Blind Carnival

A New Turn

She rushes inside her building and runs into Mr. Jones, the concierge.

"Mrs. Dane, I was trying to reach you, to warn you, but you weren't picking up!"

The elderly gentleman is properly gutted, and she feels sorry for him. He is a poppet, and it's not like he could do anything with the journalists.

"It's quite alright, Mr. Jones. Thank you for your concern," she mumbles and starts smacking her hand against the button of the lift.

She just wants to be in her flat as soon as possible and lock the door behind her. Maybe, if she hides under the duvet, it'll all go away!

And then she remembers about John.

"Mr. Jones, would you be able to sneak Mr. Dowling through the backdoor? And perhaps get him a cab?"

In the background John shifts and steps closer.

"Liv..."

She turns to him. He's frowning, and she rushes to reassure him.

"I'm sure they won't find out who you are! You just have to quickly leave through the backdoor–"

"Liv..."

"It actually leads into the back alley, so I don't think they'll be waiting there, and you can just–"

"Liv..."

"...quickly get into a cab. And I'm so sorry!" She presses her hands to her chest. "Honestly, I'm so sorry! For ruining the evening, and that you have to go through this–"

"Liv, stop!" he suddenly barks in a firm, low voice that she's never heard from him before. To be completely honest, she didn't think he was capable of this tone! "I'm not going anywhere," he adds in a softer tone.

Her jaw literally slacks. That apparently happens too, just like 'buckling knees.' He steps closer and wraps his fingers around her upper arm. It's still a considerate but a properly confident gesture.

"C'mon, Liv, let's go to your flat, sit with a cuppa, and discuss."

She's gaping at him. Who is this man?!

"You can't go to my flat. You're allergic to Mr. Thornton!"

"I'll live," he grumbles.

Again, in this same alpha male tone!

She's staring at the hard-boiled bloke with a set masculine jaw, narrowed glacial eyes, and all the other attributes of one of her protagonists. Really? Is that even the same person? If she wasn't so shaken by the fact that her parents apparently shag - and not like it happens in teen years when you realise that Mum and Dad 'do it,' but as in two people who've been divorced for ten years and hate each other, have just shagged a blond telly tottie, together, and repeatedly - she'd swoon.

Alright, you have swooned, Olivia. Admit it.

The two of them enter her flat, and Mr. Thornton rushes to her. That has never happened before. He's rubbing at her legs, meowing loudly, and she's so shaken that she just can't write him any lines in her head right now. She picks her cat up and presses her face into his soft fur.

John toes his shoes off.

"I'll go take Claritin. It's in the kitchen, right?"

She nods. Her head feels empty.

She can hear water running, he's probably filling a glass, and she drops in an armchair in the living room. Mr. Thornton settles on her lap. He looks miserable and frightened, and she assumes it's the phone calls and the possible knocks at the door.