Page 69 of Ticket Out

He turned to her, found her watching him with an unreadable expression.

“Just now,” he admitted. “I came straight here.”

She studied him. “Surely you need a bit more time off, to recover?”

He lifted his shoulders.

She waited for him to say more, but he didn’t really want to tell her his boss was useless, he was worried about her, and the thought of her unprotected made it impossible for him to return to his flat.

She sighed. “Coffee or tea?”

“Tea.” Coffee was not what his system needed right now. “Do you have any?”

He hadn’t ever seen her drink tea before.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t.” She set about getting out a teapot, a charming round, fat one with flowers painted all over it.

He walked over to the dormer window, looking down onto the street. Her bedsit was up in the eaves, and there was a wide sill she had turned into a window seat, with a long cushion to sit on, and a smaller one to lean against.

James settled in to watch.

“You looking for Mr. Knife?”

He looked over at her as she brought a cup and saucer to him. “I call him Mr. Big.”

“That’s too complimentary,” she told him, handing him his tea.

He settled back against the cushion.

“Take off your shoes,” she said. “It’s more comfortable with your feet up on the bench.”

He lifted an eyebrow.

“You know you want to.” She grinned at him. “I’ll make some supper.”

He sipped tea, which was strong and fragrant, and watched the street, glancing over at Gabriella as she puttered around her kitchen, putting things together with nothing more than a single electric plate and an electric frying pan.

“You look like someone who should have a full kitchen,” he said.

She glanced over her shoulder. “Now that Mr. Rodney has the downstairs flat, I have the option of that. But I’ve enjoyed getting creative with what I have.”

She put pasta into the pot on her electric plate, and then lifted the lid of her electric frying pan, stirring whatever delicious sauce was inside.

She set the small table with a candle and mismatched, charming plates and bowls, and James gave up watching the street, absolutely unable to look away as she moved around.

He was fascinated by her and her seemingly effortless ability to make everything perfect.

When she set steaming bowls down on the table and looked over at him, he got up and joined her.

“I should have brought flowers,” he said.

“You should have,” she agreed with a grin. “Except I don’t think you expected me to feed you.”

“Lucky me.” He sat, diving into spaghetti and meat balls in a tomato sauce. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was, and when he leaned back from the table, his plate was scraped clean.

“More?” she asked.

He shook his head sadly. “I wish I could, but I don’t think I can fit in another mouthful.” He stood, feeling the best he’d felt for two days. “I’ll clean up, if you’ll watch the street.”

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