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Suddenly, his eyes holding hers, he reached out and knocked deliberately on the door.
“Miss James?” he said, completing the full circle of déjà vu. “May I come in for a moment?”
Despite the increasing pain running up her calf, Sophy found herself returning his grin.
How the times did change.
“You can come in for good,” she said firmly and a bit nonsensically. She reached out a hand to him and he took it, pulled it up around his neck and bent to lean his forehead against hers. They stood that way for a time, eyes closed, just breathing in the scent of each other’s skin. Mick felt warm and solid and he smelled faintly of sunshine and thyme from the outdoors. She suspected that she was emitting more eau de disinfectant, but he didn’t seem inclined to let her go.
Tilting her chin with the side of his thumb, he pressed his mouth to hers in the gentlest of kisses before he pulled back far enough to examine her injury. His large palm covered her knee, just above the cast, in a feather-light, comforting hold.
“Honey,” was all he said, and renewed tears stung her eyes. She was like a leaky tap; they just kept coming. Prior to that week, the last time she’d really cried she had been wearing braces and watching an ice-spangled Leonardo di Caprio bob around in the ocean like a cork while Kate Winslet hogged a perfectly sizable chunk of boat.
“Don’t be nice to me,” she ordered, “because my ankle is killing me and I’ll cry again.”
“No worries. Wide shoulders right here.” Mick tapped a finger to one of the shoulders in question, his eyes warm and concerned on her face. He was smoothing her hair back from her forehead, stroking it carefully. A hint of a dimple appeared through his five o’clock shadow. “Although if you’re determined to keep chucking yourself headfirst into the floor, we might have to invest in some kind of stunt gear. Otherwise I’m going to be completely grey in about a week.”
Sophy planted the tip of her forefinger between his eyebrows and pushed his head away in mock-annoyance.
“Did I say to come in and stay in?” she asked. “Because I’m re-evaluating.”
Mick grabbed her stabbing finger and brought her hand to rest against his chest. Her thumb, apparently acting under its own volition, stroked the fabric of his shirt, tracing the outline of muscle. Her sneaky fingers were likewise creeping toward his buttons, finding a gap, nestling in a sparse scattering of hair. She could feel his heart pumping beneath the pulse in her wrist, the rhythm quickening just a little. He ran his own thumb over her lips, stroked the line of her nose and the curve of her cheek.
“How bad is the pain?” he asked, and he caught sight of the little cup containing her pills. “Is that the next dose? How long until you can take it?”
“Um…” She couldn’t dissemble to save herself. If she were ever tortured for information, she would cave the moment her interrogator entered the room and cleared his throat.
Mick held the pills and a glass of water under her nose with an uncompromising expression.
“I wanted to say things first,” she protested. “I have a very low tolerance for medication. You’ll have about five minutes of lucidity before I start holding a conversation with my toes.”
“I’ll risk it,” he said, unwavering, and she reluctantly swallowed the meds – not because he was bossing again, but because her pain threshold wasn’t all that impressive either and physical discomfort tended to make her cross. The more she hurt, the more irritating she found the people around her. It wouldn’t bode well for making heartfelt declarations if he started to grate on her nerves because he was breathing too loudly or she decided that she didn’t like the colour of his shirt.
“At any rate, you should be resting,” he said, putting the empty cups to one side and picking up her hand again. He bent forward and brushed a kiss over her mouth that turned into a second and then a third much more interesting encounter. When he tried to pull back, she resisted, holding him to her and leaning into him. Her breath was coming in quick, uneven bursts when he finally managed to lift his head, her hands clutching around either side of his neck. “Like I said,” he said huskily, his forehead still pressed to hers. “Resting. Dangerous woman.”
Silently, she traced her fingertips over his face, following the lines of features she had carved so intimately in stone.
“What actually happened?” Mick was sitting still and quiescent under her touch, for once unflinching and unsuspicious of a direct gaze. He frowned. “It was an accident in the studio? Did you trip?”
“Hmm.” Sophy brought her hand to her mouth and bit pensively at her thumbnail. “Loose floorboard; fatal attraction for gravity. Same old story.” She hesitated. “I was talking to Dale.”
“Gallagher?” He had gone very still and watchful. “What was he doing there?”
“He came to…talk. Apologise.” She tried to think of how best to explain, torn by a desire to protect at least Dale’s privacy if she couldn’t save his feelings.
Mick started to speak, then stopped. His eyes were narrowed and something flickered in their depths, but eventually all he said was, “I see,” in even tones.
Feeling compelled to change the subject and quickly, Sophy cast around for anything of interest and suddenly realised, “God, I should call Mum and Dad. And Melissa.”
“Your dad knows.” Mick made the jerky, abbreviated movement that was, for him, the equivalent of a full-on fidget. It was Sophy’s turn to eye him suspiciously. “I was actually with him when your text came through. He and your mother are going to call in later tonight before the end of visiting hours.”
“You were with him?” Sophy repeated. She arched a brow. “Ran into each other shopping, did you?”
He seemed to be weighing up the advantages of truth versus enigmatic hedging.
She groaned.
“Please tell me you didn’t storm the police cells in some kind of Shakespearean showdown.”
