From Paris With Love This Christmas. Jules Wake

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       Chapter 5

      Monday morning and brewing day. With a yawn and a stretch, he rubbed his bristled chin. Shaving was a chore and it wasn’t like he worked in an office any more but after a few days, the stubble drove him crazy.

      He staggered through to the bathroom and then stopped dead. The shower was running.

      He knocked on the door. ‘Siena? Is that you?’

      ‘Yes, won’t be long.’

      Bloody hell. He wanted a pee, a shave and a shower. No, he needed a pee. Right now. He wanted his usual morning routine. For a minute he waited but there was no fricking sign of the water abating. Did the fact she was up so early mean she had a flight to catch?

      He’d avoided her on Saturday night by inviting himself along to the pub with Ben. That had backfired a bit because Claire had been there and had somehow ended up hip to hip with him all evening and he might have had a drink too many and might have kissed her. But suggesting lunch on Sunday had probably been his stupidest move. He didn’t want to lead her on and he had horrible idea that he might have given her the wrong signals.

      Two full minutes later and his bladder was telling him he wasn’t a freaking camel. He could have burst in but catching Siena naked again felt wrong. Stomping downstairs, he barged into the kitchen, knocking a toe painfully against one of the wooden chairs.

      ‘For crying out loud,’ he spat through gritted teeth. Grasping the hot tap, he turned it on full and looked up at the ceiling. ‘Take that, madam.’ A second later, he heard a squeal of shock. He let the tap run for a good minute until he heard the shower door slam.

      With a satisfied wrench he switched the tap off.

      Knocking on the bathroom for a second time made no difference.

      ‘Siena, I need to get in there.’

      ‘I won’t be long.’

      ‘You already have been.’

      ‘I’ll be out in five.’

      ‘You’ve got five seconds before I go and pee in the wastepaper basket in your bedroom.’

      There was no response.

      ‘One.’

      He heard Siena sniff.

      ‘Two.’

      ‘Three.’

      He opened her bedroom door, listening with satisfaction to its loud, familiar squeak.

      ‘Don’t you dare!’ She shot out of the bathroom, her hair bundled in a towel with another wrapped around her. ‘I’m out.’ She stuck her nose in the air. ‘Honestly, some people have no patience.’

      ‘Some people are trying to get ready to go to work. Alien concept I’m sure.’

      She stopped, drew herself up and with a haughty stare looked right down her nose at him. If he hadn’t been so damn desperate for the loo, he might have found it cute. Her attempt at snotty would have worked better if she were a few inches taller but he topped her by three inches.

      ‘I’ve got a job interview, actually.’ With that she sauntered off to her bedroom.

      He dived into the bathroom, so full of steam he could barely see a thing. Blessed relief. Now he could think straight. What the hell was she talking about? He shook his head and climbed into the shower, promptly slipping on the fragrant suds all over the shower tray and banging his knee hard on the tiled wall. Christ alive, she was a liability. A job? Doing what? Smelling people?

      Stepping out of the shower he went to pluck the towel from the hook. Pushing wet hair out of his face he tried again, his hand scrabbling against the back of the door.

      What? No bloody towel. No doubt the one wrapped turban style around her head. He’d kill her. Swear to God, he would.

      Still dripping, he grabbed the hand towel, which was about as much use as a hanky. Sourly he rubbed a section of the mirror clear of condensation which promptly fogged over again. She couldn’t even open the damn window to get rid of the steam. His knee throbbed and he managed to nick himself shaving. Not even eight o’clock and this day was turning out shite.

      ‘Would you like some coffee? The real deal?’ Siena beamed at him and sipped at her mug with a beatific expression on her face as he stomped into the kitchen.

      Unfortunately the rich smell of real coffee addled his brain and when he would have asked her what the hell was going on, all he could do was nod.

      And bloody hell it was good coffee. Seriously good.

      ‘Not a morning person, are you?’

      Clutching the coffee to his chest in case she turned nasty and took it away again, he glared at her.

      ‘You’ll find most men aren’t when the morning routine they’ve enjoyed uninterrupted for the last six months is hijacked by someone who doesn’t understand the concept that there are only sixty seconds in a minute and СКАЧАТЬ