Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Don't Snap Your Fingers On Me

She spent three seconds staring at the door, five seconds with her hand on the handle - and then she slowly turned the knob, pulled, for some reason only making a narrow crack for herself, and slipped out of the room.

He was standing about mid-way between his door and hers - and she gawked at him.

"Hi," he said in a low voice.

Anya swallowed a knot in her throat.

"Can't sleep?" he asked softly.

Anya's recently resurrected inner voice strongly advised her to lie.

"The bed's too big," she muttered. "I'm just not... used to it. It's like I'm on the roof of a house."

"Yeah, same here." He had his hands pushed deep into the pockets of an identical gown. "Were you checking on Varya?"

Anya wasn't - and felt immediately guilty.

She nodded, creeped up to the girl's door, and slowly pushed it. She could see Varya's sleeping form in the centre of her bed, limbs spread out, multitude of pillows scattered around her and on the floor.

"She's fine," Anya said to Bjornsson after closing the door.

It was his turn to nod silently. He looked under his feet, and Anya frantically searched for something to say.

"I'd offer you a drink, but I asked Mrs. Little to remove all alcohol out of my room," he said. "I have a cold tea tray, I haven't touched it. That is if you aren't going back to bed. If you want company," he added.

"I do," Anya said and walked to his door. "And good thinking on the alcohol. It's always good to remove a temptation."

When she was taking the first step inside, she thought she heard him mutter 'six of one, half a dozen of the other.'

"What?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Nothing, nothing, get in," he grumbled.

When he closed the door behind him, he wobbled and leaned his back against it.

"Are you alright?" Anya asked, concerned.

"I can see why people start popping the tablets one after another." He rubbed his face with his hands. "When they stop working, it's like a demolition hammer is working on my spine."

"What would you know about a demolition hammer?" Anya asked with fake derision, hoping to distract him. "I didn't know that baronets partake in construction work."

"Still not over it, are you?" he asked with a chuckle. He walked by where she stood, awkwardly frozen in the middle of some posh looking carpet, and he sat heavily down on his unmade bed. "I'll have you know that I'm very much familiar with demolition hammers. I had a classmate at the UdK who worked exclusively with those."

"Doing what?" Anya asked sarcastically.

"She created sculptures out of salvaged walls of dilapidated buildings." He snorted after Anya drew out a sardonic 'uh-huh.' "Could you bring the tray here, please?" He pointed at the tea on a low table by the door.

She placed the tray on his duvet, and then after a second of hesitation she took a spot next to it.

"Have you had supper?" she asked, and he shook his head. "Are the meds botching up your appetite? Can you try a bit?" she said in a cajoling tone, as if with an ill child.

She lifted the teapot above one of the two cups prepared. She wondered if Mrs. Little had prepared them for this exact situation, or it was just some toff thing.

"I'm OK," he said. "You should have the pastries."

"How about we split it? I've had a large meal, but also these are delicious." She cut a scone along and spread a generous dollop of butter on each half. "Here, have some."

She stretched her hand to him - and remembered how he'd fed her soup. He accepted the scone and took a small unenthusiastic bite. Anya put hers on a saucer, scheming to feed it to him afterwards as well. She picked up her cup and drank some brew. It was lovely, even cold.

"I haven't slept alone in years," she said and noticed that he took another distracted bite while listening to her. "For the last five years Varya and I have always slept together," she continued, hoping to keep him eating. "It's warmer, and you only need one duvet this way," she went on. "And she used to have these night terrors, after my Mum's illness. She was in my bedroom; and all those tubes, and the smells, and–"

She saw his face suddenly stiffen. What a dipstick, she berated herself. The man has almost had a panic attack from the smell of bleach, and you're bringing up hospitals and IVs!

She needed to divert his attention as soon as possible.

"But she's clearly enjoying having a big bed all to herself," Anya spoke quickly. "She's like a starfish right now. Meanwhile, I might need to get some sort of a dummy to sleep with. Or a giant soft toy."

He said nothing but went back to chewing. Anya discreetly released a relieved breath. To avoid staring at his jaw moving under the bright copper beard, Anya let her gaze wander around. His bedroom was just as elegant and cosy as the one assigned to her; the unusual, extra tall mattress on his four-post bed being the main difference. He sent the last piece of the scone into his mouth, and Anya pushed the saucer with the second half towards him. He laughed quietly and gave her an amused headshake, clearly seeing all through her nonchalant attempts to stuff him with more nosh.

"You clearly haven't given up on your idea of turning me into a bear," he murmured and licked the butter that had gotten on his thumb. "Or Rhys Holyoake."

"Well, that's just not going to happen," Anya muttered. "You don't have the right genetics."

Don't tell him that recently you might have changed your preferences, Anya, not that they were that distinct before anyroad, she warned herself. Don't tell him how sexy you find his wide shoulders, his sinewy body... Don't! Just don't!

Don't tell him you lied then, and he is very much 'fun' to hug. Don't tell him how you wish you could press into him head to toe.

And how some sort of half-formed, indecent thoughts keep bubbling in your mind: something about wrapping your legs around his narrow waist, and running your palms on his chest, and his upper arms, and who cares that there are no muscles bulging on them.

And how much you fancy that, even thinned, even in pain and broken, he moves gracefully; and how strong he seems, with his endless legs and long arms.

And especially, don't tell him how you keep imagining his hands - with their singular fingers, bordering on arachnodactyly, slender but endlessly masculine - touching you everywhere.

There probably existed some special ways to touch a woman to give her pleasure, Anya wouldn't know. He could probably shatter her with a pat on her head.

Don't tell him.

"Would you like to sleep with me, Anna?"