Stuart wasn't caring, though. Wasn't taking a blind bit of notice, in fact. He dropped the bag completely -- dried-up pasta and foisty milk cartons spilled out -- and rested his elbows on the counter.
And dropped his head in his hands. But he didn't actually groan, mind you. He showed a little bit of restraint. Well, barring the boot that slammed into the cabinet door, ankle-height.
"He isn't going to come," he said out loud, then, to no one in particular: because he was a nut.
Well, not a nut, perhaps. But alone in the house, barring a loudly snoring body upstairs, so, might as well be, alone. Yes. Stuart breathed hard. He scruffed his hands through his hair, and scowled down at ketchup stains and breakfast cereal crumbs on the work surface. (The place needed a deep-clean. Or a fire-bombing.)
He straightened himself up, to his full lanky height. A bit ridiculous and out of proportion, without the breadth and muscle that any bystander could see he'd acquire later on in life. (He fervently hoped.) "Of course he isn't going to come," he admonished himself again. Biting his lip. Making it hurt. Not deliberately, either, which probably did make him a bit unbalanced, at this point.
Christ. Anyone would have thought he was soft, or something.
YOU ARE READING
Erase You
RomanceMichael is a musician, Cambridge-educated but living in London. He's successful, attractive and has plenty to keep him busy and happy. So why can he still not get over his old college boyfriend, Ben? Fortunately his old Great-Aunt Millie, a notor...
