Charlie Sunshine (Close Proximity Book 2)

by Lily Morton

  “Thank…” My voice hitches, and to my embarrassment, I feel tears in my eyes. I cover my eyes with my hands. “Sorry,” I mutter, trying to express the mixture of knee-weakening relief and cautious optimism.

  “Don’t say sorry,” Freda says softly and pats my head. “I’m going to get you a cup of tea, poppet.” I hear the door close, and then Misha pulls me up and into his arms.

  “Let it out, sunshine,” he says, and I bury my head into his shoulder and let the tears flow.

  Eventually, I pull back and dab at his jumper. “I’ve made a wet mark,” I say, unable to look at him.

  “Charlie Michael Burroughs, look at me right now,” he orders. My gaze shoots up, and he smiles. “Better.” He pulls his sleeve down over his hand and wipes the tears away with the material. Then he hugs me close and kisses me on the forehead before pulling back. “I’m going to say something now that you need to hear,” he says.

  “Oh dear,” I say faintly.

  He shrugs. “You don’t have to be Charlie Sunshine all the time, you know.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask, startled.

  Misha smiles wryly. “I don’t know if you’re just intent on living up to your nickname, but you seem to be convinced that you have to be happy and sunshiny all the time for other people. You can’t be angry and rage against things because you feel you have to be perfect. Well, you don’t have to be perfect with your mates and me and your family.” He shrugs again. “The sun goes in sometimes, and rain happens. Otherwise, we’d all need to invest in shares in Ambre Solaire.”

  “I just didn’t want to worry anyone.”

  “Well, you actually ended up worrying everyone. That’s what happens when you try to keep things from the people who care about you.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  He shakes his head, straightening my jumper and pushing my hair back. “No need to apologise. Just do better next time.” I narrow my eyes at him, and he smiles briefly. “And now you’re going back to your mum’s, and you are going to get loads of sleep and gentle exercise. I want you to walk by the sea, feel the wind in your face, read all the books, and relax. You’ll tell the medical staff everything. And you can’t come back until you’re better.”

  I nod and sniff, not wanting to let go of him. His sturdy confidence in everything. makes me feel safe. “I think I’m probably going to message you all day,” I mutter.

  He hugs me tight. “I think I’ll expect you to,” he whispers into my hair. “I’ll miss you so much. Two months and no longer,” he instructs me, and I nod.

  Chapter Eight

  Six Weeks Later

  Misha

  I let myself into the flat and lean back against the door with a weary sigh. It’s been a fucker of a morning. I was called into work on a Saturday to solve an emergency, and coming home to an empty flat puts the cherry on top of the shit-sundae.

  I straighten up. I’m going to make a drink and then I’m going to lie on the sofa, watch rugby, and order a takeaway. That’s the extent of my plans, but everything changes when I step forward and spot the case laying in the middle of my lounge and spewing clothes everywhere. He’s back!

  I whirl around. He’s leaning against the bookcase, his arms folded, watching me with a smile playing on his lips.

  “Charlie,” I gasp. “You’re home.”

  He smiles, steps forward, and then we’re both moving. We reach each other in two long strides, wrapping our arms around each other and starting to laugh as if synchronised.

  “God, I missed you,” I say.

  He snorts. “I missed you too. This is a such a symbiotic relationship.”

  “I have no idea what that means,” I say mournfully.

  “You need to read more, Misha,” he sniffs, hugging me close.

  “But then how would we ever communicate? Two bookworms in one flat. We’d die of the silence. No, you need me to keep the conversational ball rolling along the road for both of us.”

  “God help me.”

  I laugh and pull back. “Let me look at you.” I feel like I haven’t seen him for ten years. It’s been a long six weeks, and I smile helplessly as I look him over. “You look good, Charlie,” I say hoarsely.

  He’s dressed in jeans and a V-neck forest-green jumper over a white T-shirt. He’s gained back the weight he lost. The dark shadows are gone from under his eyes, and his skin has regained its natural golden hue. His eyes sparkle back at me as he grins.

