Page 30 of Lovers in Lockdown

‘Positive,’ I squeeze out between clenched teeth. ‘Quite the opposite actually, I think you’re gross.’

He cocks an eyebrow incredulously and the corners of his pillowy lips twitch in amusement.

‘Ah, so that’s why I keep finding you secretly watching me,’ he nods slowly. ‘Makes perfect sense.’ He sits up and swings his legs round in front of him to make room for me on the couch, but I don’t move to sit beside him.

‘Exactly,’ I say resolutely, gripping my waist with my hands and praying that this conversation ends before I melt in a puddle of arousal on the floor, because the man isstill shirtlessand it’s messing with my head. ‘It’s because you disgust me.’

He chuckles and finally reaches to lift his crumpled t-shirt off the floor. I swallow down a bubble of disappointment when he pulls it over his head.

‘Right, well, if we’re all wrapped up here, it’s late and I need to start dinner,’ I say, disappearing into the kitchen.

I can still hear him laughing as I clatter with the pots and pans, trying to work out what I’ll need to make the prawn, pancetta and watercress linguine that I saw last week on a cooking programme. Until now, my cooking repertoire has consisted of just toast and the occasional jacket potato, but this recipe seemed pretty straightforward when I saw it on the show. I even managed to find it written down step by step online.

I throw some pancetta into the pan and slice up an onion while it cooks. Then I mince the garlic, dissolve a stock cube in a bowl of water and wash the watercress. I’m really getting into the swing of things, singing and dancing as I slice the different ingredients, when I feel a presence behind me.

‘You didn’t fancy putting oil in the pan before frying the pancetta then, no?’ Noah says over my shoulder, looking at the contents of the pan with a grimace and ruining all my fun.

‘Huh?’

‘You’re supposed to put oil in the pan first, otherwise this happens.’ He lifts the pan off the stove and holds it up for me to see. The pancetta isn’t golden brown like the recipe told me it would be.

It’s black. And burnt. And stuck to the bottom of the pan like coal in a log burner.

Well, shit.

‘The recipe didn’t say it needed oil,’ I blink at him, confused.

If I needed oil, why wouldn’t the recipe tell me?

‘It’s kind of just one of those things that go without saying. I thought someone of your cooking prowess would know that, or is this a technique that I haven’t heard about before?’ he smirks.

‘Oh, won’t you just bugger off,’ I blush, realising my ruse has been rumbled. He’s going to be laughing about this for weeks, I just know it.Asshole.

He grins and it makes me want to punch him.

Okay, that’s a total lie. When he grins, or does anything really, all I want to do is drop my knickers and offer them up to him as a religious offering.

Noah nudges me playfully, ‘Want a hand?’

‘No,’ I growl at him and throw the wooden spoon I was using into the sink harder than I intend, causing a loud crash that reverberates through the apartment.

‘Hey, no need for violence.’ He holds his hands up in surrender, that shit-eating grin still smacked across his face. ‘Clearly you have everything under control.’ He eyes up the pan of disintegrated meat that isstillcooking on the stove and his grin grows even wider.

‘Clearly,’ I snarl, finally removing the pan from the heat and depositing it in the sink to cool down.

‘Well then,’ he wipes his hands down his joggers and stands to his full height. ‘I’m obviously just getting in your way. I’ll be on the sofa if you need me.’

‘I won’t,’ I plaster on a mask of confidence, but the ever-present smirk on his face says he sees right through me. ‘I am absolutely on top of things.’

‘Uh-huh.’ He reaches behind me and pulls a bottle of olive oil off the shelf without another word. My breath catches at our proximity. The scent of his aftershave, smoky tobacco mixed with sweet vanilla, floods my nose and makes me dizzy. If I moved just an inch, I’d be pressed up against him, but all too soon the moment passes and he’s disappearing into the living room.

I stare at the bottle of cooking oil and the amount of mess I’ve made - to absolutely no avail - and frown. This has not gone to plan.

I’m frustrated, exhausted, angry at the cooking programme for making this recipe look deceptively easy and mad at myself for insisting I know exactly what I’m doing, when evidently, the opposite is true.

Reid always told me my stubbornness would be my downfall and I didn’t listen. Naturally. Only now am I beginning to realise that he might have been right all along.

I bite my lip and count down from three, summoning the courage to bite the bullet and take Noah up on his offer to help me. God, admitting I’m wrongsucks.

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