Page 21 of The Player

“Come in,” I say, holding the door open.

He bends to pick up something.

“Ooh, what have you got?” I ask, craning to see what it is. “Is it more cake and presents? Oh,” I add disappointedly. “A spade.”

He moves past me into the house, smirking as he goes. His body is big and warm as he passes me. “You seem very well adjusted to celebrating your birthday for someone who’s ignored it for the last few years.”

“You know me. I’m easily adjustable.”

He rolls his eyes. “You’re about as adjustable as an old saucepan.”

“Lovely,” I say sourly.

I follow him through the kitchen as he stops and eyes the open fridge. “Air conditioning would probably be cheaper, Frankie.”

“You’re so funny you should have your own show.” I pause. “On Channel Five.”

“Ouch.” He walks out into the garden and whistles. “Christ, I’d forgotten how wild it is.”

“It’s not that bad.”

He looks beadily over at me. “I’d hate to see your definition of very bad, then.” He shakes his head. “Fucking hell. You could lose a person in that lilac bush. Has anyone seen Lucy lately?”

“If she’s stuck in that bush, we’re never chopping it down.” I look around as he laughs. “I’m just not a gardener. My only interest in the garden is as somewhere that I can drink my wine.”

He crouches down to grab one of the plants. “Show me where you want this.”

I’m distracted by the bulging of his biceps and the sheen of sweat on his golden skin. He’s so hot. I must have been blind all these years. I become aware that I’m staring when he clears his throat.

My eyes dart up to him to find him gazing at me. His eyes are dark and his expression very focused. “You okay there, Frankie?” he says, and there’s a roughness to his voice that makes me shudder.

I swallow hard. “Yes,” I say. “I’m fine,” I babble. “Absolutelyfine.” He crouches down to move another plant, and I watch the muscles in his thick thighs move. “Utterly fine,” I say again. “Wait. What are you doing?”

He pauses. “Taking my shirt off.”

“Why?” I’m sure there’s something in the animal kingdom that is higher sounding than me, but I’m pushed to think of anything at the moment. I eye him open-mouthed as he slowly removes his shirt, and I send my eyes greedily down his torso. If sculptors could see him now, they’d fight to carve his figure. He’s beautiful with broad shoulders and a muscled torso that narrows down. His sleeves of tattoos are a bright splash of colour on his golden skin and his jeans are loose and hanging from his hips, showing off the V of his pelvis. I tried hard to achieve that V when I was in my teens but had to admit defeat when I realised you didn’t get it through eating chips.

I narrow my eyes. “Are you … are youflexing?” I squeak, and he starts to laugh.

“I’m just giving you a show.”

I draw in a breath which is no good because now I can smell his light sweat. “Well, rein it in a bit, Captain Chippendale. You’ve got gardening to do,” I finally say hoarsely.

He eyes me for a very long second, the silence stretching between us, and then he nods. “You’re the boss.”

And although he sounds normal and we garden in perfect harmony, laughing and joking as usual, I can’t help feeling this extra current from him. It feels almost like satisfaction.

Finally, he puts his spade down. “I think we’re done,” he says, wiping his hand over his forehead and smearing dirt over it in the process. It’s criminal how attractive he is, even with a fucking dirty face.

I wipe my sweaty hands on my shorts. “Ugh!” I say. “I’m filthy.”

He laughs. “I must say in all these years, I’ve never seen you this messy.”

“And you never will again. You’d better put a reminder in your phone to come and prune my bushes regularly.”

“Is that a euphemism?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s an instruction because we both know I will never pick up a pair of shears again.”

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