by Leah Ashton
‘Morning,’ Hugh said as she dumped her bag on a chair and then shrugged out of her coat. ‘I thought I’d help move those heavy boxes.’
Her email last night had explained that she’d found some boxes that would need two people to lift them. He’d considered contacting the temp agency to recruit someone, and then had realised that to do so would be preposterous. He was thirty-six, fit and he lived ten metres away. He could move the damn boxes. They were, no matter how much he seemed needlessly to over-complicate them, just boxes. He didn’t have to deal with any of the stuff inside them.
She nodded. ‘Great!’ she said, although he couldn’t tell if she meant it. ‘I thought you’d just organise someone to come and help me.’
‘I did,’ he said, then pointed towards his chest. ‘Me.’
Her smile now was genuine. And lovely. He’d thought that every time he’d seen her smile. It was another reason he’d considered calling the temp office. But similarly—just as the boxes were only boxes—a smile was only a smile. It, and his admiration of it, meant nothing more.
‘It shouldn’t take long. I could probably do it myself, but I’d hate to drop one of the boxes and break something.’
The kettle clicked as it finished boiling.
‘Doesn’t matter if you do,’ Hugh said. ‘But still—ask me to help move anything heavy, regardless. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.’
April blinked as if he’d said something unexpected. ‘Okay,’ she said.
They took their coffee into the second reception room.
As always, the cluttered space made Hugh feel stiff and antsy—as if he could run a marathon on the adrenalin that shot through his veins.
So far April had cleared only a small section of this room. Once it had been his mum and Len’s TV room. They’d sat on the large, plush couch, their legs propped on matching ottomans, dinner balanced on their laps.
The couch was still there—one arm visible amongst the bevy of boxes.
The heavy boxes were near the window. They were much bigger than the boxes that had filled the first room—probably five or more times their size—and stacked only two high.
It was the top boxes that April wanted to be lifted down.
Coffee placed carefully on the floor, it was easy for the pair of them to lift the boxes: one, two...
For the third, they both had to reach awkwardly around it, tucked away as it was between the heavy curtains and another wall of boxes.
In doing so their fingers brushed against each other, along the far side of the box.
Only for a second—or not even that long.
Barely long enough to be noticed—but Hugh did.
Her hand felt cool and soft. Her nails glossy and smooth beneath his palm.
His gaze darted to April’s, but she was too busy lifting the box to pay any attention at all.
Or too busy deliberately looking busy.
He suspected the latter. He’d noticed her reaction in his flat when she’d so briefly brushed against him. Her cheeks had blushed pink in an instant.
He’d reacted, too.
It was strange, really, for his blood to heat like that from such an innocent touch.
He hadn’t expected it.
Not that he hadn’t continued to notice April’s attractiveness. It would be impossible not to. She was beautiful in a classic, non-negotiable way—but beauty was not something Hugh should be paying much attention to when it came to a woman working for him.
So he’d made sure he hadn’t.
Except for when she’d stood beside him at the sink a few nights ago, when his thoughts had been jumbled and unfocused. Then the shape of her neck, of her jaw, the profile of her nose and chin...
Yes, he’d noticed.
But, more, he’d noticed her empathy. And her sympathy. Even if he had welcomed neither.
Nor welcomed his attraction to her.
He didn’t want complications. Right now—getting this house cleaned out—or ever.
His lifestyle was planned and structured to avoid complications.
Even when he dated women it was only ever for the briefest of times—brevity, he’d discovered, avoided the complications that were impossible for him: commitment, cohabiting, planning a future together...
Relationships were all about complications, and to Hugh complications were clutter.
And he was determined to live a clutter-free life.
But today contact with April’s skin had again made his blood heat and his belly tighten.
He should go.
They’d moved the box to where April had directed, so Hugh headed for the door.
‘Don’t forget your coffee,’ April said.
He turned and saw she held the two mugs in her hands—the one for him printed with agapanthus.
He should go—he could make his own coffee downstairs. There was nothing to be gained by staying, and as always he had so much on his to-do list today.
But he realised, surprised, that the boxes that surrounded him weren’t compelling him to leave. At some point the tension that had been driving him from this house had abated.
It was still there, but no longer overpowering. Nor, it seemed, was it insurmountable.
So he found himself accepting his mug from April. A woman who, with no more than her smile and against all his better judgement, had somehow compelled him to stay.
* * *
He hadn’t been supposed to stay.
April had honestly expected Hugh to take his coffee and head on down to his basement apartment.
But instead he’d taken his mug and approached the first box she’d planned to go through—its top already sliced open, the flaps flipped back against the thick cardboard sides.
For a moment it had looked as if he was going to start looking through the box. He’d stepped right up beside it, his spare hand extended, and then he had simply let it fall back against his jean-clad thigh.
Now he brought his mug to his lips, his gaze, as usual, impossible to interpret.
