the feelings he had for her.

He could, however, be patient and be happy with what he had in the present.

They stopped in Holland Park to rest on a bench in the shade under a tree. For a July day it was not yet too warm, but it was only barely past noon. He rested back against the bench. She took his hand, raised his arm up and around her shoulders, then leaned back into the crook of his arm. The breeze ruffled through her hair, sending the shampoo fragrance wafting up and tantalising him; somehow it smelled better coming off of her. He tightened his fingers around her shoulders.

"I wasn't sure what you thought about me," she said quietly, unprompted. "I thought you tolerated me at best."

After a few thoughtful moments, he said, "I was very fond of you, but had to walk a very careful line while you were my student. I know that made me seem cold or indifferent at times."

"I knew intellectually that that's what you were probably doing," she replied. "Emotionally was a different story." She paused again, clearly in contemplation. "I don't know if it's because you're older than the other men I've known, but you're… so much more assured of yourself. You know who you are."

"I'm not so sure I do," he said. "Or at least I'm not sure I did. You actually helped me a lot with that."

She went quiet again, rested her head against his shoulder. "What did I do?"

"I had a very narrow view of what my life was supposed to be like," he said. "And even when I was doing what I thought was right for me, it blew up in my face. I was going through my days, going through the motions, and in order to avoid that kind of pain a second time, I kept everyone at arm's length, emotionally speaking. You met Natasha. You've seen what I was working with."

She chuckled. "Yes."

"Then I went to Bangor. I wasn't in the box that was my life anymore. I got a chance to relax the stringent self-imposed rules I'd set. And then I met you… you weren't like anyone else I knew."

"You'd already met me."

"You know what I mean."

Another pause. "Yes," she murmured.

"Besides," he said wryly, "we were neither of us at our best at New Year's."

"What was wrong with me at New Year's?" she asked, sitting up and looking at him.

He laughed. "You were only interested in getting out of Grafton Underwood as quickly as possible, and didn't care the least about irritating me in the car."

"Hmm, I suppose," she conceded, settling back in, "though I wasn't technically out to irritate you."

"Hm," he said. "Yes, you're right, it was probably me. I was much more prone to irritation at the time. I see that now." He leaned and pressed a kiss into her hair. "I can thank you for that, as well."

"For making you less irritable?" she said.

"For helping me to relax a little," he said. "Be a little more at ease with myself. Not be so hard on myself. And to realise that work is not everything."

"Oh," she said. He glanced down to her. She was smiling very subtly.

He took in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, looking around them, at the way the leaves blew in the breeze, were dappled by the sun, at the other park-goers walking by, at the clouds moving slowly across the cerulean sky; everything about this moment was perfect, and he wanted to memorise as many details as he could.

"Are you up for more walking?" she asked.

"Well, we do eventually have to walk back to my house."

"I want to show you where my flat will be, if I get it."

There was an odd mixture of emotions at her mentioning the flat. He was glad for her strike out into independence… but there was also a second there where he wanted to just have her come and live with him in his big, lonely house. "Is it near to here?"

"Hm, not strictly. It's by Borough Market. But we could take the Tube for part of it."

He couldn't not think of the last time he'd ridden the Underground. He grinned. "Let's go, then."

They strolled down to the High Street Kensington station; he had his wallet with him so he paid for the Tube. The ride was not long—probably, he thought, no shorter by car—and they got off at the Monument station.

"It's just over the bridge," she said.

Heading south over London Bridge, he realised the temperature had risen a little. By the time they got to her prospective building, he was parched. He looked up; it was apparently the top flat of a building that was home to a pub. It was not in the greatest neighbourhood or one in which he thought a young woman should be living all on her own, but he wanted to be supportive.

"It's really nice," she went on to say. "It's bigger than I thought it would be, and not open plan, thank God."

"You can afford it?"

"Well," she demurred. "I will just have to be very frugal with money, is all."

"Let's go into the pub," he said. "I'll buy you something to drink."

He had a pint of bitter and she, a cider. He knocked it back far more quickly than he should have, and had another. "Oh you know," she said, "there's a thought."

"What's that?"

"I could maybe work here to make a little extra money."

"Have you ever tended bar or been a server in your life?" he wondered, though the thought of her working in a pub late at night caused his protective instinct to flare up.

"Well… no." She seemed a bit deflated.

He took another sip. "If you can't afford it, maybe you shouldn't take it."

"Oh, I can," she said. "I just… well, I hope I'll get a rise in the very near future."

"You've only been there a month."

"You're being a wet blanket," she said.

"I'm being realistic." He reached and took her hand. Again he just wanted to tell her to just come and move in with him, but it was ridiculous after one night's worth of intimacy; by the same token the thought of her alone in this flat on the other side of the Thames disturbed him. Even more startling was the anticipated sadness of returning to his home all alone, waking without her; how depressing and lonely it would be. It was a testiment to how much he cared about her already.

"You're good at that too," she said after a moment.

"What's that?"

"Being my reality check," she said with a smile.

After their respite they decided to take a different route back to his house, wandering to the London Bridge train station and heading west, transferring just past St James Park at the Bond Street station, then heading on the Tube line and getting off just near Mark's house, at the Holland Park station.

"Will you take me home?" she asked as they approached his house on foot.

He felt dejected; even though he'd spent almost the last twenty-four hours in her company, he did not want to be apart from her. "Of course," he said. "Let's get your handbag."

They went back into the house, which seemed like a cool oasis compared to the summer sun. He retrieved her handbag from the foyer—she hadn't seen the need to carry it on their walk—and as he took the car keys off of the tray on the table, she added, "Perhaps a stop for some chocolate croissants, too."

"Certainly," he said.

