Lockdown on London Lane

And he went to a neighbor to borrow some clothes for me in the meantime, so I have a pair of leggings and a tank top to go with the button-down shirt I stole out of his wardrobe this morning.

I hear Nate filling the kettle in the little kitchen next to the living room so I stick my head in. The cabinets are an almost blinding white, but it’s not that I can’t see, it’s just that there’s so little to see. No overflowing recycling bin nobody can be bothered to take out, no pile of dirty plates by the sink, no random packets of food abandoned on the counter waiting to be put away at some point. The kitchen is probably the most cluttered place in the whole apartment, if only because he has some of that magnet poetry on the fridge, and there are appliances and a mug tree and a metal dish rack out on the counter, but even that’s all horrifyingly orderly.

He looks over at me, hearing me in the doorway, and I nod my head in the direction of the kettle.

“Go on, then.”

He sighs— again—shaking his head, but gets an extra mug out to make me some tea too. I blow him a kiss and retreat to the living room. I throw myself down on the sofa, opening up Instagram to see if there’s anything new in the six minutes since I last checked it.

“Remind me what you do?” he asks me, once he’s back in the living room. He sets the tea down on coasters on the table in front of the sofa, and gives a pointed look at my feet. I tuck my knees up to make room for him, but immediately put my feet back in his lap.

He looks a little startled by it, almost as though he’s never seen feet before.

I mean, for God’s sake, we’ve had sex. Three times.

Forgive me for making myself comfortable.

“I’m a primary school teacher,” I answer him. “And you work in project management at a bank, right?”

Nate looks genuinely surprised that I remember and runs a hand through his blond hair. It’s not so neat now as in his pictures on the dating app, but it’s fluffy and it’s a cute look on him. So are those gray jogging bottoms, actually, now I think about it.

How dare guys look so good in something so basic.

Maybe I should try that, next time, I think. Just show up for a date in a white T-shirt, gray joggers, no makeup—see how they like it.

Nate clears his throat, but he’s oblivious to how distracted I just got.

He seems to be making every effort not to look at me right now, actually.

“Right. Yes. I do remember you saying, now you mention it.”

He definitely doesn’t remember.

“I guess you can’t really work from home if you’re a teacher.”

“Probably not, but our headmistress has had us prepping for this since the whole very dangerous contagious virus thing first started cropping up in the news. She’s had us all prepping lesson plans and work sheets and sending out letters to parents with instructions on how to download and use Zoom.” I roll my eyes. “We all said she was overreacting and watches too many horror movies and conspiracy documentary things, but, hey. Look at me now.”

I stretch out, waving my hands in a grand flourish and tossing my hair, but it doesn’t seem to amuse him. Yesterday, I obviously text the WhatsApp group with some of the other teachers and the headmistress to explain my predicament to them. They’ve had to class it as sick leave, since stuck in a stranger’s apartment due to a super infectious disease isn’t on our clunky old HR system—yet. They got someone to cover my classes for the week, though, and nobody’s mad about it. Hell, they can’t be. This isn’t like that time I lost my passport and got stuck in Brussels on a weekend away that went on a little longer than planned.

Nate’s obviously not impressed with my blasé attitude and I decide he probably won’t totally appreciate the Brussels story—at least, not right now. So instead I straighten up and add, “But you’re obviously doing okay, working from home.”

I look at his laptop on the coffee table, a black leather notebook and fountain pen resting beside it, and a neatly coiled pair of headphones.

There’s a very detailed, boring-looking spreadsheet open on the laptop screen. The kind with pivot tables. I shudder at the thought.

“Oh. Yeah, it’s . . . I mean, we work from different locations sometimes anyway. Client sites, and stuff. It’s not ideal, but I’ll manage.”

“How’s the rest of your day looking?” I ask, scooting a little closer, using my feet in his lap to hook my legs between his. “Any big, important meetings you just can’t miss?”

Nate’s eyes narrow slightly and he cocks his head to one side, letting out a nervous chuckle. He doesn’t know me that well, but obviously enough to know I’m not asking to be polite. “Why?”

I shrug. “You know, if you’re not busy, maybe we could watch a movie or something?”

“Or something.”

I think, for a second, he’s going to say yes. His eyes are dark and one of his hands drifts distractedly to my legs, grazing from my knee and down my calf.

Since Sunday morning, Nate’s tried to be—corny as it sounds—he’s tried to be the perfect gentleman. We haven’t so much as cuddled. I guess he’s being nice, and I appreciate it, but I kind of want to tell him he doesn’t have to stand on ceremony for little ol’ me.

He’s even given up the bed for me.

“No, no,” he’d said last night, smiling but insistent. “really. You take the bed. I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“That’s not fair. It’s your bed. I’m the one who got stuck here.”

“You’re the guest.”

“Not by choice.”

Nate had scooped up a pillow and a pile of carefully folded blankets, his smile gone and a stern look on his face. His eyes had been doing that adorable crease-around-the-edges thing, though, like he was trying not to laugh. “You’re taking the bed, Imogen, and I’m taking the sofa. It’s my house, I make the rules.”

And, fine, I’ll admit: even if the whole chivalry thing was just an act, it was still hot.

“You could just share the bed with me, you know. I don’t mind.

We did last night. We did a lot more than share a bed last night, my friend.”

Nate blushed, but shook his head. “Yeah, but that was . . . different?”

I didn’t see how, but I’d taken the bed anyway.

“Don’t tell me,” I joke now, while he’s hesitating, retracting his hand from my leg, as if catching himself, and turning his head away from me to face forward. “I don’t look as good in real life as I did on my profile.”

He laughs. “Imogen, you remember that you were the one that ran out on Sunday morning, right? Without so much as a good-bye?”

“So?”

“So,” he says, his hands fidgeting in his lap, “I don’t get it. Did I do something wrong?”

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