  I blink, his good looks hitting me like a blow. His lips are full and pink, his hair long and golden. I catalogue almost absentmindedly the high cheekbones and the long, rangy body. It’s only when my gaze dips, and I find myself sneaking a look at his crotch and wondering what underwear he’s wearing, that I apply the mental brakes with a screech.

  Whoa. What the fuck was that? This is my friend. I’m a fucking pervert.

  I think about a certain activity I’ve been doing while he’s been gone and flush. He’d fucking kill me. I look up at him, prepared to meet a confused stare, but he just looks happy.

  It’s because I haven’t seen him in so long. Everything will snap back to normal soon. I take a firm step away from him.

  “How are you?” I ask. “Any more turns?”

  We’ve kept in constant contact, so I already know the answer to this, but I ask it anyway, mainly so I can see the light in his face when he answers.

  “Only one in the last week.”

  “That’s good, sunshine,” I say softly. “I’m so pleased.”

  He shrugs. “They’re good for the moment,” he says quickly, as though he’s feeling superstitious. “I could have another tomorrow.”

  “You could,” I say calmly. “And we’d deal. Same as usual.”

  “Same as usual,” he echoes and hugs me again.

  I force my fucking mad brain away from its immediate preoccupation with how his long body feels against me and how happy his scent makes me. He smells of vanilla, and it’s warm and rich. His hair brushes silkily against my face, and to my horror, I feel my dick twitch. No. No fucking way.

  I jerk backwards and stumble on his case. My arms windmill as I struggle to keep my balance.

  “Are you alright, Misha?” he asks as he braces me.

  “Don’t think I can’t hear the laughter in your voice,” I say darkly, and he bursts into peals of laughter. I try to frown, but I’m so fucking happy to hear that merry sound again that I just grin at him like a fucking muppet.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, wiping his eyes. “You just looked so funny.” He snorts and starts to laugh again.

  I sigh long-sufferingly. “Oh, just carry on laughing, twatface.” He gets himself under control, and I smile at him. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  The honesty is stark in my voice. It speaks of how much I’ve missed him and how lonely I’ve felt.

  He immediately nods in complete understanding. “I felt like I’d had my arm chopped off,” he says softly.

  We smile at each other, and then I make hasty steps to undercut the mushiness. “Glad it wasn’t your right arm. You’ll need that for all the wanking you’ll be doing now you’re a single man.” He stares at me, and a thought stuns me. “Unless you met someone down there?”

  The idea makes me reel. I’m struck by an image of him moving to Norfolk and marrying a farmer and spending his days spinning straw. I then realise that I’ve inadvertently made him into Rumpelstiltskin due to a complete absence of knowledge as to what farmers actually fucking do.

  “No bloke,” he says, his dimple popping suddenly. “But maybe that’ll change now.”

  “Why?” I whisper, thrown by how glad I am that he’s not met anyone. The idea has never bothered me before. He’s a serial monogamist, always looking for the one, while I’m the reverse and always looking for the anyone right now.

  “Didn’t you say that you’d find me a bloke?” He grins. “Now that’s something I’d pay to see. You as a matchmaker.”

  “Did I say that?” My stomac
h sinks like I’m standing in a lift.

  He looks at me as if he’s finally realised that I’m steadily losing my mind. “I was joking, Misha,” he says.

  “It’s still a good idea,” I say heartily. “It’ll be so much fun.” Even I know that sounded like a lie. His brow furrows, so I break into more words. “I can do matchmaking.” I nod furiously. “I will most certainly do that.”

  I’ll find him the best bloke imaginable. He deserves nothing less. I rub my stomach. I feel sick.

  Charlie

  Misha is in a slightly odd mood, but I dismiss it as the strangeness of being apart for six weeks. I don’t think we’ve ever been separated for that length of time, so we’re bound to be a bit delicate with each other. Although not to the extent of me behaving like Princess Aurora as my prince carries my case for me. Mind you, I’ve experienced my fair share of pricks, so Aurora and I have something in common.

