Page 23 of Worth Every Risk

Well, I’m not going downstairs again. Not when I could turn a corner and slam right into Mr Hawkston. And I already checked the kitchen up here. It’s empty. Mrs Minter left a note for me, saying I should make a shopping list and give it to the chef, but I haven’t got round to it yet.

I open my suitcase, which I still haven’t fully unpacked, and search the zip pockets. There I find a packet of Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers and a bar of tablet, that uniquely Scottish crumbly fudge.

I actually have three bars of tablet and some macaroon too, in all its coconutty sugariness… I’d bought extra as token Scottish gifts for the family, but now that I’ve seen a bit more of Mr Hawkston, I’m not sure he’s the kind of guy who’d eat a bar of tablet. He’s probably all lean chicken and steamed broccoli. Maybe protein shakes.

Anyway, it’s all I have, so I start with a Caramel Wafer, which I gobble in seconds, and then crack off a chunk of tablet. This food might be extremely calorific and nutrient deficient, but Mum always said food is only bad for us if we believe it is. So while I munch, I try to pretend I’m eating broccoli. Which fails, because not even I can imagine cruciferous vegetables when I’m eating this much sugar.

As it’s seeping into my bloodstream, I feel a pang of homesickness I haven’t felt yet. I take out my phone and check my messages. There’s one from Mum asking if everything’s all right. I reply that I am. Then, because it’s not enough, I type another message.

Me: Are you doing OK?

Mum: Stop worrying about me. Enjoy yourself. Enjoy London. I’ll see you in a couple of months. Not long. I’m always here if you want to speak.

I sigh. It’s true that it’s not long, but mum’s cancer is terminal. Terminal, but she could live another five years. But she also might not. Uncertainty screws my insides up like a used tissue. She won’talwaysbe there if I want to speak.

I go to put the phone down when another message pops up from an unknown number.

You should save my number. ICE.

I read it again. ICE? What kind of sign off is that?

Another message pops up.

It’s Mr Hawkston.

Ah, that explains it. My fingers type faster than I can think and I send:

Me: Oh. Cool. ICE cool.

His reply comes quickly.

Mr Hawkston: Not cool. ICE: In Case of Emergency.

Me: Oh. Now I feel like an idiot.

Mr Hawkston: That wasn’t my intention.

I save his number and put the phone down, noting that my fingertips are all zingy and there’s energy buzzing around my body at the idea that he’s downstairs sending me messages. Sitting in my bedroom on a sugar high, messaging the world’s hottest boss, is not a good situation to be in if it gets me giddy like this. Especially not when the content of the messages is purely practical.

I’ll have to behave. Stop making suggestive comments and staring at him like I want to lick him. I need to keep this job. I can’t go back to Scotland with my tail between my legs because Mr Hawkston fires me on account of our weird dynamic.

And it is weird. I don’t even know what it is, but bizarrely, it feels more enticing than anything else I’ve ever felt. Being near him makes me feel hyper-alert in the best way, as if something exciting could happen at any moment.

Maybe it’s all in my head. I haven’t got laid for six months. Not since my Friday night sex arrangement with Andy, the guy I met at the local fish and chip shop, came to an end. My hormones are doing a double-trot and my body’s about ready to jump in the sack.

Maybe I’ll get on the dating scene in London while I’m here. That’s definitely safer than nursing a crush on Mr Hawkston. I make a mental note to check with Mrs Minter about dating. I assume there’s no bringing anyone back to the house, but the alternative would be to go to their place.

Ugh. No.I couldn’t do that unless I knew them really well, and that would take weeks. Not that I don’t have weeks, but it doesn’t sort the itch.

Mr Hawkston is suddenly looking like the only viable option.

I laugh at the idea as I head to the bathroom to get ready for bed. I need to shower and brush my teeth. I just ate more than my daily allowance of sugar for dinner.

The kiss is rough and all consuming, and so real I can feel his tongue against my own, as well as the scrape of his stubble against my chin.

Somewhere, deeper than the consciousness of the dream, I know it’s not real. But right now, Mr Hawkston is kissing me and I’m enjoying every second.

A strange noise erupts, but I can’t make sense of it. I try to hold onto Mr Hawkston, but he disintegrates and fades away like dust in the breeze.

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