Rosie followed him to the kitchen and began filling the sink with hot water. The chilli pan was large, crusty and needed to be washed up by hand.
‘Nope,’ Aled said, shaking his head. ‘Step away from the Fairy Liquid. You made dinner – I’ve got this.’
Rosie flopped down on the sofa, struggling to identify the intense, almost uncomfortable feeling that was suddenly expanding in her chest. It was some combination of gratification – pleasure at feeling appreciated – and annoyance with herself for having gone so long without it.
James, she knew, would never have stopped her from cleaning up as well as cooking for them; she’d done it regularly, and mostly without complaint. Aled’s attitude to this wasn’t some show of enlightenment or superiority – he was simply treating her as an equal.
A lump rose in Rosie’s throat at the thought that someone she barely knew had more consideration for her than the man she’d imagined she would marry. She swallowed it away and picked up the paperback she was currently reading from the coffee table.
It wasn’t long before Aled had finished. Although she had tried to focus on her book, she’d found herself intently tuned in to the sound of pots and pans being put away, the spray of antibacterial cleaner on the work surfaces and then the whoosh of water hitting the inside of the kettle. For some reason, she refused to look round while he worked or even as she sensed him approaching. Given that he was a virtual stranger, it wasn’t odd for her to be hyperaware of his movements, she told herself – but she didn’t want him to feel spied on.
‘Sorry to disturb you while you’re reading,’ he said. In truth, she’d got through barely a paragraph in the past fifteen minutes – but he didn’t have to know that. She feigned studious absorption in the novel as she placed it face down in her lap and looked up at him.
‘I just wondered if you wanted a tea, or anything? I’m making one for myself.’ He shrugged awkwardly, and Rosie got the sense that – while he felt ill at ease about offering her a drink in her own home – he’d decided it would be stranger not to.
‘I’d love one,’ she said. ‘Milk, no sugar, please.’
A few moments later, and with a battered-looking book tucked under one arm, he set her mug down on a coaster and turned as if to head back to his bedroom.
‘You are allowed to sit on the couch, you know,’ Rosie said, before she could stop herself. ‘Or in that armchair, if you prefer.’ She pointed at a weathered old leather chesterfield, which – apparently after some internal argument – Aled lowered himself into.
They sipped their tea in silence, and Rosie went back to her novel with determination to make some headway as Aled opened his own. She couldn’t resist a look:Jane Eyre. She bit her bottom lip, her interest piqued almost beyond endurance.
It was one of her all-time favourites, but she knew very few men who liked it. Most of the boys who’d been in her A-level English class had considered reading the extracts they’d studied a form of slow torture.
Unable to concentrate on her cosy-crime paperback, she said: ‘Can I ask a question?’
‘Sure. As long as I get to ask one, too.’ His smile was a fleeting, faint thing, but – in the split second before it faded – Rosie caught it.
She smiled back and nodded her agreement.
‘If it’s about the book, I’m reading it for work,’ Aled said. ‘Well.Revisingit, I suppose.’
Strangely, Rosie had been preparing herself to ask about his job. It now seemed she might get two answers for the price of one.
‘Oh, right. Why for work?’ she asked, hoping she wasn’t being too nosy.
‘Because I’m teaching it,’ Aled explained. ‘A-level English. It’s one of the set texts, as well as an old favourite.’
‘Oh!’ Rosie heard herself say, her voice several octaves higher than she’d have liked.
‘Is it that much of a surprise?’ he asked, amusement lighting his eyes and lifting one corner of his mouth. ‘What did you think I did?’
Male model.
Movie star.
Funeral parlour professional.
‘Erm … I don’t know,’ Rosie mumbled. ‘Teaching hadn’t occurred to me.’
Briefly, she wondered how many of his students were harbouring continent-sized crushes on him – and whether he was aware of the passions he inevitably inspired.
Before she could ask how long he’d been a teacher or how he’d got into it, he said: ‘My turn, now. How did you get to know my grandfather? It seems to me London isn’t the sort of place where you regularly chew the fat with your neighbours.’
‘Is that your excuse for never speaking to any of us before last week?’ Rosie quipped, laughing.
‘Maybe,’ he said, with a smirk so brief she could have blinked and missed it altogether.