  “I can do that,” I protest as he carts my case through to my bedroom before dumping it on the bed. His biceps bulge under his suit jacket and I cup one laughingly. “Been at the gym a lot since I’ve been gone? You have been bored.”

  I’m so focused on his strange expression that I don’t notice he’s stepped away from me until he’s on the other side of the room. I frown at him. What is the matter with him?

  Then I remember the tiredness that had been written all over his face when he’d come home a few minutes ago, unaware that I was watching him. Misha exudes such competence and security that people don’t realise he’s entirely human and can be quite vulnerable sometimes. I’m honoured I get to see that side of him. And the fact that he’s been reluctant to show that side to me lately is unacceptable. I’ve been leaning on him so much, and it’s high time I repay the favour.

  “You’re tired,” I say, sitting down on my bed. “I’m going to cook you some nice meals now I’m back.”

  “And bake?” he asks hopefully.

  I smile. “Anything for you.”

  A wry look crosses his clever mobile face as he watches me fold into a cross-legged pose. “How on earth do you manage to contort yourself like that, Charlie? It doesn’t seem natural to be that bendy.”

  “It’s perfectly natural in flexible people,” I say calmly. “You should really try yoga or something.”

  “I also should really try tightrope walking, but that’s never going to happen either.”

  I shake my head at him as I rise from the bed. I begin hanging up the clean clothes from my case, separating the laundry and tossing it into the laundry basket.

  “It’s good to be back,” I say, smiling at him. He’s leaning against the wall with his arms folded over his chest. He’s wearing that odd expression again, almost as if he’s looking at a stranger. I pause en route to the bathroom. “You okay?”

  He straightens. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “No reason apart from the fact that you’re looking at me like I’ve got ten heads.” I toss my washbag onto the bathroom counter and turn back to him.

  “If you had ten heads, your hair would fill this building.”

  I laugh, and he flings himself onto my bed, bunching my pillows under his head and settling with a sigh.

  “You okay there, Rip Van Winkle?” I tease. “You have got your own bed, you know.”

  He smiles, his teeth very white against the tanned skin of his face. “Yours is better. I don’t know what you do to your bed, Charlie, but it smells so good.” He sniffs my pillow and lets out a throaty sound of happiness.

  With a mixture of pleased surprise and acute horror, I feel my cock start to plump up. Surprise, because it hasn’t done that in so long I swear it had forgotten it had another function. Horror, because this is my Misha.

  I shake my head to clear it. “It’s called laundry. You should try it.”

  “I do laundry,” he says indignantly, stripping his jacket off and throwing it cavalierly on the bed before stretching out again. “It just never smells as nice as yours.”

  “Hmm, I think that might be a ruse to get me to do your washing.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No.”

  “Then it most definitely wasn’t a ruse.”

  I tut and pick up the jacket, which makes my condition immeasurably worse, because the fabric smells like bergamot. And then I notice, surreptitiously, how fucking good Misha looks on my pale green sheets. His strong jaw is dusted with stubble that makes his eyes look impossibly blue, like the sky on a lazy summer morning. His waist is narrow and his legs long. I hastily turn away and put his jacket on a chair.

  “So, was it good?” he asks, watching lazily as I take care of the rest of the items in my case.

  I smile at him, strange thoughts thankfully dissipating. “It was good. It’s always lovely to spend some time with my mum and Phil. I love Norfolk.”

  “Could you live there?” The trepidation in his voice indicates he might believe I plan to run off and buy a house immediately.

  I consider it. “Maybe when I’m a lot older, but not now.”

  He nods and seems to relax. “What did you do?”

  He already knows this, so I don’t know why he’s asking, but I oblige him. “Went for long walks along the beach, ate Phil’s dinners, slept for what felt like days, helped around the farm, and went to the hospital.”

  His eyes sharpen, and now I know why he started with those questions. He was easing me into it. “And the hospital staff were happy with you?”

