The Midwife's One-Night Fling. Carol Marinelli

until she was due back.

      ‘Is this seat...?’ asked a snooty, deep, but far from unpleasant male voice.

      Freya was suddenly sick to the back teeth of unfinished questions.

      ‘Is this seat what?’ she asked, but as she looked up her indignation took a rapid back seat as she was momentarily sideswiped by six feet plus of good looks dressed in blue theatre scrubs.

      He had straight brown hair that was messy, and was so crumpled-looking that, despite the hour, he appeared to have just got out of bed. A stethoscope hung around his neck, and in his hands was a very laden tray.

      Freya regretted her brusque response, but consoled herself that he probably hadn’t understood a word she had said.

      Oh, but he had!

      ‘Is this seat taken?’ he enquired, more politely, though the smile he wore had a tart edge.

      ‘Please,’ Freya said. ‘Help yourself.’

      He put down the tray, and Freya assumed when he looked around and then wandered off that he must be locating a spare chair for his companion. On his tray there were two mugs of tea, a carton of milk and six little boxes of cereal—the type that her mother had used to get when the family had gone camping, or in the holidays as a treat, when she and her brothers would fight over who got what.

      But instead of a chair and a companion he returned with a spoon.

      ‘Len,’ he said to the porter by way of greeting. He got a ‘humph’ in return, but the good-looking stranger didn’t seem in the least bothered by the less than friendly response.

      As Freya drank her coffee she tried not to look at him, and pretended not to notice when he opened each box of cereal in turn and poured them into the one bowl with all the flavours combined. It was a heap of cornflakes and chocolate puffs and coloured circles, and then he added to his concoction the small carton of milk.

      No, there was no companion about to arrive, for next he added sugar to both cups of tea and made light work of the first.

      And still Freya tried not to notice.

      A domestic came round with a trolley and started to pick up the collection of cereal boxes, as well as the mess that the previous occupants had left in their wake.

      ‘Done?’ she asked Freya as she reached for her plate.

      ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, and then blinked as the porter—Len—actually spoke.

      ‘Do you mind?’

      ‘Sorry?’ Freya asked as he pointed to her plate.

      ‘You’re not going to eat those?’ he asked, pointing to the open cheese and crackers that Freya hadn’t touched.

      ‘No.’

      ‘Do you mind if I have them?’

      ‘Go ahead,’ Freya agreed—because, really, what else could she do?

      ‘Ta very much,’ Len said, and took out a piece of kitchen paper from his pocket and wrapped the cheese and biscuits in them.

      The domestic didn’t seem in the least perturbed by this odd exchange, and cleared up the boxes and plates. Then as she wheeled her trolley off, The Man Who Liked His Breakfast Cereal, spoke.

      ‘Here you go, Len.’ He pushed a granola bar across the table to him.

      ‘Cheers!’ Len pocketed his bounty as he stood up and then walked out of the canteen.

      Goodness, Freya thought, people here were so odd. She simply couldn’t imagine asking a complete stranger for the leftover food on their plate.

      But then that deep, snooty voice spoke again and attempted to clarify things a little.

      ‘He only talks to the animals.’

      ‘I’m not with you.’

      ‘Len,’ he explained. ‘He’s miserable around people, but he visits an animal shelter in his free time and he’s always after treats for them.’

      ‘Oh!’ Freya let out a little laugh.

      ‘You’re new,’ he said, glancing at her lanyard.

      He had realised she was staff, but was quite certain he would have noticed her before if she wasn’t new.

      She wore a dark shift dress that accentuated her pale bare arms, and her black curly hair was loose and down to her shoulders. From the little he had heard, he guessed she was far from home.

      ‘I’m here for my orientation day,’ Freya said.

      He grimaced. ‘I’ve done a few of those in my time. The fire lecture, the union rep...’

      ‘We haven’t had a fire lecture yet,’ Freya said. ‘That’s this afternoon. I think it’s a film, followed by a demonstration.’

      ‘Fun,’ he drawled as he rolled his eyes. ‘Mind you, I did have a patient who tried to set fire to the ward once...’

      She waited for more, but he’d gone back to his cereal.

      ‘Breakfast?’ Freya asked.

      ‘And lunch.’ He moved on to his second mug of tea. ‘Are you new to London as well as the hospital?’

      Freya nodded. ‘I got here last week.’

      ‘I worked in Glasgow for a while.’

      ‘For how long?’

      ‘A year. I couldn’t understand a word anybody said. “Pardon” became my most-used word.’

      ‘I’m having the same problem—although in reverse,’ Freya admitted. ‘I have to keep repeating myself.’

      ‘I can understand you.’

      ‘Then you’re the first.’

      ‘You’re not from Glasgow, though?’

      She was far too soft spoken for that, he thought. But not soft. He had liked the edge to her tone when he’d asked if the seat was taken. Richard loved the challenge of a sullen woman.

      ‘No, I’m from Cromayr Bay.’

      ‘Never heard of it.’

      ‘Fife,’ Freya said. ‘Overlooking the Firth.’

      ‘Never heard of it,’ he said again.

      But this time he smiled just a smidge and she couldn’t tell if he was teasing.

      ‘How are you finding London?’

      ‘It’s early days.’ Freya gave a small shrug.

      ‘Ah, after a few late nights you’ll come to love it.’

      It was then that she noticed his eyes—or rather, it was then that she properly noticed them.

      In his good-looking face there were several stand-outs. If she’d been describing him to Alison, his sculpted cheekbones and attractive full mouth were two features she might easily have named, and that his hazel eyes were just so much more than hazel. They were the colour of burnt amber, with a smatter of golden flecks, and they made Freya feel as if she were gazing upon an open fire.

      Or was that more from the way he absolutely held her gaze as she replayed his words in her mind?

       ‘Ah, but after a few late nights you’ll come to love it.’

      Those words had sounded like an invitation.

      As Freya held their eye contact steady, she wasn’t quite sure how, but he made her his sole focus.

      And he was hers.

      Gone was the canteen, and gone too was the noise.

      But then he spoke, and Freya found herself blinking at