I growl. “Haven’t we established that I am not only consenting but practically begging you? You’re not taking advantage of me!” I thump his chest with the palm of my hand. He grimaces. “Sorry.” I hiccup. “I’ll be gentle.”

“You’d dislocate my collarbone or break my hip in the attempt, and you wouldn’t remember it tomorrow.”

“My body would. I’ll play it back on KMT.”

“We’ll try in the morning.”

I stop short. “You’ll stay with me?”

“Of course.”

“Won’t you get in trouble with your folks?”

“I’m eighteen.”

I chew my lip, thinking it through. “Can we at least take our clothes off?”

“No.” He drops me on the bed. I cry out and laugh at his fierce expression. He stands with his hands on his hips. “I’m not a bloody saint, am I?”

“It won’t work in the morning.”

“We’ll try.”

“This is not how I saw the night ending.” I close my eyes and the bed spins and my head spins and I groan. “You’re either the best or worst boyfriend in the world and I am too drunk to figure out which.”

LOVE

Eggs sizzle and pop in the skillet, my mouth waters and I hum along with the boom of the stereo. I slot more bread into the toaster – feeding Jamie and me is like cooking for a football team. I smile, enjoying the sunlight filtering through the trees beyond the kitchen window. I’m warm to the core and it has nothing to do with the winter sun.

Waking half-suffocated beneath Jamie’s arm, his soft snore warming my ear, had been a thrilling surprise, though it quickly turned to alarm. How on earth had we gotten away with a whole night together without Miriam charging across the hall to murder us in our bed?

Memory loss was the only part of the hangover to hit me. Jamie had grumbled that I deserved to puke my guts out while nursing a blinding headache. By the sound of things he’s right and I’ve never been so grateful for my turbo-charged metabolism. When he talked me through the details of the table jump and cheerleader episode it was like hearing a story about somebody else; I can’t picture myself saying or doing any of it. He asked me if I remembered anything about when he brought me home, a wry curving of his lips at my blank expression. Suddenly hot-faced, I’d taken subtle stock of my body. I still had underwear on and my brown shorts. Jamie had only removed his boots. I didn’t feel different. Would I if we had …? Laughing, he’d kissed my lips with a resigned sigh.

I shake my head as I collect the toast and stack it on a plate. I can’t tell if I’m disappointed or relieved over the missed opportunity or embarrassed at Jamie’s account of my attempt to persuade him. I hug his shirt around my body, glad I thought to steal it when he got in the shower. He’ll have to come and find me to get it back. Inhaling his diffused scent it’s hard to concentrate on scrambling the eggs, but it’s my one kitchen triumph and I don’t want to ruin it.

Behind the blare of music, I can make out the sound of the water running upstairs. Jamie – a thought to get lost in. Running water tends to blunt Shield senses but I strain to hear, trying to pick through the layers of noise: sizzling eggs, squawking crows in the trees outside, the Saturday morning sounds of children playing in their yards, a vehicle on the street, a car door slamming somewhere, feet on gravel, electric guitar, thundering water … there it is, Jamie’s tenor. I grin as he butchers the lyrics and graze my knuckle on the hotplate. “Ouch.” I hiss and suck the burnt skin then a loud clatter makes me freeze, spatula in hand.

Miriam stands in the back doorway, her overnight bag in one hand, camera case over her shoulder, and her expression changing in seconds from weary smile to livid glare as she takes in Jamie’s shirt over my Tomb Raider shorts and black lace bra, the table set for two and the incriminating sound of the shower overhead. She goes to the stereo and flicks the music off, a frightening silence.

“I take it that’s not Kitty in my bathroom.”

I can’t feel my lips. “So … this probably looks bad.”

“You know exactly how it looks.” She dumps her bag and case on the long wooden table. She stares at me. Her dark hair sits over her shoulder. We’re so alike. She’s just shorter and a little older with brown eyes. At thirty-eight, and with genetically engineered DNA, Miriam is in great shape and probably quite capable of kicking my ass and Jamie’s too.

I swallow and try to find my voice. “I thought you were going over the final edit today.”

“We did, already. It’s almost midday. Get dressed.”

Red-faced, a ringing in my inner ear, I put the spatula on the counter and turn down the heat on the stove; a show of dignity before turning stiff-backed towards the hall. But when she strides after me I spin so fast in the fluffy socks I dug out from under the bed this morning, I nearly fall. “You are overreacting,” I say, steadying myself against the bookshelf.

The flow of water stops above us and we both look up the stairs. I wish Jamie’s whistling wasn’t quite so loud and cheerful. Miriam tilts her head and squints past my shoulder. She reaches for the porcelain Virgin and turns her face forwards. “I don’t think I am, young lady.”

“Young lady?” I struggle to keep my voice down. “There’s nothing going on. You just came in and got the wrong end of the stick.” I spin on my heel again and stomp ineffectually up the stairs, wishing I were wearing something hard-soled and clompy, wishing Jamie was dressed and downstairs instead of in the bathroom above us with Miriam closing in.

“That explains the shirt.”

“It-doesn’t-mean-anything!” I thump the railing. It quivers ominously, the side of my hand goes numb and the whistling stops.

“Give me some credit, kid.” She stalks behind me and I trip up the remaining stairs onto the landing where Buffy sits waiting for Jamie. The bathroom door opens with a gust of steam. Jamie emerges from the cloud like a magician. He has his Indiana Jones pants on and the towel slung over his shoulder. Moisture still gleams on his chest. He runs his hand up through his damp hair, his expression unreadable, his eyes on my aunt. Buffy purrs and rubs her face on his legs. “Miriam,” he begins. “I–”

“You,” she says, lips pulled back. “Downstairs.”

“Just a second, Jamie.” I unbutton his shirt, slipping it from my shoulders. “You’ll need this.” I hold it hooked by the collar, my arm straight out, not taking my furious glare from Miriam’s furious face.

Clearing his throat, Jamie takes the shirt and edges past Miriam to get to the stairs, the cat at his heels. I swing around and stalk into my room. Jamie’s boots sit at the side of the bed leaking socks out the top. I’m not fast enough to hide them as Miriam barrels in behind me, slamming the door like an exclamation point.

Hands on her hips, chest rising and falling, she scowls at Jamie’s boots and the telling indentations in the pillows on my bed. I have to keep things from spiralling into an all-out brawl. I grab a T-shirt from my top drawer and yank it on over my head “Okay, okay. It looks bad.”

“Tell me why I shouldn’t go down there and rip his head from his shoulders.”

“Don’t blame Jamie. It’s not his fault.”

“I’m quite sure he was the hapless victim in this scenario.”

“He was doing me a favour.” I lift my hands. “Not like that. I was,” and I swallow before my next confession, knowing it isn’t going to score me any points, “a little … drunk … last night.” Sure enough, her expression widens to include this new outrage and my voice becomes small. “Very … drunk, actually.”

“He let you drink? We can’t drink! I told you, no drinking!”

“I didn’t know you meant that because of our condition. I just thought you were laying down the law.”

“I was laying down the law for crying out loud. What the hell was he–”