He'll have to break all the rules to keep her, but first she has to break just one and let him in...
It's taken four years, but Anna Fray has finally put the past behind her. Mostly. She fills her days working in a bar and her nights watching bad ro...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, squeaky clean, minty fresh, and rosy pink, the nightmare was all but a distant memory. I'd redressed in my pyjamas, minus the underwear, because somehow my subconscious didn't trust me to keep a towel on in Atticus' presence.
If he's even still here after that freak out...
I padded through the kitchen and caught the delectable aroma of coffee leading me towards the living room.
Like some Nestle advert banned for explicit content, Atticus lounged on the sofa while a steaming cup of heaven called to me from the cluttered coffee table.
Eagerly I reached for the cup, taking a satisfying sip. He'd made it just as I liked it, as always, and that thought made my chest warm. Although I told myself it was the coffee.
"You didn't have anything in, so I had to improvise," Atticus said sheepishly as I spied one of my chipped cereal bowls perched on top of a stack of unopened mail.
Thick creamy scoops crowded in the bowl with the spoon buried amongst them. "Ice cream?" I asked with a smile.
"Besides crisps and Skittles, this was all we had in," Atticus admitted as a hand scratched the back of his head. "I thought at least it has dairy, so it's not a million miles away from cereal..."
"Won't Olivia mind that I've stolen her stash?" I asked through a mouthful of glorious vanilla.
"She's away in Italy with the artist she's seeing. She won't mind what she doesn't know." He grinned, picking up his own bowl. "How did you know it was Olivia's?"
"You eat Skittles, Aslo eats crisps. That leaves Olivia with the ice cream. It's standard Cluedo logic," I rambled as I ploughed through the creamy goodness in front of me. It might not have been conventional, but it was by far the best breakfast I'd had in a long time.
In fact, it was the first time I'd had ice cream in years. Which was odd, because it used to be something I had on a near weekly basis when my mum would take me and my cousin, Ali, to this Italian ice cream parlour.
When my dad was working through the weekend, as he often did, she'd pack up her little, blue Ford Fiesta and whisk me and Ali off through the Northumberland countryside, until we reached St Bees on the west coast. It was a long drive, especially when we had beaches within minutes of us, but there was something about crossing the country that made the sand seem softer, the sea a little bluer, and the air a little fresher.
We'd spend the whole day building colossal sandcastles with intricate moats and driftwood drawbridges. And when we couldn't imagine anything grander, we'd walk into town, and she'd buy us sugar cones piled high with a rainbow of colours and flavours.
As if I could still taste the sweet tang of award-winning strawberry ice cream, I closed my eyes and savoured the final notes of vanilla.
When I opened them, I saw Atticus watching me, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
