Page 18 of Unforeseen Love

Me: Whatever. Anyway, you heard about this clap for carers?

I walk over and look out the window––anything to avoid looking at Morticia sleeping over there.

Jake: Absolutely, my mum’s a key worker.

Oh yeah, I forgot she’s a nurse for ICU.

Matt: Damn, your mum is a MILF.

Laughing, I shake my head. Jake will kick his arse next time he sees him. The idiot is asking for trouble.

Jake: STFU, Matthew.

I crack open the window.

Phil: I do like a woman in a nurse’s uniform.

Shaking my head, I type out a quick reply.

Me: Mate, we don’t need to be privy to your fantasies.

Jake: *Image of a saucepan and wooden spoon*

Frowning, I start typing a response, but one of the guys beats me to it.

Matt: ??

Phil: Master Chef?

Jake: It’s for clap for carers, got to big it up for my mum.

Any other time, I’m pretty sure we’d give him some shit for being a mumma’s boy. I’m actually a little shocked Matt hasn’t replied with anything.

The sound of a soft thud has me turning my attention back to the sofa. Sienna’s book has fallen out of her hand, but she’s still out for the count.

I’m suddenly hit with a wicked idea, and I go over to the kitchen cupboard and quietly pull out what I’m looking for, trying not to giggle like a schoolboy as I make my way back into the living room.

I hit record and set up my phone on the coffee table, and then I wait. I know the moment eight o’clock strikes when the echoes of clapping, whistling, and cheering come through the open window.

Smiling to myself, I raise the stainless-steel ladle and pull my arm back, then I start hitting it against the underside of the frying pan. The sound cracks in the air, and to my utter amusement, it has the desired effect as Sienna jolts and then proceeds to fall off the sofa in a huge heap, hitting the floor with a loud thump.

“Shit,” she curses, and her head pops up as she swipes her hair out of her face as she gathers her bearings.

Her eyes quickly find me over by the window, rapping away against the pan in quick succession.

She pushes herself to her feet, albeit unsteadily. “What the fuck?”

“Clap for Carers,” I say, unable to keep my smile at bay.

She opens her mouth to reply but just ends up looking like a fish gasping for air.

“What? You not clapping?” I ask.

If it were any other circumstance, I am pretty sure she’d tell me to fuck off.

But instead, she starts clapping until the cheers and echoes of everyone locally dies down.

Pulling the window shut, I retrieve my phone and then put the saucepan and ladle back in the kitchen, which is followed by the sound of her bedroom door slamming.

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