From London With Love

13 | huckleberry finn-ished with her shit

Ophelia awoke early.

This wasn't particularly surprising, Ophelia mused, rolling over to pillow her face on her hands. She always woke up early — particularly in a strange house. What was surprising was the blonde man sleeping next to her in the bed.

She smiled.

Andrew was breathing softly, his long eyelashes fluttering. His cheeks were a rosy pink. There was something undeniably sweet about how relaxed he looked, she thought. It made him look younger, somehow.

She leaned forward, kissing his nose.

Andrew murmured in his sleep, but didn't stir. Ophelia slipped out of the bed, throwing on a thin white robe over her pajama shorts and tank top.

Coffee.

That's what she needed. Besides, Andrew was always cranky until he had caffeine in the morning; she might as well make sure it was available immediately.

Ophelia padded quietly down the stairs, pausing just outside the dining room. Actually, where did she find coffee? Breakfast seemed to magically appear on the table each morning, and then it was swiftly whisked away by Digby's cook, Ingrid. Did she go to the kitchen? But, no; she would only be in Ingrid's way.

She hesitated outside the door.

"Dickens?"

She spun around. Digby grinned at her.

"You're up awfully early."

"You, too."

"I'm sorting the guns." Digby turned so that she could see the shotgun resting in the crook of his elbow, the barrel pointing down. "Andrew was meant to help me, but he must be having a lie in, the lazy bugger."

Ophelia froze. Oh, god.

Don't blush, she told herself sternly. Don't blush, don't—

"Anyways," Digby said. "Did you need something?"

"I was looking for coffee."

"Oh, good." He winked. "I can help with that."

Ophelia swallowed, trailing Digby into the dining room. The large table looked oddly empty without people or food, and she perched awkwardly on a chair as Digby rifled in the sideboard. He let out a triumphant cry, producing a coffee machine and a number of capsules.

"Knew it!" Digby beamed. "Mother's addicted to the stuff."

He plugged in the machine. To Ophelia's surprise, he leaned the shotgun against the wall, claiming the chair opposite her.

"Well?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Well, what?"

"Have I finally impressed you?"

Ophelia couldn't help it; she laughed. "If all it took was good coffee to impress me, Digby, I'd be dating a number of baristas by now."

"What does it take, then?"

She hesitated. An odd sense of uneasiness filled her, and Ophelia fiddled with the lace sleeve of her robe. She knew it was stupid, but she couldn't help but feel like she was betraying Andrew right now; she couldn't imagine that he would be thrilled at the prospect of her sitting here, alone with Digby, in her pajamas.

Digby leaned forward.

"Oh, come on," he goaded. "I won't tell anyone."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, it doesn't take much, honestly."