Take a Chance on Me. Fiona Harper
By the time she’d wandered into the kitchen, Jake was pouring steaming espresso into delicate little cups. He took the dishes from her hands, passed her a coffee, then laced his fingers in her spare hand and tugged her towards the living room. ‘We’ll leave the washing up for now.’
‘Fine by me.’ Her eye was immediately drawn to the tall windows that almost filled one side of the room. ‘Oh, wow! You’ve got a balcony! I’ve always wanted a balcony.’
‘There’s not much to see. In a densely populated area like this, it’s just gardens and back windows.’
‘Can I take a look?’
‘Knock yourself out.’
She put down her coffee cup, unfastened the brass catch, and stepped through the French windows onto a narrow wrought-iron balcony. She could have spent an hour out there, listening to the shuffle of the wind in the trees and nosing into the uncurtained windows.
Jake’s presence was noticeable more from the heat of his body behind hers than the sound of his footsteps. He draped his arms around her shoulders like a knotted pullover and she sank back into him.
‘If I lived in this flat, I’d spend all my time out here.’
‘Would you? I like the trees, but it’s a bit too crowded. Still, it’ll do until I’ve saved up for my house in the country.’
‘Don’t you think it looks magical? Especially now people are starting to put their Christmas lights up.’
Jake grunted. ‘It’s only the second week of December! Far too early for all that stuff.’
‘So that’s why your place is twinkle-free, is it?’
‘I don’t do Christmas lights.’
Serena thought of the dog-eared tinsel and her mother’s hand-made decorations that graced the nine-foot tree in her living room. ‘Shut up, you old humbug, and give me a kiss!’
She swivelled to face him and their lips met. All she was conscious of for the next few seconds was the heady mixture of Jake’s lips on hers and the heat trapped between their torsos. Even after three weeks, his kisses had the power to reduce her nerve-endings to frazzles. If anything, there was a cumulative effect. It seemed impossible that each kiss could be sweeter than the last, but Jake was doing his best to give her solid empirical proof.
The mood shifted. What had started out as romantic and sensual was rapidly intensifying into something else entirely. Her guard was too far down. It was all she could do to lock her knees and keep herself from puddling to the floor. Jake’s hand was under her jumper, caressing her midriff and snaking a tantalising journey up her body.
A tiny voice screeched at her from the back of her head, telling her it was too soon, too intense. She’d promised herself, no matter what, that she’d use her brain rather than her hormones to set the pace. If Jake really liked her, he’d wait …
Trembling, she let the cold air rush between their lips and slid round in the circle of his arms to face outwards again. Her heart stamped an angry beat in her chest and she took a few deep, cleansing breaths.
She closed her hands over the top of his, if only to stop the mesmerising rhythm of his fingers as he stroked her bare flesh. The slice of December wind against her face was a welcome jolt. Nearly as good as a cold shower.
However, Jake didn’t seem to notice it. He nuzzled into the side of her neck and placed tiny kisses along her jaw. She had to do something to break the spell, so she straightened a little and ordered herself to pay attention to the view.
‘Isn’t it fascinating—looking into all the windows, watching other people go about their lives?’
Jake clasped her even closer, his breath raising the sensitive hairs inside her ears.
‘Riveting.’
She struggled to ignore the exquisite tickle of his lips on her earlobe. She was pretty sure if anyone took an X-ray of her insides right now, they’d be staring at a quivering mass of strawberry jelly.
She picked a window and focused intently on a mother pacing a repetitive circuit with a tiny baby propped on her shoulder. Although the pane muffled any sound, she could tell by the infant’s red scrumpled face that it was not in a happy place. Every few seconds they disappeared as the woman changed direction, but she always reappeared in the same place.
The hypnotic quality of her movements was certainly working on Serena, who suddenly noticed Jake’s hands had worked free of hers. The combination of lips and fingertips was fatal. Her eyes slid closed and her lips parted. A tiny intake of breath that sounded very much like an ah brought her to her senses slightly.
Focus, girl. Focus.
She wrenched her eyelids open and searched for another window. Two floors down, she found one. A couple—married, probably—pottered around their kitchen. He stirred a pot; she opened a bottle of wine. They were so unhurried, hardly making eye contact, but they moved around each other in a well-choreographed sequence they must have practised a thousand times, opening drawers and cupboards, dishing up their meal. She couldn’t tear her eyes away. Even the movement of Jake’s lips against her skin was almost forgotten as she watched them circling round each other in their seemingly mundane dance.
In the pit of her stomach, she ached for just a little of what they had.
‘It’s freezing out here, Jake. Let’s go back inside.’
He made no fuss, only smiled at her and opened the door for her to step through. Once inside, he fastened the catch and closed the curtains, so not a chink of the outside world remained visible.
But in her imagination she could still see the couple, sitting at a little square table, swapping stories from their day at work. She gave him an easy smile, sweet with promise. He touched her hand as she reached for her glass …
Serena tried to erase the image by taking an active interest in her surroundings. Jake’s furniture was expensive. Classic designs with a modern twist. She could have opened the pages of any one of the aspirational interior design magazines at the supermarket and seen something identical. Almost.
As she looked more closely, she noticed elements that jarred. There were too many books for a truly minimalist look—and not just work-related tomes. Novels, poetry and biographies jostled for position on the cluttered shelves. Colourful modern art canvases hung on the walls. She would have expected abstract designs in beige and brown, not Kandinsky and Chagall. In the corner, a glossy acoustic guitar with a ratty strap was propped up against a small table.
‘Do you play?’ she asked, nodding towards it.
‘I used to.’
‘Not any more?’
‘Well … I pick it up now and again. I’m very rusty. I just don’t have the time.’
‘Play me something.’
Jake shifted in his seat. Ridges appeared on his forehead. ‘You don’t want to hear me twanging away after listening to your old man. I wouldn’t compare favourably.’
‘Pass it here, then.’
‘Yes, Miss.’
She sat the guitar on her lap and, one at a time, pressed the fingers of her left hand onto the strings. It took all her concentration to strum the few bars of the only song she knew. It was about as comfortable and familiar as bungee jumping. She stopped mid-verse and looked at Jake. His eyebrows were hitched halfway up to his hairline.
‘That has to be the worst rendition of “Scarborough Fair” I’ve ever heard.’
She bowed slightly in acknowledgement. ‘The musical gene obviously took one look at me and decided to leap-frog a generation.’
‘Not a carbon-copy of your father,