“Do I? Oh, I ran out of Post-it notes.” I stare up at him, feeling completely at sea. I should be jumping up and servicing him. Making sparkling conversation or delivering a stellar blowjob. Instead, I feel like a puppet who’s had its strings cut.
He gestures at me. “Come on. On your feet.”
I blink and stand up obediently. “Oh, are we having sex? How… howsmashing,” I say lamely.
To my astonishment, he laughs. It’s a rusty sound, but very infectious, and I feel my lip twitching.
“I think we know for sure that you’ll never have a career on the stage. Come along.”
I trail after him into the bedroom. I’m expecting him to start stripping, but he strides into the bathroom. I hear water start, and he reappears in the doorway, removing his jacket. He tosses it onto the unmade bed and begins to roll up his sleeves.
“Yay,” I say, pulling up my T-shirt. I blanch when I realise it’s my old one that says Twink Army on it. I also smell pretty bad. “Let’sdoit,” I say as enthusiastically as I can. My brain is still focused on the disaster that will be tomorrow.
“Get into the shower.”
“I haven’t got time for that,” I say indignantly, remembering too late that one of Julian’s rules is never to argue. “I’ve got to fit in a fuck now before I revise through the night.” I stop. “Not that fucking isevera chore,” I quickly add.
He rolls his eyes. “Of course not.” He gestures at the shower. “Get in and wash your hair. You’ll feel better.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever feel better. The whole world is going to see me fail. Oh mygod.”
He takes my shoulders in his hands. “You are not going to fail,” he says steadily. “Wes, look at me.” I obey him. His eyes are intent and kind. “It’s all going to be fine.”
“Do you promise?” I say plaintively and grimace because I sound like a small child.
“I promise.” I’m astonished when he kisses my forehead. He must share my surprise, because he steps back quickly and almost gracelessly. His usual cool expression falls back over his face. “Shower,” he orders.
Nodding, I move into the bathroom. I take my dirty clothes off with a sigh of relief, throwing them in the hamper before sliding under the spray. It’s heavenly, the jets pummelling down on my sore shoulders and back. I take my time, scrubbing myself rigorously and then washing my hair three times, revelling in the feel of the squeaky-clean locks.
Finally done, I step out, scrubbing a towel over my hair and body before knotting it at my hips. I wander back into the bedroom and stop dead. I’d expected to find him in bed waiting for me, but the room is empty, and the bed is now neatly made with fresh bedlinen. I hear the clink of crockery and hasten into the lounge.
I blink. The room is once more pristine. The empty pots, cups, and wrappers have all vanished, and the sofa is clear of clothes, the cushions plumped up. A horrible thought occurs.Where are my notes? I look around anxiously and relax when I see neat piles of paper on the dining table. A flash of colour catches my eye, and I drift closer. On top of my files are three brand-new yellow legal pads and an enormous box of fluorescent-coloured Post-its.
A noise alerts me, and I turn to find Mac leaning against the kitchen door, his arms folded over his chest. His hair tumbles over his forehead, and—my mouth twitches—he’s wearing an apron tied neatly around his narrow waist.
“Are aprons making a comeback in the world of workplace fashion?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “In my opinion, they never should have left.”
I snort, and a smile hovers at the edges of his mouth. “Thank you for the pads and Post-it notes,” I say softly. “Where on earth did you get them from?”
“I rang reception and requested them.”
“Good grief. What it is to have staff at your beck and call.”
“You have them too, but oddly don’t appear to have thought of that.” He steps back and gestures for me to enter the kitchen. “In here, please.”
“Oh, are we having sex on the appliances?Yay,” I say, trying for enthusiasm but ending with a slightly peevish edge.
“Not today, Satan,” he says briskly. He steps back as I walk past him and then almost bumps into me when I stop dead.
“Where did that come from?” A bowl of soup is steaming gently on the table, along with a basket of bread. I step closer and touch a piece of the bread. It’s still warm. I look back at Mac. “You did all this?” I say wonderingly.
“All what?”
“Cleaning the flat, getting me stationery, and now food.”
“The flat was offending my eyes and nasal passages, and my stomach actually recoiled at the sight of what you’ve been eating. It was for me, not you.”
