Page 46 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

“At least it’s a mixer tap,” I offer in its defense.

“A mixer tap?”

I nod as he glances over at me, his expression now shifted to all plumbing business. “You know, where hot and cold water come out of the same faucet?”

“Isn’t that normal?”

I laugh. “No. Not in old buildings. I have separate taps for hot and cold water in the bathroom.”

His eyes widen slightly at that. “Huh.”

“Welcome to England,” I say wryly. “To be fair, those taps aren’t leaking. Admittedly, this was something cheap but I didn’t expect it to break so soon.”

“Huh,” Blake says again.

The kettle boils. I fill the teapot. And smother a yawn, worn from the heat of the day.

“I can totally fix this for you,” Blake entreats, looking at me. “I mean, I’d love to fix this for you.”

“You don’t need to worry about that. I’m admittedly embarrassed about my repair job.”

Blake shakes his head, coming close to give me a kiss, his mouth warm on mine, but it’s the best sort of heat, the heat that warms from the core out, the heat that transcends everything—especially dodgy plumbing repairs.

“Mm,” he says happily when he straightens, both of us reeling. The fact Blake just kissed me in my tiny kitchen only makes the room spin more.

Sheepish, I gaze at him, Blake-addled. He’s too bright to look at, all golden promise. And everything he says seems perfectly believable. And, if he didn’t care about me, he probably wouldn’t be here. “I’m sorry.”

“For the kiss?” Blake teases me.

“Oh no,” I say immediately. “I’m definitely not sorry about that. For acting like a jerk earlier.”

“You weren’t a jerk,” Blake assures me. “I was off the radar longer that I meant to be and I left you hanging. And you were upset about the floor.”

“I was,” I admit. Blake wraps his arms around me and I snuggle against him. God. Even with the heat, it’s comforting to be held like this.

“I’m sorry for not being in better touch. That’s my mistake. By the way, did you get my mung bean?”

“Is that what that was? I did get a gratuitous bean pic.” I relent into a smile, gazing at him. “I’m not up on my hipster beans.”

He chuckles, taking my hand. “It’s a favorite.”

“You realize it rhymes with dung.”

“It’s nothing like dung, I swear.”

“Promise?”

“I do solemnly promise,” vows Blake.

“That’s important to clear up.”

I put the tea on a tray with some biscuits, cheese, and fruit to go along with it. My nerves continue, realizing I’m about to show him where I live.

“Don’t expect anything posh,” I warn him when we go up to my tiny flat as he trails me upstairs. The wooden steps squeak.

Luckily, I can’t see his face when we walk into the small room. I set the tray down on the desk and turn. He’s gazing at an excess of books everywhere, the desk that’s a mix of crafts and account books, the rumpled sofa bed in the corner, books on the other sofa.

He’s gorgeous, flushed slightly with the oven-like temperature here in my flat, even with the windows giving a tease of a cross-breeze. And the way he looks at me makes me shiver, despite it all. “This is perfect.”

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