Can't Stop the Feeling (Sinclair Sisters 2)

“You weren’t on the phone?”

“No.”

“You were talking to a fictional character?”

“Yes.” She studied her knuckles.

“About your master?”

Her head shot up, and her eyes flashed again. “I don’t have a master. Dobby was mistaken.”

“The fictional character you were having an imaginary conversation with was mistaken?”

“Yes.” She was back to focusing on the table again.

Okay then. “So, who’s the master guy you were talking to your imaginary friend about?” And why did it matter? “Is he real?”

“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Donna said, sounding slightly exasperated, which was the most he’d ever heard her sounding. “It’s you. Dobby calls you the master because you own the house and employ me.”

He just stared at her. She was having an imaginary conversation about him? He looked around. Definitely in the kitchen. For a minute he’d thought he was in bed and this was a bizarre dream. His brain went over the conversation she’d had with her imaginary friend, and a slow, wide smile broke out on his face. It felt strange, and he realised it had been a very long time since he’d smiled, and his muscles weren’t used to it.

Donna caught sight of the smile, and she seemed as shocked as he felt, which turned the smile into a grin. “This Dobby thinks you should live to please your master then?”

For a fleeting second, her eyes narrowed at him, and then it was gone, replaced by her usual wide-eyed expression. “You aren’t my master.”

“I don’t know.” He walked over to the bin with a pan full of broken plates and battered food. “I think your imaginary friend is right. I think you should call me master. It suits me.”

“Of course, you think that,” she muttered. “You’re king of the world in your own head.”

“You do know I can hear you, right?”

“Hear what?” she gave him an innocent look that had him fighting another smile. And then she muttered something even quieter. The only thing he could make out was the word Dementor.

Before he could ask her what she was talking about now, the microwave pinged, reminding him that not only did they need to eat, but that they had more important things to talk about than Donna’s imaginary friends.

“Don’t forget to add the salad,” Donna ordered. “It’s in the fridge.”

“You bought salad?”

“It’s healthy.”

“Only if you eat it.” Any salad either of them had tended to be purely decoration.

He took the plate from the microwave, added the pointless salad, grabbed cutlery and headed for the breakfast nook. Instead of sitting opposite Donna, he slid into the bench seat beside her and handed her a fork.

She pointed at the other side of the booth. “Wouldn’t it be more comfortable if we divided this between two plates and you sat over there?”

Probably, but he didn’t like the thought of that. He liked things exactly the way they were. And if he didn’t understand why that was, there was no way he could explain it to her.

“Just eat.” He cut the pie and nudged her half over to her. “I don’t see why we have to have salad.” He poked at it with his fork. “And why is it full of sprouting seeds? Oh, a nut. I can eat a nut.” He popped it in his mouth.

“I don’t understand how you can be so fit when all you want to eat is rubbish.” Her tone was haughty, but he noticed she too avoided the salad and went straight for the pie.

As soon as the forkful of creamy chicken and crumbling pastry passed her lips, her eyes closed in ecstasy, and Duncan found himself holding his breath as he stared at her mouth. Her top lip was slightly fuller than her bottom one, and the bow made a deep curve. His fingers itched to reach out and trace the outline of her lips, to feel the slight curve beneath his fingertips, to see for himself if they were as satin soft as they looked.

“Perfect,” she said, breaking the spell she’d woven. Without another glance in his direction, she concentrated on their meal.

Duncan tried hard to do the same, but his thoughts kept straying to the bow of her lips as though it was the most fascinating sight he’d ever seen.