HE FELT REALLY PLEASED with himself, almost elated to have been able to help. The girl’s gratitude was his reward, but it was no big deal—she had been freezing her arse off in the car park with her heap of shopping.
When they arrived, he carried all the bits and pieces inside even though he was already late and needed to go back to work.
“Thank you so much for your help. You’ve been far too generous—you could have dropped me off on the main road.”
“With all this?” he laughed, making a gesture at the mountain of stuff.
She held out her hands and apologised with a smile.
“At least let me cover your costs,” she said, pulling her wallet out.
The fact that she was attempting to pay for his petrol was endearing in some childish way, as if he needed financial compensation for taking a small diversion into the country to help a fellow human being. Naturally, he declined.
“Then let me at least make you a cup of coffee,” she insisted. “Do you have time?’”
Jan resigned himself to it—if she wanted to do the right thing then he would have to let her.
“I’m sure I have time for a cup of coffee,” he said amenably.
A cup of coffee would hit the spot, given he had to drive all the way back into town. But as soon as he got into the kitchen, he had other ideas. The subdued light cast by the spots on the ceiling revealed a smart new interior following traditional designs. It smelled of soap and winter apples, while there were pots of coriander and basil standing on the windowsill. New and old, light and dark. The cosy kitchen was an invitation for company, and the devil got into him. That was how it went sometimes—for better or worse—but there was something about the day that felt different and a little festive. He didn’t really need to go back to work either—it was mostly Luther who was on his back.
“I don’t suppose I could have a whisky instead?” he asked.
That would definitely perk him up, but she seemed hesitant.
“Aren’t you driving?” she replied, but he waved away her concerns.
He could handle his drink, and moderate quantities of alcohol made him sharper rather than tired and unfocused. She conceded and got out the bottle.
While she fiddled with her coffee, he drained the first glass—or mug, as it was. And since she had her back turned and probably wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing, he poured another snifter. Two drams before going home was just right: it would revive his spirits and eliminate the risk that he would fall asleep behind the wheel.
But he had been mistaken. She wasn’t as dozy as he had thought, and suddenly she turned around and took the bottle from him. It didn’t really matter since he hadn’t been intending to drink more. But that overbearing manner—her opinions about what he should and shouldn’t do—got to him. Who the fuck was she—a mere slip of a girl—to put him in his place, to mother a middle-aged man? Not least after what he had done for her?
He flipped. He really didn’t like that arrogant style, and she looked a little tempting there with her ample rear pointing straight at him. He crept up behind her and put his hands on her hips, kissing her on the neck. She was a little reluctant there and then, but she needed to know who was boss. He was still angry, and she smelled so good. She was warm and feminine and wonderful—he couldn’t help himself.
In his excitement, he pulled her down onto the floor. And not long after, when they had romped around for a bit, she capitulated and gave way to pleasure. Mutual pleasure. Because when they did it the second time she was completely relaxed and there wasn’t a shred of resistance. The friction there had been to begin with was nothing more than exciting foreplay.
Afterwards they spooned, and he nuzzled her neck and hair and caressed her gently. She quite simply liked it—he was pretty sure about that. Even if she wasn’t exactly standing in the door waving him off as he left.