‘You really don’t like these boxes,’ April said. Her words were possibly unwise—but they’d just slipped out.
Hugh Bennell intrigued her. And not just his looks—or his touch, however accidental. But who he was and what all these boxes meant to him.
The boxes, of course, intrigued her too.
He shot a look in her direction, raising an eyebrow. ‘No.’
And that was that. No elaboration.
So April simply got to work.
Hugh walked a few steps away, propping his backside against the only available arm of the sofa. Boxes were stacked neatly on the seat cushions beside him.
This box was full of clothes. A woman’s. April hadn’t come across women’s clothes before, and the discovery of the brightly coloured silks and satins made her smile and piqued her interest.
She held a top against herself: a cream sheer blouse with thick black velvet ribbon tied into a bow at the neck. It was too small for April—smaller even than the sample size clothing she’d used to have sent to her by designers before she’d given up on starving herself.
‘Was this your mum’s?’ April asked, twisting to face Hugh.
She absolutely knew it wasn’t her place to ask him, but she just couldn’t not.
It was too weird to be standing in this room with Hugh, in silence, surrounded by all this stuff that meant something to him but absolutely nothing to her. And she was the one sorting through it.
Hugh didn’t even blink. ‘All clothing is to be donated,’ he said.
‘That wasn’t why I was asking,’ April said.
She tossed the shirt into the ‘donate’ box in the centre of the room. Soon after followed a deep pink shift dress, a lovely linen shawl and a variety of printed
T-shirts. Next April discovered a man’s leather bomber jacket that was absolutely amazing but about a hundred sizes too big.
Regardless, April tried it on. Felt compelled to.
Was it disrespectful to try it on?
Possibly. Probably.
But Hugh was about to donate it all, anyway. He was the one who insisted it was all junk, all worthless.
Maybe this was how she could trigger a reaction from this tall, silent man?
It was unequivocally a bad idea, but she spent her days unpacking boxes and her evenings stacking shelves. Mostly in silence.
Maybe she was going stir crazy, but she needed to see what Hugh would do.
She just didn’t buy it that he didn’t care about this stuff. So far his measured indifference had felt decidedly unconvincing.
She had to call his bluff.
‘I’m not paying you to play dress-up,’ Hugh pointed out from behind her.
His tone was neutral.
She spun around to show him the oversized jacket. ‘Spoilsport,’ she said with a deliberate grin, catching his gaze.
If he was just going to stand there she couldn’t cope with all this silence and gloom. Her sisters had always told her she was the sunny sister. That she could walk into a room and brighten it with her smile.
It had always sounded rather lame—and to be honest part of her had wondered what that said about her in comparison to clever Ivy or artistic Mila. Was it really such an achievement to be good at smiling?
It had been a moot point in the months since Evan had left, anyway.
Until now. Now, this darkly moody man felt like a challenge for sunny April.
Acutely aware that this might all backfire horribly, but incapable of stopping herself in the awkward silence, she playfully tossed her hair in the way of a supermodel.
‘What do you think?’
What would he do? Smile? Shout? Leave?
Fire her?
Hugh’s shake of the head was barely perceptible.
But...was that a quirk to his lips?
Yes. It was definitely there.
April’s smile broadened.
‘Fair enough,’ she said, shrugging her shoulders and then tossing the jacket into the ‘donate’ box. ‘How about this?’ she asked, randomly grabbing the next item of clothing in the box.
A boat-neck blouse, in a shiny fabric with blue and white stripes. But too small. Which April realised...too late.
Hands stuck up in the air, fabric bunched around her shoulders on top of her T-shirt, April went completely still.
‘Dammit!’ she muttered.
She hadn’t been entirely sure of her plan, but becoming trapped in cheap satin fabric was definitely not part of it.
She wiggled again, trying to dislodge the blouse, but it didn’t shift.
Her T-shirt had ridden up at least a little. April could feel cool air against a strip of skin above the waistband of her jeans.
Mortified, she struggled again, twisting away from where she knew Hugh stood, feeling unbelievably silly and exposed.
‘Stay still,’ he said, suddenly impossibly close. Behind her.
April froze. She was blindfolded by the stupid top but she could sense his proximity. His height. His width.
His fingers hooked under the striped fabric, right at her shoulders. He was incredibly careful, gently moving the fabric upwards. Her arms were still trapped. It was almost unbearable: the touch of his fingers, his closeness, her vulnerability.
She wanted him to just yank it off over her head. To get this over with.
No, she didn’t.
The fabric had cleared her shoulders now, and he moved closer still to help tug it over her arms, where the top was still wrapped tightly.
Now his fingers brushed against the bare skin of her arms. Only as much as necessary—and that didn’t feel like anywhere near enough.
He was so close behind her that if she shifted backwards even the slightest amount she would be pressed right up against him. Back to chest.
