Page 24 of Lovers in Lockdown

But in that moment, realising that she’d been there last night, watching me,fuck- I just couldn’t control myself. Couldn’t think of anything but finally touching her, tasting her, doing all the things to her that I imagined doing last night.

And then that fucking fire alarm went off.

When our food is ready, I pile it onto a tray and carry it through to the living room, where I set it down wordlessly in front of Honey. But I’m too pissed off to eat.

Honey, by contrast, is not.

I watch as she picks up half a toastie and shovels most of it into her mouth in one disgusting, but equally impressive bite. She’s barely finished her mouthful before she’s cramming the rest in and reaching for the other half.

‘Sorry, I’m starving,’ she mumbles between chews.

Christ.

She really isn’t like any woman I’ve ever met before. The women I’ve dated in the past have been the prim and put together sort. You know, the type of women with immaculate table manners, designer dresses and lipstick that somehow perfectly matches the shade of their nipples.

But Honey couldn’t be more different. In fact, in the few weeks that we’ve lived together, I don’t think I’ve seen her wear makeup once. I mean, she’s currently sitting cross-legged in an old faded pair of pyjamas, cramming food into her mouth like she’ll never eat again. Quite frankly, she has the worst table manners I’ve ever seen. Potentially even worse than her brother’s.

And yet, I could watch her eat all day.

Because this woman doesn’t care about what people think of her or whether her lipstick matches her areolas. No, she cares about the world, and art, and giving disadvantaged kids a place to be safe and free and creative.

She’sreal.

And that small fact makes her my single biggest threat. Because women like her are easy to fall for. Way too easy. They’re the sort of women that make a man like me want to throw caution to the wind, get down on one knee and procreate. It’s why I’ve only dated women who are her exact opposite, and never for any longer than a couple of months.

Because I’m happy being on my own. Living in China. Doing my own thing and not answering to anyone.

Well, apart from my twat head of a boss.

‘Walking a couple dozen miles and then falling asleep in a bush will do that to you,’ I flash her a smile.

She throws a piece of toast at my face.

‘The first meal I ever made was a toastie,’ I say quietly, though I don’t know why I’m telling her. I’ve never been one to freely offer up information about myself and it’s a weird time to suddenly start, but something between us shifted today. And now it doesn’t seem so unnatural to open up to her. Honey stops chewing and watches me intently. ‘Growing up, my parents had a chef who cooked all our meals for us. He was this funny little Italian dude called Gino and I used to love sitting and watching him cook. Well, one day he offered to start teaching me. First lesson, cheese and ham toasties with béchamel sauce.’

Honey doesn't speak for a beat. Just sits there, staring at me.

‘So, you were rich then, growing up?’ she finally asks around an unholy mouthful of masticated cheese.

‘My parents were, but I never cared about it. I liked having Gino though, he was cool,’ I shrug. But the truth is, Gino was my Italian fairy godmother in chef whites, with a wooden spoon for a wand. My childhood would have been pretty miserable if he hadn’t taken me under his wing and I owe my career to him. He taught me the love of food.

‘My parents were rich too, spent their money on staff to live their lives for them and nannies to look after their kids.’ She says it so casually that if I didn’t already know better, I’d think that that was all there was to it.

But I’ve known Reid a long time. And when he gets drunk, he has a tendency to get emotional and share things that he never would when he’s sober. So, I know that it caused them both a lot of pain that they’re parents never took an interest in them. And I know that those nannies who their parents hired to look after them would beat them with a belt for misbehaving.

My heart twists for them.

My fists clench and my knuckles turn white as I remember all the stories Reid told me about their childhood. The thought of someone hurting Honey, especially when she was so young, has anger surging through me.

Her nannies are assholes. Her parents are assholes. Anyone who has ever so much as looked at her wrong is an asshole.

Because Honey is sunshine. And she sparkles like stardust and Christmas lights.

‘Anyway,’ she shudders like she’s shaking off the memory. ‘What were yours like?’

‘My parents?’

‘Yeah.’ She sets her empty plate down on the table and turns to face me, crossing her legs underneath her.

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