He says something to the woman behind the counter, who giggles, gazing at him in appreciation. I can’t blame her. I can’t believe that I ever thought him easy to overlook. Every time I see him now, I’m struck by the broadness of his shoulders and the long length of his legs, the cheeky smile, and that angular face.

“Ready?” he asks, handing me the bag of books. “You alright, Mags? You look deep in thought.”

“Just contemplating booking the next few weeks off work so I can read these and have fun.”

He chuckles and I follow him out of the shop. He stops on the pavement and rubs his temples. “Now a drink,” he says briskly.

I watch him for a second, thoughts tumbling in my head. “No,” I say, making up my mind. “It’s my turn to decide the evening’s entertainment.”

“I’m not going to a brothel.”

“Not in those clothes, no.”

That startles a laugh out of him that eases the shadows in his eyes. “Where are we going, then?” he asks with his usual easy-going manner.

“Do you trust me?”

“Not at all.” We gaze at each other for a long moment. A slow smile spreads across his face, pulling out a dimple in his left cheek. “But then that’s half the fun, Mags.”

Chapter Nine

Mags

He follows me as I set off, moving at a slower pace so his leg won’t hurt.

“Are we walking there?” he asks.

“It’s only a few streets away.”

He falls into step beside me, and we walk together, an easy silence falling between us. After a few minutes, I stop. “Here we are.”

He looks up at the building. “Athena Spa and Sauna,” he reads. He nudges me. “Sounds a bit rude. Have we come here for a happy-ending massage?”

I roll my eyes. “I have never paid for a happy ending in my life, and I don’t intend to start today.” I shoot him a quick glance. “Have you?”

“Paid for it?” He shakes his head. “Just a few weeks ago, you had me down as a penniless artist, and now you’ve made me into a baller.”

“I’ve made you into a cretin.”

I enjoy the sound of his laughter as we walk into the foyer. It’s an instantly calming atmosphere with whitewashed walls and lush plants. Recessed lights are dotted about, which will be better for Laurie’s eyes, and the air smells of mint and eucalyptus.

He gazes around with lively interest as I turn to the receptionist. “How are you, Mr Carlsen?” she says.

“Fine, thank you, Cynthia. We’re here for the sauna, and my friend needs a massage.”

“I do?” Laurie’s stunned question overrides the receptionist, and he grimaces. “Sorry,” he says to her. “Go ahead.”

She smiles at him. “What massage would you like?”

“Oh, I don’t know that I do need one—”