As they got in the car, he focused on the task of driving in lieu of the loneliness awaiting him for the rest of Saturday night, at least until Bridget said:

"Mark?"

"Hm?"

"You do realise I meant for a sponge bag and a change of clothes, don't you?"

He turned his eyes to her. She looked amused beyond measure. He started to laugh too.

"I thought maybe you'd had enough of me and my scary adultness for one day," he confessed.

As she drew her fingers over the back of his hand as it rested on the gear shift, she giggled. How he loved the sound of it.

While she put her things together, Mark stood in awkward silence as Tom typed away on his laptop.

"You see, Tom?" she called from the bathroom. "He's not a homicidal maniac."

"He could just be biding his time," Tom called back, then looked up and to Mark's astonishment, winked.

"Ha, ha," she called back.

Tom then asked, his gaze remaining on Mark, "You're a lawyer?"

"Yes."

"So, hypothetical scenario," Tom went on, closing the laptop and setting it down on the coffee table as he rose to his feet. "Would it be considered justifiable homicide if someone were to, say, hurt a friend of theirs whom they think of as a younger sister—"

"Point taken," Mark said. "You would have to get in line behind her father, her mother… and come to think of it, probably my parents too."

Tom smiled a little. "So long as we have an understanding." Tom stared up at him. "You can sit down, you know. I don't bite. At least not without asking nicely."

Mark chuckled. "Thank you," He said taking a seat. "By the way, your show was very, very good."

"Thanks," he said, and his smile was genuine. "The real showstopper is the finale, though."

Mark felt heat creep up his face. "We'll have to come to another show to catch the end."

He watched Tom's mouth purse with amusement.

Bridget's appearance out of the back of the flat saved him further embarrassment. He rose to his feet as she approached him; she now wore blue jean shorts and a tee shirt, and had a large holdall slung over her shoulder. The freedom to just reach out and touch her when he wanted to with other people around was still something of a novelty, so a bit stiffly he leaned into her, put his arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head. "All set?" he asked as he retreated, taking her bag from her.

"Yep," she replied. "Oh, Tom, my mobile."

"Right," he returned, then pointed to the coffee table, where it sat beside the closed laptop. She reached down for it.

"Oh, a message," she said. "Do you mind?" He shook his head. She punched some buttons then put the phone to her ear. She listened for a bit; he watched her face transform to one of great delight. She looked at Mark, then to Tom. "That was Jude. The flat's mine as of the first!"

"Congratulations, darling," said Tom. "Though I'm going to miss you."

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder," she teased. She slipped the phone into her pocket. "Well, shall we? I'm feeling peckish for supper."

"Leaving me already, are you?" Tom said in a dramatic voice. "I see how it is."

She giggled. "I will be back before I go for good, Tom. After all, I have things to pack." She reached and hugged Tom, pecking his cheek. "See you soon."

He said something too quiet for Mark to hear, which caused her to burst out with a laugh.

They departed from Tom's and returned to the car. He had to admit that he was distracted by the sight of her bare legs, but he was also curious about what Tom had said, and so asked her. She blushed.

"Nothing," she said. "Come on. You promised chocolate croissant for the morning."

He was too delighted by the implication that she was intending on staying over again to press her to tell him. He put her bag in the boot, and they were off towards the food market.

They strode down the aisles together, finding things for supper, snack and breakfast the next day. Their conversation was light and thoroughly enjoyable, but in the back of his mind he could only think of what he'd said earlier to Tom, regarding her parents and his. What would they think? Of course she was an adult and was free to make her own choices, but would they believe that this… whatever it was so far… hadn't begun while in Bangor?

"It is okay, isn't it?" she asked as they drove back towards Holland Park.

"What?"

"My, um, staying for dinner."

He smiled. "Of course it's okay," he said tenderly. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"You… never mind. I must have been imagining things," she said, turning to face forward.

"Bridget," he insisted.

"I just work entry level in a publishing house," she said eventually. "You're very… well, surely you work sometimes on the weekend too. I don't want to interfere with that."

"Well, Bridget," he said thoughtfully. "It's true that sometimes I do bring my work home with me. Or at least I have in the past." He pulled into the driveway and switched off the car. "Mostly it was to keep my mind off of everything else." He turned to her. "How little of a life I had outside of work. And given the choice on a Saturday night of working or spending my time with you… well. No question. As I said earlier."

She smiled, looking away bashfully, which, given the level of intimacy they'd reached over the last day, was a bit funny. "Oh," she said, reaching down.

"What?"

"You still listen to the CD I made you."

He waited for her to look back before he nodded. "It reminds me of our drives together."

She smiled again, looking almost emotional. He reached and kissed her on the lips briefly. "Come on," he said. "I'm feeling peckish too."

They went into the house, her holdall slung over his shoulder and a carrier bag in each hand. "I'm starting to wish we had just gotten some takeaway," she said ruefully.

"Oh?"

"Mm, though getting to watch you in the kitchen again…" she said, winking at him when he turned to her.

He chuckled, though privately wished they had ordered takeaway, too.

"I'll take my bag upstairs and meet you in the kitchen?" she said, her statement turning into a question.

He nodded again, handing her the holdall. He went into the kitchen with the food, putting away that which needed refrigeration. His eyes then fixed on the breakfast nook and smiled, as he predicted he would with the memory of the morning's activities. This then melded with the memory of her jean shorts and bare legs and…

He went up to the bedroom, where he found she had stopped to primp a bit in front of the bathroom mirror; she was brushing out her hair when she started at his presence. "Thought I said I'd meet you down—"

"Executive decision," he said, taking her into his arms, moving his hands down over her arse and to the skin on the back of her thighs. "Chinese takeaway."

She giggled, then put her arms around his neck and kissed him.