Dashing
...
Tuesday 4th December
It's his fault she's going to be late. His fault entirely!
His house, his responsibility for setting the alarm. His fault for forgetting.
His fault, too, that they both spectacularly overslept – he's the reason they went to bed so late last night, after all. Ergo, it is definitely his fault she is going to be late.
She thinks she could also probably blame him for the fact that when she woke up, instead of being comfortably snuggled beneath the duvet on her side of the bed while he slumbered away on his side as per usual, she was instead somehow inexplicably tucked tightly and very cosily against his chest, his arms firmly wrapped around her and his head tucked into the back of her shoulder as he snored on, oblivious. Totally, therefore, his fault she succumbed to the need to close her eyes for just five more exquisitely blissful minutes and promptly fell back into a very deep sleep.
Yeah, definitely his fault.
It really was a wonderful evening…
Not going to help her right now, though!
She hasn't got the benefit of a car with flashing blue lights, nor a willingness to drive like a lunatic just to make up for lost time.
She hasn't got the impatience to rush everything, forgo that first cup of morning tea and skip breakfast all in an effort not to let the youngsters beat her in to work either.
He can do the whole mad dash across London thing; she'll damn well take her time and make sure she arrives in one piece. It's most definitely a much more sensible course of action.
He growls at her in a fit of bad temper as she sidles into the basement. She ducks her head, shrugs off his grumblings and settles quietly behind her desk. It's all for show.
There are surreptitious glances traded between Kat and Spencer, but wisely they elect to say nothing, they just keep their heads down and carry on with whatever it is they are doing. Grace suppresses a smirk and tries to settle to the task of dealing with all the emails that went unanswered yesterday. Tries being the operative word. She makes an honest attempt, she really does, but images and memories of the particularly pleasant kind keep invading her mind, distracting her.
Minutes later Boyd catches her eye and she just knows he's thinking of exactly the same thing she is.
Firelight, darkness, heavy shadows. Warmth, red wine and deep, lazy kisses. A very heady mixture.
Emails! Emails!
Not happening…
Damn. She's mature, sensible, professional…
She should be able to concentrate.
But she can't.
She suspects it has a lot to do with feeling so content, relaxed, and secure in his arms when they both eventually woke up. And the delicate patterns he was so intently tracing across her shoulder with his fingertips before his eyes fell on the clock and he abruptly leapt out of bed with a loud and extremely impressive stream of rather succinct exclamations.
She really should get on with some work, but it's just nowhere near as much fun as daydreaming about the warmth of his skin and the softness of his touch, or the heat of his lips lingering on the back of her neck.
To hell with being sensible!