I press the call button on my phone and wait for her to answer.

"Yes?" Amelia answers dragging the word out sarcastically.

"Amelia, pack your bags, you’re moving in with me."

"I beg your pardon?" She sounds like a posh lady from a period drama.

"You. Will. Stay. With. Us." Wait, I just called me and the furball “us”?

"No, I won't." And there she is, the person who hates nothing more than accepting help, unless it is for her bloody cat apparently.

"Yes, you will."

"It's fine. My landlady gave me an electric heater, and I can boil water in the kettle and I take a shower at work—"

"Amelia! For once, can you accept some help? I have two spare bedrooms. You can pick whichever you prefer. And you can be with the cat."

"Smutty," she corrects me. She went mental on the weekend when she came over to say hi to him and caught me calling him Furball. We had a minor argument, mainly because she was so cute when she was angry that I kept poking her by calling him anything but Smutty. To be honest, it is a bit of a ridiculous name.

"Exactly," I reply and grin to myself. I'm an arsehole. "Pack a bag."

"No."

"I'm not asking, Amelia. I'll be there in an hour to pick you up and if you’re not done, I'll pack for you and you'll only have knickers to wear all week," I threaten jokingly but my mind flashes to her damp knickers on the floor at the wedding and I have to hold back a groan.

"Is there any point fighting you on this?" She huffs in frustration.

"No." I end the call. I'm in for a serious case of blue balls again and not because of the bruises her cat caused.

"I told you I don't need to move into your house," Amelia greets me when I get to hers.

"You come with me." I won't take no for an answer. She is wearing a hoody, a jacket and what looks like three pairs of socks. The weather forecast is predicting that this cold spell will continue for at least another three days and there is no way I'll leave her here. I’m still furious with myself for not thinking about moving her in sooner.

"It's not that cold," she argues and tries to cross her arms in front of her chest. They barely meet, though, because of the many layers she is wearing.

"You look like Shackleton on the way to the South Pole," I joke and gently shift her out of the way so I can step into her cottage. "Are you packed?"

"No," she says defiantly.

"Fine," I climb the stairs to the first floor where I assume her bedroom is.

"What are you doing?" she shouts from behind me.

"Packing," I reply just as I get to the landing on the upper floor. The door to the left is open and I can see a bed covered with two duvets. A tiny electric heater provides a minimal amount of warmth. "Fuck, darling, why didn’t you tell me?"

"It's not that bad." But there isn't much conviction in words. She sounds defeated and sad. I just shake my head and pull a drawer open.

"Not that one!" she shouts making me jump back. My eyes land on the contents of the drawer.

"That's a lot of vibrators." My voice is strangled as I try not to laugh. It's not the vibrators I find funny; the idea that she isn't the wallflower she appears to be is hot and not new to me given that she made out with me at the wedding. It's just that this whole situation feels like a French farce.

Amelia pushes the drawer closed with her cheeks burning bright red.

"Kill me, kill me now," she mumbles.

"Hey." I gently cup her chin and make her look at me. "There is nothing to be embarrassed about! Nothing."

She studies me but doesn’t reply.

"Now, please pack a bag, Amelia. I can't leave you here. They’re saying minus five tonight. I need to know you’re safe," I say with my voice fading to a whisper when I admit more than I should. I lean my forehead against hers and draw in her scent.

"Okay," she finally replies and takes a step back. "I have some more of Smutty's food in the kitchen. You must almost be running out. Can you grab it please?" she tries to shoo me out of the bedroom, probably so she can pack without me snooping.

"No need, I bought more yesterday," I shrug. "I have to make a few calls for work though. The trip to the hospital has put me behind schedule."

"Oh, shit. Sorry, I forgot about your dangly bits. I'm sorry that my tiny cat hurt your—" She points at my crotch and smirks.

"Your sincere concern for them is heart-warming." I can't help myself from grinning.

"What do you want me to do? Blow on them and tell them it'll all be better soon?" The minute she realises what she just said, her cheeks turn pink again. "I mean—" she stutters.

"I leave you to the packing. You have ten minutes," is all I reply. As much as I enjoy our banter, I'm freezing my arse off in here and I'm pretty sure Furball is waiting for his dinner.

When we finally make it back to my house the cat nearly has a fit because he wants his gourmet dinner. Amelia, of course, obliged him before spending another thirty minutes cuddling and playing with him. Now she is having a hot bath whilst I prepare dinner. It’s all starting to feel a bit domestic and I like it, which I'm not sure is a good thing.

"Hey," Amelia draws my attention. She’s leaning against the kitchen door with her wet hair in a towel.

"Feeling warmer?"

"So much. I love having a bath," she sighs.

"Well, you can have as many baths as you want whilst you’re here," I tell her, carrying two plates to the table.

"Oh, you didn't need to make dinner. I could have ordered us a takeaway," she argues before taking a seat.

"Worried I'll poison you?"

"No." She carefully sniffs the plate of tortellini in tomato sauce.

"Hey, I'm a decent chef, I'd like you to know," I mock protest as we laugh.

Amelia takes a spoonful and moans, “Wow, that's amazing."

"I know," I wink and we settle into a comfortable silence whilst eating. When we’re nearly finished, I tell her about mine and Coop's plan to hire a general manager and my initial hesitation.

"So, what made you change your mind on hiring one?" Amelia asks, scraping the last of her sauce.

I shrug. "Coop was right. We need to start enjoying our life a bit. We’ve been working nonstop since we left university."