Free An Autumn Crush by Milly Johnson Page B

back.
    ‘Mmm. I smell cooking,’ grinned Steve. ‘Great, because I’m starving. Show me where this damp patch of yours is then, Ju.’ He made it sound naughty, as if the damp
patch was in Juliet’s knickers and not on the wall. She expected nothing less of him, though she wouldn’t have guessed in a million years that his jokiness was fuelled by the stress of
being in her mighty presence.
    ‘Open up the bottles, Floz, will you?’ asked Juliet, leaving her brother and Floz in the room together. They were about at ease with each other as a cobra and a mongoose. Floz was
grateful to have something to do in uncorking the Cab Sav and the Pinot Grigio. Unfortunately, the cork appeared to have been soaked in concrete for a month before being introduced to the
bottle.
    Guy wondered if he should wade in and help. He was slightly concerned that to do so might seem cheesily macho, yet on the other hand it seemed very ungentlemanly not to offer and continue to
observe her struggling. In the end, seeing as Floz was turning purple, he felt he ought to.
    ‘Can I do that?’
    ‘Yes, please,’ said Floz. But as she handed over the corkscrew, it fell and both parties lunged to catch it. This resulted in a head-collision with accompanying sound effect. It was
not unlike the noise of a coconut being tapped none too delicately by a lump hammer. Floz yelped, she got the worst of it on the corner of her forehead. She sprang back up, clutching a skull she
was convinced would be bleeding if she looked in a mirror.
    ‘Sorry. You okay?’ said Guy.
    ‘I’m fine,’ said Floz as sparks exploded in her head. She wouldn’t have put it past him to have done it deliberately. Maybe it was a twin thing and he felt she was coming
between him and his sister so he was trying to kill her.
    Guy pulled the cork out effortlessly and hoped it didn’t look too cocksure. Look at how strong I am, and what a soft girly-thing you are!
    ‘Red or white?’ Guy shouted out.
    ‘White!’ came a duet from the kitchen.
    ‘Floz?’ asked Guy, trying not to look at the swelling that had started to grow on her head.
    ‘Er, red for me,’ she said, touching her throbbing skull. ‘I’ll just go and er . . .’ She took her lumpy head and made for the bathroom to assess the damage.
    ‘Should I get some ice?’ he started to ask, his voice fading as he realized she hadn’t heard him. What next? he thought, as he tipped the bottle, missed the glass and sent red
wine splashing all over Juliet’s pristine white tablecloth.
    Steve led the way out of the kitchen talking plaster-speak. Juliet followed behind him with a dish of pasta, cheese bubbling on top.
    ‘Yeah, I can do that – scratch coat . . . skim . . . trowelling . . .’ but if he was hoping to impress Juliet with words like those, he was on stony ground.
    ‘And how much are you going to charge me for it?’ asked Juliet in such a way that defied him to ask for any money – as if the honour of doing the job should be enough for any
man.
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ mused Steve. ‘How about you cook us another meal when I’ve finished?’
    ‘Okay,’ said Juliet, ‘you’re on. Where’s Floz? And what have you done to my tablecloth, Guy? And why is your head bleeding?’
    ‘Floz, er, just went to the bathroom,’ said Guy, touching his head and finding blood on his finger. ‘We crashed heads.’
    ‘How the chuff could you crash heads?’ asked Steve, thinking of the height difference between them. What had she done, stood on a ladder to nut him?
    Guy didn’t answer as Floz emerged from the bathroom with what looked like the nub of a horn about to burst from her forehead.
    ‘Bloody hell!’ said Juliet. ‘Let me get you some ice for that.’
    ‘It’s fine,’ said Floz. ‘I think it’s got as big as it’s going to.’
    ‘Bet you’ve said that a few times!’ laughed Steve. Juliet glared at him and went to the kitchen to wrap up two bags of frozen peas in tea-towels.
    ‘Shall