Page 23 of Lovers in Lockdown

Was he thinking ofme?

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. Because what is there to say to that? My brain can’t process what he’s telling me, it just doesn’t compute. This stupendously gorgeous, God-like man is turned on byme.

‘Honey,’ he whispers, and I’m a goner. The deep timbre and gravelly tone of his voice have me so hypnotised, that if he told me to strip off my clothes and dance naked in the street, I probably would. At this point, I don’t know which way is up and which way is down.

I’m not even sure I remember my name.

All I know is Noah’s parting lips, the tilt of his head to one side, the closing distance between us, the whisper of his breath on my mouth, the sound of -

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound of the fire alarm?

‘Oh fuck!’Noah wrenches himself away from me and flies towards the stove where smoke billows from a saucepan. I’m no chef, but if I had to hazard a guess, whatever Noah was cooking in there has long since turned to ash.

My Noah-induced haze begins to clear and my brain finally resumes normal cognitive function, which is a relief since I was one step away from humping his leg like a dog. And while my now fully functioning brain knows that kissing him would be an extraordinarily bad idea, my traitorous bitch of a vagina thinks otherwise.

Disappointment settles in my gut. If only the fire alarm hadn’t gone off at that precise moment, I’d be able to stop imagining how soft Noah’s lips are and how his hands would feel splayed out across my lower back. Because I wouldknow.

But now the moment’s broken and who knows if we’ll get another one?

Stupid fucking fire alarm.

I have to get another chance to kiss him. Ihaveto. Even if it means abandoning health and safety measures and disabling all the fire alarms in this apartment.

Or else my vagina will never forgive me.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Noah

Well, fuck.

Fuck the fire alarm. Fuck the delicious dinner I was making for Honey and me. Fuck the fact that I was so achingly close to finding out whether or not she tastes as sweet as her name. Just fuck.

Fuckety. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I stare at the disaster before me. Never in all my years of cooking have I messed up my food quite this much. How did I not notice the smell? The entire apartment smells like we’ve had a bonfire. Heck, we may as well have. Maybe I should just crack out some marshmallows and we’ll have s’mores for dinner.

‘You need a hand?’ Honey whispers. She hasn't moved from where I left her. Her arms are crossed in front of her and her cheeks are flushed like she’s been standing in the cold.

‘Nope, I got this,’ I say behind a clenched fist.

‘You sure?’ I don’t answer, because I most certainly havenotgot this.

Christ, I’m just so embarrassed. I can deal with accidentally running into Honey naked, I can even get passed mistaking her for a figment of my imagination and ejaculating all over my stomach whilst staring her straight in the eye, but I absolutely, unequivocally can not get over telling a girl that I’m a professional fucking chef and then burning a meal that I make for her.

My pride feels like it’s been beaten to death with a meat cleaver. The food is ruined. There is not one single thing I can salvage. The risotto I’d been reducing has absorbed every ounce of moisture from the stock and is now charred and glued to the bottom of the pan, and the chicken that was baking in the oven is so cremated, it needs a funeral.

‘You alright with a toastie?’ I call over my shoulder, picking up the pan of carbonized rice and throwing it into the bin, pan and all.

I don’t wait for a reply, just start taking my anger out on the cheese by grating it to within an inch of its life and buttering the bread so hard, I break a hole in three slices. My balls are blue and my pride is wounded, and frankly, that makes for a hellish combination and even I don’t want to be around myself when I’m in a mood like this.

I cast a glance over my shoulder and see that Honey has retreated to the couch and switched on the television. A good thing probably, as I’m in such a foul mood and I don’t want to unintentionally take it out on her.

I throw the sandwiches into the toastie maker - fine dining at its finest - and crack open two beers, taking a swig from one and leaving the other to one side for Honey.

I’m so angry with myself. Not only for burning the food, but also because I was going to forget all about my loyalties to Reid without a second thought. It doesn’t matter that he said it’s none of his business what Honey does, he’s never been one to tell people what they can and can’t do, but he shouldn’t have to tell me that he doesn’t want me to fuck his little sister. I should just know, as his best fucking friend, that she is an absolute no go zone.

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