Page 26 of Only for Christmas

He pulled out his wallet. ‘Do me a favour: if your breathing gets bad, call me, okay.’ He handed her his card. ‘Here’s my number. Day or night, any time. You call me.’

She averted her eyes. ‘Whatever.’

When she wouldn’t take the card, he placed it by the phone on the side cabinet. ‘Have a nice day, Mrs Kelsey. See you on Tuesday.’ As he left her apartment and stepped onto the porch, he turned back. ‘Don’t forget, call if you need me.’

The door slammed shut in his face.

Bending down, he called through the letterbox. ‘A “thank you” might have been nice!’

‘Sod off!’

Smiling, he headed up the steps, wondering if there was something about this building that attracted spiky women who weren’t quite as tough as they made out.

Puffed from running up three flights of stairs, Lucas knocked on Sarah’s door, smiling when he heard barking, followed by muffled attempts to quieten the dog. No dog, his arse.

The door opened a fraction and a pair of dark brown eyes fixed him with a glare. ‘Yes? Oh, it’s you.’

‘Nice to see you too. Can I come in?’

Her eyes narrowed further. ‘Why?’

‘I’d like to meet Fred.’

Silence followed.

‘What, no snarky comeback? Maybe Mrs Kelsey would like to meet him too; shall I go fetch her?’ He turned to leave.

‘Quit with the sarcasm.’ She yanked open the door and he struggled not to laugh. Her hair was loose and she was wearing leggings with fluffy red socks. Her overlarge T-shirt was printed with the slogan, I May Be Wrong, But It’s Highly Unlikely.

‘Nice outfit.’

‘I wasn’t expecting visitors.’

He handed her the flowers. ‘These are for you.’

She gave him a suspicious look. ‘Why?’

‘Because that’s what boyfriends do: they gift their loved one’s flowers.’

She blew her bangs from her eyes. ‘You do know you’re not my real boyfriend?’

‘I do.’

‘So why the flowers?’

‘To keep up with the ruse. Can I come in?’

She stepped back to allow him into her apartment. ‘But no one’s here to see it, so what’s the point?’

He gazed around her apartment, which was scarily similar to Mrs Kelsey’s, only cleaner. Much cleaner. Ridiculously cleaner. Obsessively so. There was a strong smell of furniture polish.

‘Ever heard of Instagram? You post a photo about how fabulous your boyfriend is, and what a sweetheart he is for buying you flowers, and everyone will coo and like the post, and you’ll give the appearance of being coupled up and not open to the advances of people like Stephen Stokes.’

‘I don’t do Instagram,’ she said, raising her eyebrows. ‘And did you really just use the word “coo”?’

‘That’s a word, isn’t it?’

‘For the likes of Mrs Kelsey, yes. Not for anyone under the age of seventy.’ She carried the flowers over to a large mahogany dresser. ‘What are you, twenty-five?’

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