Although comfort wasn’t really a word he could have used truthfully and it was all a matter of degree.
‘We could play Scrabble.’
Fran stared at him. ‘You hate Scrabble.’
‘Not as much as I hate lying here doing nothing. Got any better ideas?’
She looked away, and he was stunned to see a warm sweep of colour brush over her cheeks. Fran, blushing? She got up hastily and crouched down, rummaging in the cupboard where the games were kept, and by the time she straightened up her colour had returned to normal.
She still didn’t look at him, though, and he was fascinated. Fascinated, and very curious, and strangely a little edgy.
‘If I move the coffee-table over by you, can you manage on that?’ she asked.
‘I’ll give it a try.’
It worked. Sort of. It was a little low, but that was fine, because every time she leant over to put her letters down on the board, he got a view straight down the V of her T-shirt, and it was worth every second of the discomfort he felt when he put his own letters down.
Especially when she realised it was hurting him and started taking the letters from him and putting them down for him. So he got twice as many opportunities to see the soft, warm shadow between her breasts.
The effect was predictable, and he shifted a little on the sofa, pretending it was to do with his ribs but actually trying to ease the tension in his boxers.
‘Grackle? You can’t have that!’ she said. ‘It doesn’t exist.’
‘Want a bet?’
‘What is it, then?’
‘It’s a type of mynah bird.’
She sat back and stared at him. ‘Really?’
‘Look it up.’
‘And lose my go? No way. I know you and animals.’ She added the score, and he leant over and shifted one of the letters to expose the coloured square.
‘Don’t forget it’s on a double word score,’ he pointed out, and she scribbled out the score and wrote the correct one in.
‘I’m not going to let you win,’ she said fiercely, scowling at her letters and checking the board. ‘You always win—even though you hate it, you always win.’ She put down ‘lathe’, and he added an ‘r’ to it and got another double word score.
‘Don’t sulk,’ he teased, and she glared at him, then laughed and threw a letter at him.
‘Don’t gloat, then! I was going to do that when I got an “r”.’
‘You should have hung on.’
‘No doubt.’ She shuffled her letters, grinned and hung ‘runcible’ on the ‘r’ of ‘lather’, getting a triple word score and a bonus for using all her letters.
‘Runcible? You can’t have that, it’s not a proper word!’ he protested.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Rubbish. It’s Edward Lear—he has a runcible spoon in “The Owl and the Pussycat”—“They dined on mince andslices of quince which they ate with a runcible spoon.” It’s just nonsense.’
‘ And a runcible cat in “The Pobble Who Has No Toes”,’ she said, and quoted back at him, ‘“He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska’s runcible cat with crimson whiskers.” I rest my case,’ she said smugly.
He tried not to laugh. ‘It’s not in the dictionary.’
‘Oh, yes, it is.’
‘I bet it isn’t.’
‘What do you bet?’
He took a slow breath, his eyes locked with hers. ‘A kiss.’
She coloured, and then looked away and laughed a little oddly. ‘You’re on.’ And she handed him the dictionary.
Except he didn’t take it. He caught her wrist, gave it a gentle tug and toppled her towards him. She gave a little shriek and grabbed the back of the sofa with her free hand so she didn’t fall on him, but his nose ended up in her cleavage, and he turned his head and brushed his lips against the soft, shadowed skin.
She caught her breath and straightened, sinking down onto the edge of the sofa, and their eyes locked. Slowly, carefully, he leant forwards, stifling the groan as his ribs pinched, and touched his mouth to hers.
For an endless, aching second she was still, then she moved away.
‘We could play Scrabble.’
Fran stared at him. ‘You hate Scrabble.’
‘Not as much as I hate lying here doing nothing. Got any better ideas?’
She looked away, and he was stunned to see a warm sweep of colour brush over her cheeks. Fran, blushing? She got up hastily and crouched down, rummaging in the cupboard where the games were kept, and by the time she straightened up her colour had returned to normal.
She still didn’t look at him, though, and he was fascinated. Fascinated, and very curious, and strangely a little edgy.
‘If I move the coffee-table over by you, can you manage on that?’ she asked.
‘I’ll give it a try.’
It worked. Sort of. It was a little low, but that was fine, because every time she leant over to put her letters down on the board, he got a view straight down the V of her T-shirt, and it was worth every second of the discomfort he felt when he put his own letters down.
Especially when she realised it was hurting him and started taking the letters from him and putting them down for him. So he got twice as many opportunities to see the soft, warm shadow between her breasts.
The effect was predictable, and he shifted a little on the sofa, pretending it was to do with his ribs but actually trying to ease the tension in his boxers.
‘Grackle? You can’t have that!’ she said. ‘It doesn’t exist.’
‘Want a bet?’
‘What is it, then?’
‘It’s a type of mynah bird.’
She sat back and stared at him. ‘Really?’
‘Look it up.’
‘And lose my go? No way. I know you and animals.’ She added the score, and he leant over and shifted one of the letters to expose the coloured square.
‘Don’t forget it’s on a double word score,’ he pointed out, and she scribbled out the score and wrote the correct one in.
‘I’m not going to let you win,’ she said fiercely, scowling at her letters and checking the board. ‘You always win—even though you hate it, you always win.’ She put down ‘lathe’, and he added an ‘r’ to it and got another double word score.
‘Don’t sulk,’ he teased, and she glared at him, then laughed and threw a letter at him.
‘Don’t gloat, then! I was going to do that when I got an “r”.’
‘You should have hung on.’
‘No doubt.’ She shuffled her letters, grinned and hung ‘runcible’ on the ‘r’ of ‘lather’, getting a triple word score and a bonus for using all her letters.
‘Runcible? You can’t have that, it’s not a proper word!’ he protested.
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Rubbish. It’s Edward Lear—he has a runcible spoon in “The Owl and the Pussycat”—“They dined on mince andslices of quince which they ate with a runcible spoon.” It’s just nonsense.’
‘ And a runcible cat in “The Pobble Who Has No Toes”,’ she said, and quoted back at him, ‘“He has gone to fish, for his Aunt Jobiska’s runcible cat with crimson whiskers.” I rest my case,’ she said smugly.
He tried not to laugh. ‘It’s not in the dictionary.’
‘Oh, yes, it is.’
‘I bet it isn’t.’
‘What do you bet?’
He took a slow breath, his eyes locked with hers. ‘A kiss.’
She coloured, and then looked away and laughed a little oddly. ‘You’re on.’ And she handed him the dictionary.
Except he didn’t take it. He caught her wrist, gave it a gentle tug and toppled her towards him. She gave a little shriek and grabbed the back of the sofa with her free hand so she didn’t fall on him, but his nose ended up in her cleavage, and he turned his head and brushed his lips against the soft, shadowed skin.
She caught her breath and straightened, sinking down onto the edge of the sofa, and their eyes locked. Slowly, carefully, he leant forwards, stifling the groan as his ribs pinched, and touched his mouth to hers.
For an endless, aching second she was still, then she moved away.
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