At First Sight by Hannah Sunderland (best inspirational books txt) 📗

really felt? Like those two nights on the clock tower were always there, in the fog of the horizon, on their way to get him?

I hummed a sleepy sigh and lay my head down on his shoulder, as he went on about something else zombie-related. I tried to keep up but my brain had turned to mush and my eyelids were slipping down over my tired eyes. I don’t know how long I zoned out on his shoulder for, my legs moving on autopilot as I snoozed, but I was roused by the jarring sound of an ambulance siren in the near distance and opened my eyes to find that we were somewhere I didn’t recognise.

‘Where are we?’ I asked, blinking the sleepiness from my eyes.

We stopped walking and he looked up, as if he had no idea either. ‘Ah, sorry. I was too busy dronin’ on that I walked us to my house instead to yours.’

‘Uh-huh.’ I stepped back and put my hands on my hips. ‘If you wanted me to come over then all you had to do was ask,’ I jibed.

‘Oh, I know,’ he said, stepping closer, his own eyes semi closed with drunkenness. ‘What woman, or man for that matter, could resist an adorable emotionally crippled, unemployed widower like this?’ He gestured to himself and nodded in a feigned cocky sort of way.

I chuckled quietly and stepped a little closer. The collar of his shirt was bent the wrong way and poking out over the collar of his jacket.

I reached up a hand and tucked it back inside, my fingers lingering there, where the fabric sung with the retained warmth of his skin.

‘Don’t put yourself down. You’ve a lot of very appealing qualities that a girl, such as myself, but not specifically me, would find … you know … attractive.’

‘Oh yeah? And what are these qualities you speak of?’ His hand landed on my arm and I wasn’t sure if it was through affection or the need to stop himself from falling down.

‘Well, you’re not hideous and your accent is pretty appealing, some would even say sexy – not me though, I much prefer the dulcet tones of a thoroughbred Brummie.’

‘Is that so?’ he asked through a flirtatious smirk. ‘Do go on.’

‘Erm, let’s see. Well you have a skill, which is more than can be said for the majority of the population and you have your own place. All positives.’

‘Yeah, well I don’t think that my place is anythin’ to get excited about.’

I looked up at the apartment block that I hadn’t been able to see when I dropped him off the other night. I tried to remember how I’d got home from here, but my addled brain was struggling with keeping me upright, without throwing orienteering into the mix. I squinted until my eyes started co-operating with my brain. The apartment block wasn’t fancy but wasn’t one of those horrid concrete structures either. It wasn’t tall, only three storeys of warm red brick and each apartment seemed to have French doors that opened to an immediate metal fence that ran along the length of the windows. I bet that in the brochures they label them as balconies, but they were about as little like a balcony as you could get, while still using the word to describe it.

‘Why is that?’

‘Er, because it’s an absolute tip and I’m ashamed to call it mine. You’ll probably die on entrance from inhaling spores, which haven’t killed me, simply because I’ve grown immune to them over time.’

‘It can’t be that bad and, anyway, I don’t mind messy houses or messy people for that matter.’

‘Explains why you like me then.’ He looked up at a window that I assumed was his and then back at me with apprehension tugging at the muscles in his face.

‘It really is just truly an appalling mess.’

‘Charlie, I don’t care.’

He sighed melodramatically and slowly began walking towards the building. ‘All right, but don’t you dare judge me.’

Charlie’s flat was on the second floor, so we climbed the stairs with the sluggish speed of two people with too much wine running through their veins. Passing the door of number two brought with it the lingering smell of curry and spices that had made me feel equally as likely to knock on the door and ask for a doggy bag or throw up into the tall plastic ficus that sat beside their door. Whoever lived at number three had clearly had a good evening because the smell of rose-scented candles crept under the door along with the sultry, sexy sounds of D’Angelo playing, muffled through the walls. Charlie was a little way ahead of me, ignoring all of the things I was finding interest in. He climbed the last set of stairs and came to a stop on the top floor, next to a pale blue door that bore the number six in dulled silver. He glanced at me as I came to a stop at his side, muted panic in his eyes.

‘Now remember your promise. No judgement.’

I held up three fingers and clapped my heels. ‘Scouts honour.’

He shook his head at me, although I saw his smile before he had chance to hide it, and he turned back to the door, slid in the key and gave it a push. The door fell open with a squeal that suggested WD-40 was in order and came to a premature stop as it hit something behind it. He reached inside and flicked on the light before slipping into the apartment with a sense of nervous tension keeping his shoulders rigid.

I followed him in and tried my best to keep my eyebrows from raising when I took a look around. I imagined the voiceover from one of the true crime documentaries that Ned and I watched. The scene was not all that different from the ones shown in grainy, darkened footage at the beginning of every episode before someone finds a dismembered body in the bathtub.

The flat followed the