London Falling by Emma Carr Page B

under a heap of blankets and quilts, the form of her body barely visible underneath the layers, only her hair peeking out from beneath the sheets. Given the puppy’s cozy location curled at her feet, it seemed that she was overcoming her fear of dogs.
    After a quick survey of the room, he saw his mobile peeking out from under a magazine on the nightstand. Brilliant. Now he just had to keep her from waking up while he re-emancipated it.
    His shoes echoed on the stone floor, and he shifted his weight to muffle the sound, but his movement alerted the dog, who sat up and yawned. Simon winced and tried to push the dog back into a sleeping position, but the Scottie was having none of it. He waited to see if the dog would get bored and go back to sleep on his own. And waited. And waited.
    This was ridiculous. He was just getting his mobile. As he moved forward, he realized that the magazine on her nightstand bore a striking resemblance to The Economist. Crikey, it was The Economist. He didn’t know why he was so gobsmacked, especially since she said she studied finance at University. A broke, pajama-wearing housekeeper who was secretly an intellectual? Or maybe she just had nothing else to read?
    He slid his mobile from underneath the magazine, just as the dog hopped over the mounds on the bed, prepared for play. Glancing at Aimee to see if the commotion woke her up, he was surprised to see her watching him with an anxious look on her face, but her eyes slammed shut so quickly, he almost wondered if he had imagined she was awake. The freckles on her pale skin reminded him of chocolate sprinkles on the white foam of a latté.
    The Scottie’s tail whapped her in the face, and she groaned, smacked her lips together, and flipped over as if she were still asleep.
    The faker.
    Since he really needed to get some work done tonight, he decided to let her get away with the performance. He picked up the dog and placed him at the end of the bed again. “Don’t get too comfortable, Scottie,” he whispered.
    “You’re going to have to go home as soon as Aimee finds your real owners.”
    Aimee’s jaw tightened, but she kept up her charade. He didn’t bother muffling his footsteps on the way out and shut the door with a click.
    After turning off the hall light, he paused to let his eyes become accustomed to the dark. Good God, he enjoyed baiting her. He almost looked forward to seeing what she was going to do next to get back at him. Never in his life had he met anyone like her. Stubborn. Cheeky. And beautiful, his traitorous thoughts added.
    After he passed through the kitchen door, the siren call of the fairy cakes stopped him in his tracks. He could almost taste chocolate in the air. Ever since he’d snuck down to the kitchen at age four and the cook had slipped him a fairy cake behind his mother’s back, he’d been a sucker for them. He looked behind him to make sure Aimee hadn’t followed him into the kitchen and then opened the lid on the bin.
    Light from the streetlight streamed through the window and highlighted the cakes. Chocolate frosting was smashed on the bin liner and the cakes were topsy-turvy in the bin, but one brilliant specimen sat in the very center of the pile, not touching the bin liner nor contaminated by any other piece of rubbish. It was absolute perfection.
    He stuck his hand into the bin to retrieve it, shaking his head at the irony of the situation. The head of the biggest division of the largest private bank in Great Britain was rummaging for food in the bin, while a homeless woman read The Economist downstairs.
    He shrugged, picked up the fairy cake and leaned against the counter to enjoy a moment of pure gastronomic bliss. A beautiful woman who could cook. He was almost starting to appreciate her presence in his life. Almost.
     
    Aimee tossed her feet over the edge of the bed and hopped onto the floor.
    Why hadn’t she stopped him from stealing his phone back? If he called the police, she needed to get