said I ought to have shampoo and stuff for the guest room. You go on through.”
He strode off down the corridor, leaving her to follow the flap of his hand in the direction of the guest room.
She ventured in and recognised what his words had indicated. The room had a bed, a bentwood chair beside it and a built-in wardrobe. She walked into the ensuite and found it tiled in white and grey. There were no towels.
Ivan returned with two towels, an unopened yellow bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo. “Sorry. You’ll have to share my shampoo, but the soap is from Christmas. One of my cousins made it. Lemon.” His nose wrinkled.
“Lemon is girly?”
His teeth flashed in a rare grin. Then he dropped the bundle in her arms. “Toothbrush.” He dashed off.
With both hands occupied holding the towels, the blanket slipped, slipped some more and slid to the floor. She set the towels on the bathroom counter and stooped to pick up the blanket.
Ivan returned and made an odd sound in the doorway.
She glanced at him as she finished folding the blanket. He was staring and she wasn’t sure why. “I know the blanket needs washing, but I’ll just fold it and leave it here until…”
“I’ll get you a t shirt to sleep in.”
Her gaze whipped to her image in the mirror. Good grief. She’d forgotten she was wearing her oyster silk cami and French knickers. You could see her nipples beneath the silk!
She banged the bathroom door shut and turned the shower on hard. Ivan could leave his t shirt on the guest room bed.
The hot water poured over her, washing away the smell of smoke, her embarrassment and the marks of her tears. It was strange to lather up with Ivan’s shampoo. It was a scent she associated with him. Apparently sandalwood wasn’t girly like lemon. She washed her hair twice before finally accepting that she was as clean as she was going to get. She wrapped her hair in a towel turban style, dried off and wrapped the other towel around her.
Good guy that he was, Ivan had not only closed the guest room door to give her privacy, he’d left a robe beside the t shirt on the bed. She slipped into both, belted the robe tightly and ran the comb from her handbag through her hair.
There was an odd blankness in her mind. The fire had been real, her home with all its precious memories was gone, but she couldn’t seem to focus on it. She recalled the feeling from the day of her parents’ funerals. It was a self-protective mechanism, the psychologist had said.
Her bare feet sunk into the softness of the guest room carpet, her toes curling as she took a final breath before opening the door. She followed the low sound of Ivan’s voice out to the open plan living area. He was on the phone. The lights were dim, leaving him a shadow among shadows. One look at the wide expanse of windows told her the reason for the low lights; the river glimmered in the moonlight, softly reflecting the city lights. The view was beautiful.
“All right, Caleb. Do that.” He noticed her and ended the phone call.
She stopped at the island bench as he prowled towards her.
“You okay?”
“No,” she said starkly.
“Right.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Stupid question.”
“No, I mean I don’t know how I feel.” She’d like another hug, but that was stupid. Ivan was her boss. That was all. She had no claim on him, despite his kindness, so it’d be suicidal to become dependent on his strength. “I just thought I’d say goodnight.”
“Would you like something to help you sleep? That drink you rejected?”
“A glass of milk.” Her throat was sore from the smoke.
“Milk?” He was close enough that even in the dim lighting she saw the deepening crinkles of the lines at the corners of his eyes.
“Milk helps you sleep. It has tryptophan in it.”
“Uh huh.” He brushed his cheek against hers in a funny, affectionate gesture before reaching beyond her and opening the fridge.
Her heartbeat accelerated. They’d worked
He strode off down the corridor, leaving her to follow the flap of his hand in the direction of the guest room.
She ventured in and recognised what his words had indicated. The room had a bed, a bentwood chair beside it and a built-in wardrobe. She walked into the ensuite and found it tiled in white and grey. There were no towels.
Ivan returned with two towels, an unopened yellow bar of soap and a bottle of shampoo. “Sorry. You’ll have to share my shampoo, but the soap is from Christmas. One of my cousins made it. Lemon.” His nose wrinkled.
“Lemon is girly?”
His teeth flashed in a rare grin. Then he dropped the bundle in her arms. “Toothbrush.” He dashed off.
With both hands occupied holding the towels, the blanket slipped, slipped some more and slid to the floor. She set the towels on the bathroom counter and stooped to pick up the blanket.
Ivan returned and made an odd sound in the doorway.
She glanced at him as she finished folding the blanket. He was staring and she wasn’t sure why. “I know the blanket needs washing, but I’ll just fold it and leave it here until…”
“I’ll get you a t shirt to sleep in.”
Her gaze whipped to her image in the mirror. Good grief. She’d forgotten she was wearing her oyster silk cami and French knickers. You could see her nipples beneath the silk!
She banged the bathroom door shut and turned the shower on hard. Ivan could leave his t shirt on the guest room bed.
The hot water poured over her, washing away the smell of smoke, her embarrassment and the marks of her tears. It was strange to lather up with Ivan’s shampoo. It was a scent she associated with him. Apparently sandalwood wasn’t girly like lemon. She washed her hair twice before finally accepting that she was as clean as she was going to get. She wrapped her hair in a towel turban style, dried off and wrapped the other towel around her.
Good guy that he was, Ivan had not only closed the guest room door to give her privacy, he’d left a robe beside the t shirt on the bed. She slipped into both, belted the robe tightly and ran the comb from her handbag through her hair.
There was an odd blankness in her mind. The fire had been real, her home with all its precious memories was gone, but she couldn’t seem to focus on it. She recalled the feeling from the day of her parents’ funerals. It was a self-protective mechanism, the psychologist had said.
Her bare feet sunk into the softness of the guest room carpet, her toes curling as she took a final breath before opening the door. She followed the low sound of Ivan’s voice out to the open plan living area. He was on the phone. The lights were dim, leaving him a shadow among shadows. One look at the wide expanse of windows told her the reason for the low lights; the river glimmered in the moonlight, softly reflecting the city lights. The view was beautiful.
“All right, Caleb. Do that.” He noticed her and ended the phone call.
She stopped at the island bench as he prowled towards her.
“You okay?”
“No,” she said starkly.
“Right.” He raked a hand through his hair. “Stupid question.”
“No, I mean I don’t know how I feel.” She’d like another hug, but that was stupid. Ivan was her boss. That was all. She had no claim on him, despite his kindness, so it’d be suicidal to become dependent on his strength. “I just thought I’d say goodnight.”
“Would you like something to help you sleep? That drink you rejected?”
“A glass of milk.” Her throat was sore from the smoke.
“Milk?” He was close enough that even in the dim lighting she saw the deepening crinkles of the lines at the corners of his eyes.
“Milk helps you sleep. It has tryptophan in it.”
“Uh huh.” He brushed his cheek against hers in a funny, affectionate gesture before reaching beyond her and opening the fridge.
Her heartbeat accelerated. They’d worked
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