Page 37 of When London Snow Falls

And we laugh.

Fucking hell, it’s not even a Friday night. The whole routine’s off. I’ll just have to pretend it’s a weekend of Fridays. I’ll ask Jasmine to cover my short shift tomorrow, for a worthy cause she might approve of.

“Can you wait fifteen minutes for me to finish my shift?”

Hell, can I wait fifteen minutes?

“Absolutely.”

Let’s see what happens next.

Chapter Fifteen

It’s safe to say that Ben waited for me to finish out my shift. Then we found a way to work overtime together on Monday night. And on Tuesday morning, I’m still in Ben’s bed. This time, I skip the 3:00 a.m. sneaking out or work excuses. While the snow falls once more over London, time suspends again, keeping us in our own private world for another day.

Beyond the old sash window snowflakes descend slowly, lazy and large, like something from a film. It’s the first thing I see when I open my eyes and drift to wakefulness in Ben’s bed. The snowflakes dance and whirl in a hypnotic tapestry. Maybe I’m awake in a lucid dream.

We’re tangled in his bed together, warm in the cotton sheets and a duvet. There’s a hand-knit blanket on top, in a range of colors fit to match that amazing striped scarf he’d caught me in for greedy kisses that first day out in the snow. Now, he’s curled against my chest and I wonder what he’s dreaming of, because he just gave a contented sigh in his sleep. Bloody adorable.

I trace the soft skin of his freckled shoulder.

Shifting, I stretch carefully beneath him, my back complaining after having been in bed so long. This isn’t actually the first time I’ve woken this morning—we’ve already had a tryst and collapsed in quivering exhaustion, and maybe that’s why he’s still looking so fucking pleased in his sleep.

It’s funny the quirks that make up a person. I still can’t believe he put on a whole show of being a coffee aficionado just to get my attention, when it’s turned out he’s a chronic tea-drinker—preferring a loose-leaf Earl Grey and English Breakfast Tea blend, with a touch more Earl Grey. Two sugars to one cream. Course, I’ve kept him in cream as promised. And I’m the sugar, since I’m generous like that.

More quirks: daylight flooding his room reveals that he has this collection of jumpers that a teenage girl would envy. The sequined unicorn one might be my favorite. In contrast, there’s a collection of bleached white crania of small creatures on the fireplace’s mantle at the foot of the bed, and an array of candles in plum, midnight, and gold in the hearth. Sage and lavender are tied in bundles with strands of sky-blue yarn, hanging over it all. A bookcase on the opposite wall from the bed in the double room promises illustrated grimoires and albums and neatly folded graphic print T-shirts. His guitars sit neatly in a rack beside the shelves.

“Ohh…” Ben makes signs toward wakefulness with my movement.

“Morning. Again,” I whisper before kissing him. And he’s definitely awake, because he kisses back before sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

“Make me tea, coffee boy,” Ben says with a sleepy grin.

“Do you always wake up so demanding?”

“This is me being most courteous, thank you very much. I don’t need extra sass with my tea,” Ben says lightly. He stretches his arms overhead, slender muscles over bone. Graceful, even.

In the ease of being with him, my panic over the other night is a distant memory, like it belonged to someone else. Probably helped by the fact I’d had my pills in the pocket of my coat to take when I woke in the night and went back to bed.

I reach out to tweak his titanium nipple ring and he groans slightly. “I think you demand extra sass with your tea, actually. Proof is in, I’m afraid.”

He leans forward to kiss me. “Tea. Faster.”

“Harder too, I bet.”

At last, I get up, shivering at the cool air. I’ve got to be in serious like to leave the comfort of a warm bed with Ben in it. God, feelings are such a disaster. Hell. There’s no time for feelings. But never mind—he’s looking at me in that way he has.

“Ofcourseharder.” Ben laughs, and takes pity on me as I shiver. He rises and hands me his peacock feather print dressing gown from the foot of the bed, finding himself a set of black-cuffed gray woolen thermals.

“Making tea in a strange kitchen while wearing feathers. What’ve I come to?” I lament as we make our way through his Victorian house, pine floorboards creaking. His housemates are either still asleep or out.

The snow blanketing the garden casts cool winter light into the kitchen through tall windows as we enter. Birds scratch delicate lines out in the snow, looking for food. I should put something out for them after tea so they can have breakfast, too. Who watches out for them in winter?

Ben slaps my arse lightly. “I have faith in you. You’re a professional, Charlie.”

“Not a professional tea-maker,” I say, and gasp slightly as he slides his arms around my waist once I put the kettle on the stove, lining the nape of my neck with teasing kisses. “Coffee only. Please.”

“You’ll make me a flat white later,” he drawls. “Just to keep your dark barista heart happy and purposeful.”

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