Benedict sends me his address and Zoey and I find our way there fairly easily. To my surprise, the nearest tube stop is Blackfriars. It’s less than half a mile away, in an old, brick building with iron loft windows. I press the buzzer and turn to Zoey, who looks around with raised eyebrows. I want to ask her what she’s thinking about. She grew up in the city, after all. I get the feeling it wasn’t in an area like this. There’s a Monmouth coffee next door to the building, and several bougie restaurants on the block that are parallel to the Thames. People in suits crowd around us, and the streets are lined with nice, luxury cars.
The buzzer sounds and the door clicks open, and I escort us up to the second story.
“Holy shit,” Zoey mutters, looking around. “He must pay a fortune in rent being this central.”
I nod. “I don’t doubt it.”
I get to his flat—#4E—and knock twice. Hayes throws the door open, his eyes smiling at me. When he notices Zoey at my side, something akin to pure delight flashes across his face.
“Come in,” he says, grinning.
I glance at Zoey as we amble in, and she’s clenching her jaw so hard, I worry she’ll break a tooth.
I look around, amazed at the flat, and the fact that I’ve never been here before. There’s a north facing wall of glass, and the light streams into the loft in large shafts. He has a clear view of St. Paul’s, as well as The City, The River Thames, and The Tate Modern. The furnishings are modern and abstract, yet lived in.
“Where’s Benedict?” I ask, standing up straighter. Hayes is watching us, his hands in his pockets. He’s wearing black jeans and a denim jacket. Zoey clears her throat and looks away.
“He’s in the restroom. He’ll be out in a minute.” He says, his accent thick and his English smooth and practiced.
I nod, rocking back and forth on my heels. Hayes has grown on me, and I actually don’t mind being in his presence. He’s rough around the edges. Intimidating. And he can be an arrogant jerk. But he saved Benedict’s life.And he saved mine too.
However, the tension in this room now that Zoey is here is fraught and thick with unease.
“Would you like anything to drink?” Hayes asks, sauntering over to us. Zoey watches him like a hawk. He must realize it, too, because he reaches out and brushes a tightly bound curl away from her face. She slaps his hand away.
“Not from you,” she answers, turning and marching over to the leather couch.
I shrug. “I’ll take whatever you have.”
He smiles and nods. He looks over at Zoey, who is getting settled on the furthest corner of the couch, her phone in her hand.
“Is she always this uptight?” he asks, rolling his tongue around in his cheek.
“Only around you,” I quip.
“Interesting,” he mutters, moving into the kitchen.
I’m about to sit when the bathroom door opens, and Benedict saunters out.
“Hi,” I say, grinning. “How are you?”
He looks uncomfortable, and he walks over, grimacing. “In pain today. It hit me a couple of hours ago.” He bends down and kisses me on the lips. His grey sweater and black sweatpants are very becoming on his tall frame—the scruff and messy hair adding to the charm. “I need help changing my dressing, but I can’t seem to get the angle right.”
“Let me help,” I answer, setting my purse on one of the dining room chairs.
The whole living area is open concept—with tall ceilings and a brick, southern-facing wall. I glance over at Zoey, who is on her phone, and Hayes is still making our drinks, so I nod and walk over to what I assume is the bedroom door. I push the door open, taking in the moody, rich bedroom. The wall behind the bed is dark grey, and to the right, a floor-to-ceiling window overlooks the Thames. There’s a dresser, bed frame, and nightstands made of dark wood, and a black, velvet sofa against the one free wall. I glance into the bathroom where I see the plastic bag that the hospital sent home with us. Luckily, they showed me how to change the dressing on his wound.
“Let me get the things,” I murmur, walking into the bathroom and trying not to act impressed. There’s a large shower with two showerheads sprouting from the ceiling, a toilet, and a free-standing, oval tub next to another large window. Imagine taking a bath with an entire view of the city? I wash my hands, grab the materials, and set them on his bed. He wanders over and sits on the edge, lifting his shirt up. I kneel in front of him, snapping the latex gloves on.
“So many dirty things are running through my mind right now,” he growls, giving me a wicked smile.
“Oh, stop. Let’s get you healed first, okay? I don’t need you busting a stitch.”
He chuckles. “If you fuck without busting a stitch, you’re doing it wrong.”
Something fiery blazes through me, sliding down my core to the spot between my legs. “Yeah, yeah.” I remove the old dressing from his abdomen, glancing at the tiny tattoo there. “I found your mom’s poem, by the way. It’s in my purse. I didn’t want you to lose it.”
He smiles at me, his dark hair falling forward. “Thank you. I was wondering where it went.”
