Page 29 of Kiss Me Like You Mean It

‘I just—’ I begin, then bite my lip. ‘Sorry. I knew you were living with someone, I assumed it was a partner…’

‘Ah.’ Nico ducks his chin in understanding. ‘No. It’s just the two of us.’

I try to ignore the euphoric rush of relief that thrashes through my whole body at that piece of information.

When I step tentatively through the front door I find myself in a surprisingly big open plan living space. An L-shaped kitchen runs along one side, and there’s a round dining table with four chairs in front of a large window at the back of the house. It’s too dark to see what’s out there, but it’s easy to imagine how light and sunny it would be in the mornings. A comfortable sofa and an armchair are arranged around a coffee table in front of the wall-mounted television.

There is a lot of stuff around. The house doesn’t look messy – not exactly – but lived in. There’s a pile of shoes by the door, empty coffee mugs on the kitchen counter alongside a couple of abandoned cereal bowls. The table is covered in papers, scattered with felt-tip pens. There’s a pile of half-folded laundry on the sofa, the fridge bristles with paperwork and a wipe-clean calendar, held in place by bright plastic magnets. A dog bed sits in the corner and Taco trots over, curling up and gnawing enthusiastically on something that looks like an antler.

‘Er, not sure we’re really ready for company,’ Nico says from over my shoulder, his tone apologetic. ‘Phoebe!’ he yells. ‘Come and clear your homework off the table.’

‘In a minute!’ the answer comes from behind the door next to the kitchen.

Nico only sighs and moves to the right, opening a door next to the living area. ‘Your room is through here,’ he says, and I follow him as he carries my suitcase inside.

I hesitate in the doorway because one thing becomes immediately clear. This isn’t my room. This is Nico’s room. His books are on the bedside table, his watch is on the dresser, his hoodie is thrown over the back of a chair.

He obviously takes in my expression because he clears his throat. ‘There are only two bedrooms,’ his voice holds a note of apology again, ‘but I can sleep out on the sofa.’

‘No, no.’ I take a step back. ‘I can sleep on the sofa. I can’t take your room.’

‘Lee,’ Nico says quietly, and he moves towards me, hooking his fingers under the strap of my handbag, which is currently resting on my shoulder. I try not to shudder as he gently slides the bag down my arm and then carries it over to the bed, setting it on top of the sheets.

His bed. His sheets.

‘Obviously you’re not sleeping on the sofa,’ he says firmly. ‘You know I was raised better than that. You were there. My mother would be horrified.’

I let out a small croak of laughter, and his mouth lifts at one corner.

‘Now, the good news is that this was one of the inn’s holiday cottages, so you have your own bathroom through there.’ He nods towards a door at the back of the room. ‘I’ll share with Phoebe.’ He casts an eye over the room. ‘The sheets are clean, and if you give me a couple of minutes I’ll clear some of my stuff out for you.’

‘You don’t—’ I start, but he cuts me off with a stern look.

‘Go and sit down, grab yourself a drink. Even better, make my delinquent daughter grab one for you. Phoebe!’ he yells again.

Phoebe appears in the doorway. She’s holding a bag of sweets that look like chewy red shoelaces.

‘Want one?’ she asks, holding them out to me.

‘No, thank you.’

‘I take it your grandmother has fed you some vegetables this evening?’ Nico asks.

‘Broccoli,’ Phoebe wrinkles her nose, ‘and carrots.’

‘Right, well, don’t eat the entire bag of Twizzlers.’ Nico looks pained. ‘None of us need the extra trip to the dentist. Will you get Lee a drink, please, while I straighten out this room?’

‘Yeah.’ Phoebe turns and I follow her. ‘Do you want a cocktail?’ she asks. ‘Jamie’s mom drinks these things called a fuzzy navel. I looked it up on the internet and it sounds disgusting.’

‘Just some water would be great,’ I reply faintly.

‘Do you want to see my room?’ Phoebe asks after she hands me the glass, but I guess it’s a rhetorical question because she’s already leading the way to a door on the other side of the kitchen, at the opposite end of the house to Nico’s.

I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it’s not whatever this is. Three of the walls and the ceiling have been painted midnight blue. Above the bed there’s a mural of the solar system, and the ceiling is covered in glow-in-the-dark plastic stars. There’s a bookcase along one wall, absolutely heaving with books – everything from old, battered picture books to Percy Jackson and a huge amount of non-fiction, mostly about space.

‘I’m probably going to be an astrophysicist,’ Phoebe says when she catches me looking at them. ‘And maybe an astronaut, too. Like Rosemary Coogan. Or a history teacher. Or a mortician. I haven’t decided.’ She gets up on her bed and gestures at the mural. ‘My dad painted this, and I like it even though he got the number of rings around Saturn wrong, and he included Pluto, which is only a dwarf planet.’

‘It’ll always be a full planet to me,’ I say.