Page 13 of Love in Tune

‘You weren’t insensitive. I was being a cock. It’s kind of been my way since the accident.’

It was the most genuine thing he’d said to her since she’d met him. ‘Want this whisky now?’

‘Does that mean our therapy session’s up?’

The ghost of a smile tipped her lips. ‘I’ll let you have this one on the house, rock star.’

‘Does that mean you’ve written me off as a hopeless case, Honeysuckle?’

Unexpected prickles of awareness stroked over the back of Honey’s neck. He’d practically whispered in her ear, sexy and velvet soft words softened with the hint of a smile. If the guy was ever inclined he could have a killer career on the radio, his voice had the capacity to stop a woman in her tracks. Even a woman who didn’t especially like him.

She found herself smiling too. ‘The jury’s out, Hal. Maybe I’ll come by again tomorrow to fill you in some more on my soap opera life.’

‘It’ll beat the shit out ofCoronation Street. Do people really watch that bollocks?’

Honey laughed lightly. ‘You mean you don’t?’ As soon as the words left her lips, she wanted to suck them straight back in again. ‘Shit Hal, I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘Twice in five minutes is pretty rubbish, isn’t it?’

‘Just give me the whisky and I’ll forgive you.’

Honey could still hear the trace of humour and breathed out in relief. He was a hard man to read; angry when it seemed unreasonable to be so, yet cool about things that might well have flared the temper of someone else in his position. She could hear him moving behind the door and drew herself up onto her feet, the whisky in her hand. She wouldn’t make the mistake of leaving obstacles in his path a second time.

As he opened his door and leaned against the frame, she found herself reassessing his appearance. He was as dishevelled as yesterday, maybe more so. A washed-out, rumpled grey t-shirt hung over his chest, in places not quite meeting the waist of his slouchy dark jeans. His dark stubble told her that today was another day when he hadn’t had a hot date with his shaver, and his slightly too-long hair looked as if he’d pushed his hands through it all day, or else spent the day in bed with that horny blonde he’d alluded to.

‘Hey, rock star.’

Hal didn’t speak for a second, silent and inscrutable until she started to feel disconcerted, as if he were staring at her behind those glasses, which of course she knew he wasn’t. What was going through his head? Did she need to do something?

‘You smell of strawberries again.’

Of all of the things she’d expected him to say, that wasn’t it.

‘It must be my shampoo,’ she murmured, bewildered, touching her hair by reflex with her empty hand. ‘It’s strawberry scented.’

He nodded slightly, as if he’d sussed that much already.

‘What colour is it?’

‘My shampoo?’ she said, thrown. ‘It’s kind of pink, I think …?’

He sighed, and if he could have rolled his eyes, she felt sure he would’ve.

‘Your hair, Honey,’ he said. ‘What colour is it?’

‘Oh … blonde. It’s blonde.’ For information that would be readily available to a sighted person, it felt absurdly intimate.

He nodded again with a half smirk. ‘Figures.’

‘Cheap shot, rock star.’

He shrugged. ‘You made it too easy.’

‘I’m considering taking my whisky home with me.’

‘I know where you live.’

The idea of him leaving his flat and coming into hers made her itch with panic, and she held the whisky out uncertainly until the glass touched his hand.

‘Here.’

---