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I hadn’t meant for it to happen.
You see, I’d been minding my own business, grumbling about having to carry my teetering pile of laundry down three flights of stairs, when I came upon Lockwood in the basement.
He was in the midst of a rapier practice session, lunging and twirling and feinting in the elegant way I’d already grown familiar with. Beads of sweat traced down his face; the strenuous activity had made his flop of hair wavier than normal.
But that wasn’t what I noticed first. Rather, I noticed the absence of something—namely, Lockwood’s usual button up, tie, and suit jacket.
In fact, he wasn’t wearing any kind of shirt. His skin was pale and strikingly smooth, and because of his height, there were miles of bare flesh above the waistband of his fencing slacks. The muscles in his back and arms rippled as he landed an expert hit on Floating Joe. My eyes roved over him curiously, spying a raised scar on his lower back—perhaps an old injury?
Since I hadn’t grown up with brothers, I wasn’t exactly accustomed to boys walking around the house without a shirt, although I objectively knew it was normal. (My brief stint thus far at Portland Row had taught me that George’s tendency to forgo trousers was far more common around these parts.) While it was colder up north, some of my former teammates had pulled their shirts off on the hottest days of the summer. That had seemed practical, utilitarian.
But the sight of shirtless Lockwood—in our home, where we lived together, while we were alone in the basement—well, it was another thing entirely. My stomach did strange leaps; I questioned if the milk I’d had with my cereal that morning had gone bad.
A faint twinge of guilt prickled at the back of my neck. Stumbling upon this scene felt almost like I was intruding, like it was far too intimate for my eyes. Hell, even associating the word intimate with the sight of Lockwood shirtless felt like crossing a professional line.
In the end, it wasn’t the muffled noise of surprise that escaped my mouth that alerted Lockwood to my presence.
No, it was the almighty crash resulting from the towering basket of laundry slipping from my hands that did it. (Did I mention it was a hot late summer day? That must have been why my palms were sweating.)
Lockwood started at the sound. “Miss Carlyle—” he said, eyes going wide as he dropped his rapier. “I mean, Lucy. I didn’t realize you were—”
I was already on my hands and knees, frantically attempting to corral my clothing before the garments escaped further across the basement floor.
“Sorry. Must have tripped,” I blurted. Never mind that I’d been standing in the only unimpeded stretch of flooring in our cluttered office.
Lockwood knelt next to me, helping to gather my laundry. “No problem,” he said. “I’ve been telling George he really shouldn’t leave his things laying around. Someone was bound to trip at some point, especially with those rusty chains over there. You know, now that I think about it, we should really get a spare set before the autumn…”
I wasn’t processing his words. With Lockwood this close, I could see the scattering of moles that adorned his torso. My hands itched to touch them, to trace the constellations on his skin. My head felt odd, my body floaty and strange. I swayed slightly.
Lockwood’s brow furrowed in concern, his face swimming before me. “Lucy, are you okay?”
I tried to nod, but that only made the dizziness worse. My heart was beating far too fast. My hands reached out for something, anything, to grab to keep me upright. But then Lockwood’s solid, muscular arms found me, wrapping around my waist and lowering me to the ground. I didn’t resist; my body was limp.
That’s how we still were—me, laying in a sea of my own dirty laundry on the basement floor; Lockwood, kneeling next to me, hair disheveled, bare from the waist up—when George found us.
“What the hell’s this?” he said shortly, blinking owlishly.
“Lucy isn’t feeling well,” Lockwood explained. “Are you, Luce?”
I tried to protest, but he wouldn’t hear of it, gently insisting that I continue to rest.
When I was feeling steadier, Lockwood helped me sit up again, the muscles in his forearms flexing. (Had I ever thought about forearms flexing before? I needed to get a grip. Just like I needed to throw out the milk. I knew I shouldn’t have listened to George about the expiration date.)
Lockwood busied himself with collecting the rest of my laundry. When we had located it all, I got to my feet, intent on finally making my way over the washer.
“You missed something,” George pointed out helpfully.
Lockwood looked down to where he’d been sitting only to be confronted with my practical blue sports bra staring up at him. He gingerly picked it up. “Here you go, Luce. Don’t want to forget this,” he said, ears aflame.
My cheeks were burning, as I snatched the mortifying garment from his hands.
George was still regarding us suspiciously, as if he was trying to solve some kind of puzzle. “So, let me get this straight: Lucy came down to do her laundry, saw Lockwood fencing, and fainted?”
I scowled. “I did not bloody faint.”
A distinctly smackable smirk came over George’s pudgy face. “Uh huh,” he said.
I so wished there was an easily accessible pot or pan that I could chuck at him. “It’s hot and I tripped and I’ve been tired—”
“Yeah,” George said airily. “I’m sure that’s it.”
Lockwood cleared his throat pointedly. “George, now that you’re here, how about we leave Lucy to do her laundry while you brief me about tonight’s case?”
I felt a burst of gratitude for Lockwood. He gave me a warm, sheepish smile before turning and following George to his desk. He grabbed the worn t-shirt he’d set aside and yanked over his head, mussing his hair further.
That was good. It wouldn’t do for him to catch a chill after all.
Lockwood leaned against the desk next to George in that casually refined manner he possessed. While he was clothed again, the memory of his bare chest was permanently burned into my mind. With a start, I realized I now knew what Lockwood looked like under his clothes: his narrow waist, the lines of his collarbones, even the scars that displayed what he had been through and survived…
I shook my head, sternly telling my brain that this kind of intrusive thinking was not acceptable. I started shoving my clothing into the washer, as if the crumpled jumpers and worn pairs of leggings had personally offended me. I suppose in some ways they had, as I never would have found myself in this predicament if it hadn’t been for my laundry.
“I’ll be upstairs,” I announced, straightening up and avoiding making eye contact with the boys.
“Get some water,” Lockwood suggested.
“Yeah, Lucy. It’s quite hot down here, isn’t it?” George raised an eyebrow in my direction.
I thought wistfully about our heavy skillet soaking upstairs in the sink, but instead of giving George the wallop he deserved, I gathered myself and walked upstairs. Cool, calm, professional. That was me, Lucy Carlyle.
However, I did throw out the milk. It was better to be safe than to be sorry in these sorts of situations.