I shrug. “He got less than he deserved.”
“No, doubt,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Well, I, for one, would’ve liked to have seen her in her glad rags. But my arsehole manager wouldn’t give me the night off.”
I cock my head. “Yeah, well, your arsehole manager did pay you double bubble.”
“True dat.”
I check my watch. We have a hen party due in soon, and if they’re anything like the last one, it won’t let up until after closing. But it’s Sunday, so at least we get to close early.
“You up for fitting in some sparring later this week?” I ask.
“Of course.”
He’s a good guy—flirtatious as fuck with the punters—but he’s reliable and a decent friend. Ellie and Keira, who are also on shift tonight, walk in, laughing and joking about goodness knows what. Olly glances over and shakes his head.
It’s been non-stop since the doors opened. I check my phone when it vibrates. Swiping the missed call alert—fuck—I left it on divert. I hold my phone up to Olly, so he knows I’m taking a call and head outback.
“Hey, it’s me, Charlie.”
“I know, your name flashes up,” Sophie replies.
Always with the sass. I smile. I’ve only ever spoken to her on the phone once before, and it’s not a good memory. But she sure as hell sounds good. “Very funny, what’s up?”
“Any chance you could grab me some Ibuprofen on your way back please?”
“No problem. You okay?”
“Yeah, just a headache.”
I glance at my watch. “All right, I shouldn’t be too long.”
“In that case, I won’t give your dinner to the dog,” she replies. I can hear the smile in her voice, and for a second I’m left speechless. She cooked me dinner.
“Right, well, I’ll be home soon.” I cringe, not home.
“See you in a bit.”
“Okay.”
I’m back at the bar, sliding my phone into my pocket when I turn to catch Olly eyeing me with a smirk.
“What?’ I ask, frowning.
“Nothing at all boss,” he says, holding his hands up and backing away.
I shake my head and crack on with closing up the bar.
I don’t think I’ve worked so hard to finish and lock up. I pull into the petrol station and run in for the tablets when I spot the foil-wrapped eggs and grab one of those, too. It doesn’t take me long to get back to the house. I’m jittery, and I don’t know why. I park in the space I’ve now declared mine and grab the carrier bag from the passenger seat.
I skip up the front steps. My finger pauses at the doorbell. Instead of ringing, I dig in my pocket and use the key. The house is quiet with the exception of the sounds coming from the kitchen.
I walk in; Sophie’s back is towards me. She’s in leggings, a long, baggy top, and she’s barefoot. Her hair is twisted in a knot on the top of her head, and I can’t help but drink her in. She turns and smiles when she sees me. But I’m across the tiled floor and in front of her in three long strides. Reaching up, I graze my finger close to her eye. She squints.
“No wonder you wanted painkillers.” It’s even worse than when I left her earlier.
“It’s throbbing, not going to lie.” She shrugs as if to dismiss it.
“Shit, I’m sorry,” I say, dropping my hand.
“Quit swearing and stop looking at me like someone just kicked your puppy. I’ve had worse.”
The statement makes my stomach roll. It shouldn’t have happened at all. I scowl—the thought of her ever hurting makes me want to punch something…or someone.
“Close your eyes,” I say.
“What, why?”
“Trust me.”
Smiling, she closes them.
“Now, hold out your hands.” She does as I ask, but I can’t help my laugh. “Palms facing up.”
“Okay, you can look now.”
She stares down then smiles back up at me. It’s a kinder egg and a packet of painkillers.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her face brightening. A blush creeps up her neck and over her cheeks. Her reaction sends warmth through me. I want to make her smile like that every day. The thought makes me take a step back.
She turns away from me to grab a glass and fills it with water from the tap.
“Do you want a drink?’’ she asks.
“I’ll get it.”
She pushes me away. “No, go sit down. You hungry?”
“Always,” I say, smiling.
She waves me off again, so I take a seat at the table. She grabs me a bottle of beer and hands it to me. I twist off the cap and take a swig, watching her every move. She dishes me up a plate of—I double-take, the smell wafts up my nose and invades my senses—damn, she’s cooked lasagne. Is she trying to kill me? My mouth salivates from the aroma alone. I dig with my fork before I start dribbling and take a huge bite.
“If you don’t like it, I can whip you up something else.” She reaches out as if to take my plate, and I pull it closer to me. I don’t bloody think so. I shake my head.
I swallow down the mouthful I just devoured. “Heck no, Sophie. This right here is food heaven. Damn, girl, will you marry me?” I ask, pointing at her with my fork.
She shies away, shaking her head, but I see the smile on her face. What I didn’t admit to is that this is as good as my mum used to make. The nostalgia hits me square in the chest.
“I made chocolate melt for dessert if you fancy it afterwards?”
“I’ll give it a go,” I say with a wink. When she turns her back to me, my eyes travel the length of her body zeroing in on her arse. Food catches in my throat, and I begin coughing.
Sophie turns quickly. “Are you okay?” she asks, concern rippling her face as she walks over and begins patting my back.
I get my breathing under control, but her touching me isn’t helping. I wave her off, and she walks over to the sink.
“Wrong hole,” I say.
She turns on the tap, filling a glass with water and passes it to me. I take a few sips then concentrate on eating my food. This girl is an enigma—the voice of an angel and boy, can she cook. But she’s so much more than that.
I watch her take two painkillers and lean against the worktop, closing her eyes briefly.
“Nate texted me to say they’d arrived,” I say around another mouthful of food.
“Flick texted me, too. She also said we would be talking when she gets home, which means she knows enough about what happened last night. Not a conversation I’m looking forward to.”
Her expression changes. The one she gets right before she’s about to shut you out. I can’t tell you when I began to notice these things about her. But I do.
“I wouldn’t worry, she’ll be all blissed out from her honeymoon.” I go for a change of subject. “Are you back to work tomorrow?”
“Yes, unfortunately. What about you, Mr. Self-employed?”
“Not until the day after tomorrow. I have a private event to manage, then all week after that.”
She watches me while I polish off my food. I’m tempted to lick the plate clean; it was that good. I push the plate away and pick up my beer. Contentment washes over me.