It seemed a delicious possibility.
It seemed, momentarily, as she was wrapped in the temporary dark, a viable option.
And then the blouse was pulled free.
April gasped as the room came back into focus. Directly in front of her were heavy navy curtains, closed, obscured by an obstacle course of cardboard boxes.
She spun around.
‘Thank you—’ she began.
Then stopped.
Hugh was still so close. Closer than he’d ever been before. Tall enough and near enough that he needed to look down at her and she needed to tilt her chin up.
She explored his face. The sharpness of his nose, the thick slash of his eyebrows, the strength of his jaw. This close she could see delicate lines bracketing his lips, a freckle on his cheek, a rogue grey hair amongst the stubble.
He was studying her, too. His gaze took in her eyes, her cheeks, her nose. Her lips.
There it was.
Not subtle now, or easily dismissed as imagination as it had been down in his basement apartment. Or every other time they’d been in the same room together.
But it had been there, she realised. Since the first time they’d met.
That focus. That...intent.
That heat.
Between them. Within her.
It made her pulse race and caused her to become lost in his gaze when he finally wrenched his away from her lips.
Since they’d met his eyes had revealed little. Enough for her to know, deep in her heart, that he wasn’t as hard and unfeeling as he so steadfastly attempted to be. It was why she’d known she couldn’t be responsible for the disposal of his mother’s memories.
And maybe that was what had obscured what she saw so clearly now. Or at least had allowed her to question it.
Electricity practically crackled between them. It seemed ludicrous that she hadn’t known before. That she’d ever doubted it.
Hugh Bennell wanted her.
And she wanted him. In a way that left her far more exposed than her displaced T-shirt.
But then he stepped back. His gaze was shuttered again.
‘You okay?’ he asked, his voice deep and gravelly.
No.
‘Yes,’ she said, belatedly realising he was referring to the stripy top and not to what had just happened between them.
Way too late she tugged down her T-shirt, and blushed when his gaze briefly followed the movement of her hands. Then it shifted away.
Not swiftly, as if he’d been caught out or was embarrassed. Just away.
He didn’t look at her again as he went over to the box April had been emptying.
Without hesitation he reached in, grabbing a large handful of clothing and directly deposited it into the ‘donate’ box. Then, with brisk efficiency, he went through the remainder of the box: ancient yellow newspapers to the recycling pile, a toaster with a severed electrical cord to the bin, encyclopaedias with blue covers and gold-edged pages on top of the clothing in the donation box.
April had been boxing books separately, but she didn’t say a word.
The donation box was now full, already packed with yesterday’s miscellanea, and Hugh lifted it effortlessly.
April followed him into the foyer and directed him to where she’d like the box left, ready for the next visit by the red-and-white charity collection truck.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
He shrugged. ‘I just want this stuff gone.’
She nodded. ‘I’d better get back to work, then.’
Finally her temporary inertia had lifted, and reality—the most obvious being that it was her job to empty these boxes, not Hugh’s—had reasserted itself.
Although amidst that reality the crackling tension between them still remained.
April didn’t know what to do with it.
Hugh seemed unaffected, but April knew for certain that he wasn’t unaware.
‘These clothes aren’t my mum’s,’ he said suddenly. ‘I have no idea who they belong to. I have no idea what most of this stuff is, or why the hell my mum needed to keep it all so badly.’
April nodded again. His tone had hardened as he spoke, frustration fracturing his controlled facade.
‘She was more than all this stuff. Much more.’ He shook his head. ‘Why couldn’t she see that?’
Hugh met her gaze again, but April knew he’d asked the most rhetorical of questions.
‘I’ll get this stuff out of your house,’ she said. She promised.
‘Her house,’ he clarified.
And then, without another word, he was gone.
CHAPTER FIVE
HUGH HADN’T SLEPT WELL.
He’d woken late, so he’d been too late to join the group he normally rode with on a Wednesday, so instead he’d headed out alone. Today that was his preference anyway.
Because it was later, traffic was heavier.
It was also extremely cold, and the roads were slick with overnight rain.
London could be dangerous for a cyclist, and Hugh understood and respected this.
It was partly why he often chose to ride in groups, despite his general preference for solitude. Harried drivers were forced to give pairs or long lines of bikes room on the road, and were less likely to scrape past mere millimetres from Hugh’s handlebars.
But other times—like this morning—his need to be alone trumped the safety of numbers.
Today he didn’t want the buzz of conversation to surround him. Or for other cyclists to share some random anecdote or to espouse the awesomeness of their new carbon fibre wheels.
When he rode alone it was the beat of his own pulse that filled his ears, alongside the cadence of his breathing and the whir of the wheels.
Around him the cacophony of noise that was early-morning London simply receded.
It was just him and his bike and the road.
Hugh rode hard—hard enough to keep his mind blank and his focus only on the next stroke of the pedals.