Working With Heat. Anne Calhoun

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      “I smell curry. They must have given up on getting a table somewhere and gotten takeaway instead,” Milla said, stretching like a satisfied cat.

      He rolled out of bed to deal with the condom. When he came back, Milla was sitting cross-legged in the middle of his bed, all dark hair and red mouth against his white sheets. “Let’s not—” he started, then stopped. Shit.

      “Tell anyone?” she finished, listening to the faint clink of plates and laughter coming from the ground floor. “I don’t usually kiss and tell, but sure, if you want to keep it quiet, I’m fine with that.”

      “That’s fine,” he said quickly. Better than fine, actually. He sprawled in the bed and braced his head on one hand. With the creative jag he’d been on lately, the powerful, intense, all-consuming demand that he work until he dropped, he’d been able to ignore how he felt about Milla dating. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could ignore it, but he wasn’t ready to have that conversation now and potentially throw off his work.

      “Just stay?” he asked. “They’ll be up for hours.”

      “That works,” she said. “I’m a heavy sleeper and I left my bedroom door shut, so they won’t miss me.”

      The sun had finally set, casting evening shadows across the floor and bed. He found the zipper at the side of her dress and drew it down. She rocked from side to side so he could pull her dress off and toss it at the foot of the bed. He lifted the sheet and blanket, inviting her under the covers.

      “I’ll sneak in early tomorrow,” she said drowsily.

      Charlie watched her drift, her face no less vibrant as sleep claimed her. The jury was still out, but he knew one thing for sure. As of now they were more than friends, and all the neat compartments he’d built for his emotions were falling apart.

      * * *

      When he woke up the next morning, the other side of the bed was empty. He rolled onto his back and knuckled sleep from his eyes while he took stock. Sunshine poured through the windows, heating the air enough to bring out a faint hint of Milla’s perfume. The bathroom door was open, the shower curtain dry, so she’d not risked the clanking and banging the old pipes made and had sneaked out before dawn, when everyone in the house would be asleep. He knew why. He’d been a talented scholarship student from the East End trying desperately to make his way with art-world royalty from Kensington, hyperattuned to everyone else’s thoughts, feelings, desires. Milla had spent her life as an outsider, a stranger in a strange land. With an outsider’s keen awareness, she’d picked up on his mixed messages and given him that combination of sweet heat and silence he’d wanted, and not seemed to mind at all.