The Cure

Chapter 36

Lola backed into the flat ass-first, her hands weighed down with shopping bags, her keys swaying, jingling between her lips, until she noticed Nate stretched out on the sofa, still in his scrubs, sweetly and deeply asleep; the gentle sunset casting orange shadows over his face.

She clasped the keys with one free finger, halting the tinkling metal; but Nate was already stirring, a soft, sleepy smile slipping onto his face as he stretched out further, yawning.

'Shit, sorry,' she grimaced, pushing the door closed with her hip and pressing the shopping bags upon the bar as he blinked himself into being, passing a hand over his eyes.

'You OK?' he crooked his elbow, passing his hand beneath the back of his head as he sat up slightly, watching her with a small smile as she busied herself with unpacking the shopping.

'I'm OK.'

Tins of beans, powdered soup, packets of instant noodles, 99p beige pizzas, UHT milk; she caught him looking, and he raised an eyebrow.

'Your diet is absolute shit.'

She laughed as she started pushed the tins into their cupboards haphazardly.

'End of the month. You know how it is.'

He didn't; he pursed his lips, frowning now, his eyes flickering over the supermarket brand cans, deficient of almost any nutrients, teeming with salt and sugar.

The end of the month for him meant five hundred pounds by direct transfer from his parents, upon their insistence, that they had exchanged against him quitting his part-time job as a lifeguard in the local pool, leaving him more time for his studies.

The end of the month always meant slightly more money than when he had started the last one.

He had never considered meat, fresh vegetables, fresh fruit to be a luxury. His account had sagged under the weight of five figures since he was eighteen. Now, he wasn't far off six.

The pale tint to her cheek took on a new meaning.

The familiar rush of protectiveness bubbled in his chest again, as she finished clattering in the kitchen, padding across the loft to sit down at the edge of the sofa, in the small space by his waist, and pressed a small, soft kiss to his lips, a tentative hand at his chest.

'Are you OK?'

'Yeah.' He smoothed a hand up and down her arms, steeling himself. 'You off work?'

''Til Sunday.'

'Same,' he murmured, watching his own hand passing over the soft skin of her hands, her arms, and he was suddenly nervous beneath her unexpectant gaze, his body flushing with heat.

'Weekend off together,' she whispered, her lower lip passing gently beneath her teeth as her eyes took on a faraway quality; the hairs on her forearm were raising beneath his tickling touch. His heart was pounding, and sweat prickling at his chest.

Together. The word had never sounded so good.

He had a hat to throw.

He sat up slightly to pull off his scrubs tee-shirt, and the long-sleeved white shirt beneath it, his body flushing with heat, subconsciously using his body to his advantage, as he bared himself before her in more ways than one.

'You know, I was thinking of taking you out somewhere.'

She eyed the defined abdominals, the sloping V down to the waistband of his boxers, as he leaned back against the arm of the sofa again, delaying her response, his hair newly mussed out of place.

'If you'd like. Can I take you out?'

Lola lips twitched as she came back round, returning to the conversation, her eyes softly amused. 'Yeah. Yeah, you can.'

Nate grinned against the kiss that came next, biting down on her lower lip, pulling gently as she gasped.

'What do you have in mind?'

'Somewhere that you can wear that black dress again,' he muttered, placing his palm against her stomach; she pressed forward automatically into his hand as she tilted her head, reflecting.

'Which one?'

'The one you wore to the opera.'

She blushed slightly. 'You remember that?'

'There's not a man alive who's seen you in it that could forget.'

He had the perfect place in mind; a place not far from his parents' neighbourhood, where they often ate as a family, set on the river, its terrace jutting out over the water, red brick and impossibly quaint on the outside, white-washed and modern on the inside, with floor-to-ceiling windows inviting the winking waterside in, and if it was late enough, they could watch the moon skipping over its ripples from Table 6.

They served a neat take on traditional French; no over-sauced pasta or thick-crusted pizzas there. The waiters were suited, and the dress-code was formal, and the clientele were visibly wealthy, Porsches and Astons punctuating the carpark.

And he'd already reserved that afternoon, obviously, Table 6, because it was Friday, and he hadn't managed to get as far as imagining she might say no.

His mind couldn't fathom her absence, he thought, as they drove to the restaurant in ironed finery and silence, stealing glances at one another, stifling smiles in the dark.

Not anymore.