Burning Bright

Chapter 7

‘Kate. The toilet’s overflowing.’

That was definitely not in my dream. And most definitely not wonderful. I struggled to open one eye. ‘Shit.’

‘Well no, fortunately. Just water.’

I dragged myself from my bed, veered into the kitchen to get a hammer, and opened the cistern lid in Eoin’s en-suite. With a rather dodgy aim, I hit the plunger where I had been instructed, and the cistern stopped overfilling. I located the mop in the maid’s cupboard and cleared up the water.

‘Sorry to drag you out of bed.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s happened before.’ I emptied the bucket, replaced the mop and then returned to glare at the recalcitrant toilet. ‘I’ll call the plumber on Monday. I really must get it fixed properly if you’re going to be here a while.’

‘So you do care,’ he joked, pulling me into a hug.

I relaxed into his arms. It felt so good and I didn’t want to leave them. His hug moved on to his fingers caressing down my spine and I held him tighter. He smelt night-warm as I buried my face into his neck, aware of the smooth skin and texture of his beard. The way his fingers were massaging up and down my spine, I could only begin to imagine what they would be like on my naked skin. Maybe something wonderful was going to happen tonight . . . Except my brain suddenly reminded me that I was responsible for him. And if I’d been a male consular officer who was looking after a female out on bail, I certainly should not be hugging them and having the sort of carnal thoughts I was currently harbouring. I released him but he was reluctant to do the same. His eyes met mine and his lips parted in what my body was telling me was the perfect invitation for a kiss.

I reached up and stroked my disappointment down his cheek. ‘Night, Eoin.’

‘Night, Kate.’

Eoin was singing (badly) in the kitchen, obviously better able to deal with a night’s drinking than me. I plonked myself down at the kitchen table.

‘Coffee?’ he suggested.

‘Aha.’

‘Hangover?’

‘Already got one, thanks.’

‘In that case, you need a Macken Special.’

‘What’s that?’

‘A secret recipe.’

I was resting my head on my arms on the table so didn’t see what went into this concoction, other than when he told me to down it in one. It burned the back of my throat on the way down . . . and threatened to do the same if it came back up. A very distinct possibility.

‘What on earth was in that? No. Actually. Don’t tell me. Please don’t tell me.’

‘Give it five minutes and you’ll feel on top of the world.’

I shuddered. ‘I’m dying.’

‘No you’re not. It’s a beautiful day out there.’

‘And stop being so damned cheerful. You should be dying too. You drank way more than I did.’

‘I know. But them’s the breaks.’

He sat down opposite me at the table, fingers curled around a mug of coffee. Those same fingers that had been climbing up and down my spine in the middle of the night. I shivered again, but this time for a different reason.

‘About last night . . .’ he began. I didn’t want to talk about last night. ‘I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have hugged you like that. I was suffering from PTSD.’