Tudor was leaning against the wall when I opened the door. I took in the scene: he looked like James Dean. Well, if James Dean had been hitting the weights and protein shakes for a year, and inked himself up with an ungodly amount of tats. His arms were crossed, showcasing his overly defined chest; he was staring at his feet, and when he saw me he smiled his gorgeous lopsided smile. He was pure bad-boy in a six-foot-three package.

The combination of gorgeous male and the latest dose of drugs caused me to waver on my feet. Tudor approached me and, without saying anything, scooped me up and carried me back to bed.

He placed me down gently and rolled back the duvet, sliding in beside me. “Sleep now, Tash. It’s okay, I’ll look after you,” he kissed my forehead lightly and wrapped an arm around my shoulders, moving my upper body to spread across his chest. His massive, broad chest.

I sleepily asked, “What will you do now?”

“Don’t worry about me. I’ll just watch a bit of TV. Just cuddle in and rest.”

“Mmm okay…” I began to drift into sleep.

I could hear Tudor flicking through the music channels as I floated away. He stopped with a jerk, and I once again heard ‘Beneath Your Beautiful’ play from the TV.

Tudor’s breathing stilled and the remote dropped to my side. He let the song play out and shifted to wrap his body around mine even closer. His lips ran back and forth along my forehead, brushing against my skin.

He slid his hand under my pillow and pulled it back almost immediately. After a few seconds his breath hitched in and he let out a painful low groan. A wool cover draped over my shoulders. It smelt of Tudor.

Fuck, he found his scarf.

I couldn’t be sure, as I was nearly unconscious and internally debating how to deal with the scarf situation, but I thought I heard him whisper sadly. “Natasha Munro, you have completely bewitched me. I would like– no, I know I could be everything to you. But it’s impossible.”

Chapter 12

Friend-Zone

Morning came, bringing with it the sun, bathing the room in yellow hues, and Tink, leaning on one arm in my bed and regarding me with a suspicious gaze.

I groaned and stretched, pleased that my head felt less fuzzy and that the whopping lump at the back seemed to be shrinking.

“Morning, chuck,” I greeted Tink sleepily.

He raised an eyebrow and clicked his fingers about an inch from my face. “Natasha Munro, you little slut!”

“What?”

It’s too early for this shit.

He sat up, placing one perfectly manicured hand on his hip. “What??? I come home to find you coiled around a mammoth chunk of Canadian beef and you say ‘what’???”

Aww, bugger. Busted.

I quickly looked around the room, but no Tudor was to be seen. I turned to Tink and opened my mouth to relay the events of the previous night, when he held up a hand, effectively silencing me.

“He’s not here, Ms. Desperado. He left when I came back in the early hours of this morning, reluctantly, might I add. I practically had to boot him out, and believe me that would have been a David and Goliath-style battle.”

He shook his head, looking disappointed. “I shouldn’t have left, should I? When he said he was going to look after you I didn’t expect him to take the job quite so seriously. I didn’t expect him to weasel his way into your suddenly slack knickers,” he pinged the waistband of my pants to underline his point.

“Ow! I–" A cocoa butter-lotioned hand muffled my explanation.

Oh, this bitch is going down…

“You need to shut up and listen to me, Wilbur!” Tink squealed, and finding my inner Zen, I did what he asked, and gestured for him to continue.

“I walked in to check on you, only to find you both under the duvet joined together like a freakin’ jigsaw puzzle: you fast asleep and him wide awake nuzzling your hair! What the f**k happened?”

I grimaced. “Nothing. He looked after me and I fell asleep… end of,” I answered truthfully, and pulled the quilt over my head.

Tink immediately pulled it back down and rolled on top of me, pinning me down spread-eagle. “End of nothing, you little hussy! I knew he’d try it on. You were concussed, for frigg’s sake. You don’t see nurses climbing in bed with their patients, do you, stroking their arms and kissing their heads? Well, at least not until after the watershed. Why was he wrapped round you like a pretzel? And don’t lie to me,” he demanded.

My heart began to pound.

What did happen? Looking back we did touch a lot but in a very chaste way, and there was all that cuddling, but nothing happened… did it? No…

“Tink, calm down. Nothing happened, we talked, watched TV, he got me my pills and I fell asleep. The next thing I know, you’re glaring daggers at me and I’m being interrogated by the Flamboyant Friggin’ Inquisition!”

Tink leaned back against my black faux-fur head frame, flicked his hair with his hand and pursed his lips into a severe pout. “Well, fine. If you’re gonna say nothing happened then I’ll have to believe you. But it sure looked like something. I entered the bedroom, and when I reached the side of the bed to try and pull you both apart, he didn’t even look at me, he kept his focus solely on you and said, ‘I’m not leaving, so don’t even ask’.

“It took Tate to persuade him to get his fine ass out of the bedroom – I was having a bitch-fit! He said he just needed to stay this one night, he only had this one night, whatever the f**k that meant. And then he finally left… in a right mood too. He slammed the friggin’ door so hard it nearly fell off its hinges!”