The Mister

His hands fall away, releasing her. “Shit!” He sits up immediately and gapes at her in utter dismay as she scrambles off him. But before she can run, he grabs her hand.

“Alessia!”

“No!” she shouts.

And he lets go immediately.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I thought…I thought…I was…I must have been dreaming.” Slowly he stands, his face full of remorse, holding his hands up in submission. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He drags his hands through his hair and rubs his face as if trying to rouse himself. Alessia stays out of his reach but scrutinizes him and sees how strained and tired he looks.

He shakes his head to clear it. “I’m so sorry,” he says again. “I’ve been driving all night. I got in at four this morning. I must have fallen asleep when I sat down to undo my laces.” They both look at his boots and at the clumps of dried mud he’s left in his wake.

“Oops. Sorry,” he says with a sheepish shrug.

From deep inside, her compassion for this man blossoms. He’s exhausted, and he’s apologizing for making a mess in his own home? That’s not right. He has shown her nothing but kindness, giving her his umbrella, helping her into her coat, and when he caught her at the piano, he was complimentary and generous in his offer to let her play.

“Sit,” she says, spurred on by her compassion.

“What?”

“Sit down,” she says more forcefully, and he does as he’s told. She kneels at his feet and begins to untie his bootlaces.

“No,” he says. “You don’t have to do that.” Alessia bats his hand away, ignoring him, and undoes his boots, pulling each off in turn. Then she stands, feeling more confident that this is the right thing to do.

“You sleep now,” she says, and grasping his boots in one hand, she holds out the other to help him up.

He glances from her eyes to her fingers, his hesitation unmistakable. After a beat he takes her hand, and she hauls him off the sofa. Gently she leads him down the hallway and into his bedroom. There she releases him, draws back the duvet from his bed, and points. “You sleep,” she says, and walks around him to the door.

“Alessia,” he calls before she leaves his room. He looks despondent and uncertain. “Thank you,” he says.

She nods and exits, still holding his filthy boots. She closes the door behind her and leans against it, her hand at her throat in an effort to contain her emotions. She takes a deep cleansing breath. She’s gone from uncertainty and confusion to delight and wonder to compassion and assertiveness in the space of a few minutes.

And he kissed her.

And she kissed him.

She touches her fingers to her lips. It was brief but not unpleasant.

Not unpleasant at all.

I missed you.

She takes another deep breath to calm her pounding heart. She has to get a grip on reality. He’d been asleep. He’d been dreaming. He hadn’t known what he was saying or what he was doing. She could have been anybody. She shakes off her disappointment. She is just his cleaner. What could he possibly see in her? Feeling a little deflated, but with her equilibrium restored, she picks up the Mister’s leather duffel bag and heads back to the laundry room to clean his boots and sort his clothes for washing.

* * *

I stare at the closed bedroom door, feeling every shade of stupid known to man. How could I have been so fucking idiotic? I frightened her.

Shit.

I have no hope with her.

She’d appeared in my dream, a vision in blue—even in that ugly housecoat—and I’d welcomed her.

I rub my face in frustration. I’d left Cornwall at eleven the previous night, and the five-hour drive had been exhausting. It was a stupid thing to do. I nearly fell asleep several times. I had to open my car windows even though it was freezing and sing along to the radio to stay awake. And the real irony is that I drove home to see her. The weather forecast threatened a rare blizzard, and I didn’t want to be stuck in Cornwall for a week…so I came home early.

Fuck.

I’ve blown it.

But she knelt at my feet and undid my shoes and led me to bed as if I were a child. Led me to bed to sleep. I snort. To sleep!

When was the last time anyone did that for me?

I don’t remember any woman putting me to bed and leaving me….

And I frightened her.

Shaking my head in self-disgust, I peel off my clothes and leave them on the floor where they fall. I’m too tired to do anything but crawl into bed. As I shut my eyes, I find myself wishing she had undressed me completely and joined me…here. I groan as I recall her sweet, wholesome scent, roses and lavender, and how soft she felt in my arms. Feeling simultaneously morose and aroused, I fall fast asleep and surrender to her in my dreams.

* * *

I wake with a start and an odd feeling of guilt. My phone is buzzing on my bedside table. I didn’t leave it there. I pick it up, but I’m too late. It’s a missed call from Caroline. I place it back on my bedside table, noting that my wallet, spare change, and a condom are also there. I frown, and then I remember.

Oh, God. Alessia.

I jumped her.

Bugger.

I screw my eyes shut to escape the embarrassment that washes over me.

Fuck. A. Duck.

I sit up, and sure enough my clothes have been tidied away. She must have emptied my jeans pockets. It seems such an intimate thing to do, rummaging through my possessions, her fingers on my clothes, my stuff.

I’d like her fingers on me.

That’s not going to happen, you idiot. You frightened the poor girl.

How many houses does she clean anyway? How many pockets does she rummage through? I dislike the thought. Perhaps I should hire her full-time. Then the dull ache in my gut would never go…unless…unless…There’s only one way I’ll be rid of this ache.

Shit. That’s not going to happen.

I wonder what the time is. There are no shimmers on the ceiling. Glancing out the window, I see nothing but a wall of white.

Snow.

The predicted blizzard has arrived. A glance at my alarm clock confirms it’s 1:45 P.M. She should still be here. I leap out of bed and in my dressing room pull on a pair of jeans and a long-slee

ved T-shirt.

Alessia is in the drawing room, where she’s cleaning the windows. All evidence of my muddy walk through the flat has disappeared.

“Hi,” I say, and wait to see how she reacts. My heart is thundering. I feel like I’m fifteen years old again.

“Hi. You sleep well?” She gives me a brief but unreadable look, then studies the cloth she’s holding.

“Yes, thank you, and sorry about earlier.” Feeling ridiculous and self-conscious, I wave in the direction of the sofa where my misdemeanor took place. She nods and rewards me with a small, tight smile, and her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink.

I look beyond her through the windows, where the view is obscured by swirling snowflakes. The snowstorm is in full force, and outside is a turbulent torrent of white.

“It doesn’t often snow like this in London,” I say, moving to stand beside her at the window.

We’re talking about the weather?

She steps beyond my reach, but she stares out of the windows. The snow is so dense I can hardly see the river below.

She shivers and wraps her arms around her body.

“Do you have far to go?” I ask, worried about her making her way home in this storm.

“West London.”

“How do you get home normally?”

She blinks a couple of times while she processes my words. “Train,” she answers.

“Train? From where?”

“Um…Queenstown Road.”

“I’ll be surprised if the trains are still running.”

I head over to my desk in the corner of the room, shuffle the mouse, and my iMac springs to life. A picture of Kit, Caroline, Maryanne, and me with Kit’s two Irish setters appears on my desktop, and with it I feel a wave of nostalgia and sadness. Shaking my head, I check online for the latest on local transport. “Um…South Western Trains?”