  I smile at him. “Yes, I’ve already told you this.”

  “I wanted to hear it face to face.” He’s worried I’ve been lying again to make him happy. I think it’s going to take a while for him to get over that.

  “It seems that the reason for the increased turns was because of the change in tablets. Once I got back on the correct ones, it didn’t take long to stabilise. They think I could be seizure-free soon.”

  “And you feel better in yourself?” His eyes are piercing, focussing on me with the intensity that makes him such a successful man.

  Heat throbs in my groin again, and it takes me a moment to realise he’s waiting for an answer. I nod firmly. “I do. Just to get through a day without a turn was such a luxury. I didn’t realise how disassociated I felt, how tired and worn I was, until I had a whole day clear.”

  “And it’s been just one turn this week?”

  I grin at him. “Yep.”

  He sits up. “We need to celebrate.”

  I eye him suspiciously. “How? No trouble, Misha.”

  He assumes his angelic expression. “I feel deeply wounded that I say we’ll celebrate and you leap to the erroneous conclusion that I’ll get you into trouble.”

  “Well done with the big words,” I say wryly. “And my reasons are well-founded. Last time we celebrated we nearly got arrested.”

  “Pfft,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “Not going to happen again. That was all Jesse’s fault anyway.” I open my mouth to continue the discussion, but he leans forward, happiness lighting his eyes. “But this is your celebration, so we can do it however you want.”

  “Any way I want?” I ask.

  He narrows his eyes. “It worries me to say this, but yes. You have carte blanche, Charlie.” There must be evil in the smile I give him, because he sighs long-sufferingly. “Okay, sunshine. Tell me what we’re doing.” He shakes his head. “I somehow know that it’s sadly very worthy and cultural and will in no way result in us being arrested.”

  “Nope,” I say happily. “I want to go to the National Gallery.”

  “I knew it,” he says sadly. “Ugh.”

  “Want to back out?” I ask tauntingly.

  He raises his chin. “Never. We’re celebrating, sunshine.”

  “Then go and get dressed. We’re doing culture, baby.”

  “This is not what I imagined,” he grumbles, getting off the bed and vanishing out the door. “Not. At. All,” he shouts over his shoulder, missing the look of happiness that must be written a
ll over my face. God, I missed him. So much.

  Trafalgar Square is as busy as it possibly can be even in the cold February weather. Families stand around with their children as they jump about trying to look at the huge lion statues. The fountains play, sending spumes of cold water into the air that make me shiver and pull my jacket closer from just looking at them. Traffic mills around and the square is full of the sound of cars hooting and the occasional jangle of a cycle bell. Voices talk loudly in many different languages.

  I inhale, smelling petrol and the sweet blackberry scent of someone vaping nearby. “God, I love London.”

  Misha shakes his head. He changed into jeans, a navy jumper, and his leather jacket before we came out, but he never shaved and there’s stubble on the sharp line of his jaw. He looks warm and slightly rumpled, and I think I actually prefer him like this. It’s as though he’s shed work, and now he’s all mine.

  “Have you got some sort of martyr problem I wasn’t aware of?” he grumbles, keeping his hand on my arm as he manoeuvres around a group of tourists who are talking loudly and laughing.

  “No, why?” I laugh, crouching to pick up a teddy bear that a child in a pushchair has dropped. I hand it to his mother, smiling at her thank-you, and we walk on.

  “Because this place is so fucking crammed with tourists, it’s actually painful, Charlie. You’ve lived in London all your life, so you know better than to come somewhere like this on a fucking Saturday morning. It must be a bit of a change from Norfolk.”

  “Norfolk was lovely, but it was a bit too quiet,” I say. “I like noise.”

  “You’re like the anti-librarian. Don’t say that too loudly or you’ll lose your shushing and shelving qualifications.”

  The National Gallery looms ahead, the iconic building instantly recognisable with its eight columns and the distinctive dome rising above them like bread in an oven. Red banners hanging from the columns snap in the cold wind as we descend the stairs and join the queue to get in.