An: So I don't know if anyone has had the same problem as me? That 'Me and Mrs Jones' has upped-sticks and set up camp inside your brain? I'm really sorry if it has. I totally know how you feel. It's made me write non-slash fan fiction, for goodness sake! I blame Robert what-his-face ¬_¬ Maybe we could form a support group?

Anyhow, I hope you enjoy this. And please review! Thank you muchly!

When Gemma gets home from dropping the kids off, avoiding Tom, getting petrol, buying a new replica fish (apparently Nemo XVI doesn't like having adventures either), having coffee with Fran (um, so she could stalk the guy in the local coffee shop), re-dropping off Charlotte's recorder she left on the backseat and doing the weekly food shop, she's really ready just to drop onto the sofa, close the curtains and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist for an hour or two.

So she isn't overly pleased when she finds Alfie asleep sprawled across her to-be-refuge.

She's even less pleased (that's what that swoopy, buzzy feeling is right? displeasure) when Billy sticks his head out from the kitchen thinking she's Alfie. It helps her mood a little though when the man's frown develops slowly into a goofy (but adorable, god, so adorable) grin when he realises it's actually her.

He has flour smeared down one cheek and she resists the urge to go and wipe it off.

"Mrs Jones."

"Billy."

They smile at each other for an embarrassingly long time until Alfie gives a half-snore from the couch and the both jump guiltily.

"What are you doing? Not that it isn't nice to see you. I – I mean not that it's overly nice to see you. It just a normal nice amount to see you. Like it's nice when I see Alfie." Billy quirks an eyebrow at that. "Uh, not that I think of you like a son, I mean... I should. Think about you like a son, because you're... but, that would be um..."

"Somewhat of a concern since we've ended up..." Billy inclines his head to one side suggestively. He looks amused though.

"I'm sorry." Gemma sits herself down on one of the breakfast bar stools and lays her head on the table, "it's been a long morning... So what are you doing?" The last part comes out a little muffled, because of the marble countertop she's half inhaling.

"Baking," Billy replies and she can hear him moving round the kitchen and things clattering gently. It's strangely relaxing. "It's Poppy's birthday tomorrow, and I wanted to make her a surprise cake. Alfie said it would be okay to borrow the kitchen... He was supposed to be helping me." Gemma can hear the frown in his voice. She pictures him glaring at her son's unconscious and unhelpful form.

"Oh," she replies lazily. Her body feels heavy and the kitchen is pleasantly snug against the cold outside. Everything smells like cooking chocolate cake. She gives into the heaviness of her eyelids and lets them slip close.

A moment later she feels someone stroke away hair from the back of her neck, fingers grazing the exposed skin to brush tendrils across her to her shoulder. And then lips press briefly to her nape. She shudders, a little breathless sound escaping her; when she looks up though, Billy is back across the other side of the kitchen. He's not looking at her but his eyes are sparkling with mischief and there's a smile teasing the corner of his lips.

Gemma decides to be brave. After all, the racket Alfie is making on the couch is definitely not voluntary. "Now who's the serial kisser?"

Billy flicks his gaze to her, "that wasn't a serial killer kiss. That was a 'if your son wasn't here I'd be carrying you upstairs to bed' kiss."

Gemma has a feeling they'd end up doing more than just tucking each other in. And from the dark smouldering look (really, only Mills and Boon characters are allowed to smoulder) Billy is fixing her with, he probably thinks the same.

Gemma breaks eye contact and starts to examine the countertop. The kitchen has gone from being comfortably cosy to stiflingly hot. She thinks about taking her cardigan off, but then remembers the small tank top she's wearing underneath... and then thinks about Billy removing that too. God! Her son is asleep in the same room – she should not be thinking about... damn it!

"Mrs Jones..." Billy has moved closer to her.

"We can't. Uh, just stay – stay over your side of the kitchen." Gemma makes flustered 'back off' movements with her hands, and then realises she looks slightly insane and drops them to her side. "Oh. I- what could you possibly see in me!"

She doesn't realise she's spoken out loud until Billy is standing in front of her and bending slightly so he can look her in the eye. "Everything. Everything you are is wonderful," he says quietly and his top lip catches his lower as he contemplates her seriously.

Gemma swallows, "but-" She thinks about Tom talking about her Marmite moustache, and Alfie calling her old, and Jason's accusation that she ruined things between him and Inca, "I'm-"

"Perfect," Billy finishes for her. "You know I can turn this into a 'When Harry met Sally' speech if you like." The sparkly thing his eyes do is back, although she can tell he's still completely serious, if perhaps slightly less sombre than his previous admission. "I love your scatty-ness, and the way you talk to yourself in household appliances, and-"

Gemma decides she doesn't need a list because she already believes him. So she cuts him off with a kiss.

They break apart when they realise the snoring from the sofa has stopped, just in time to see Alfie sit up sleepily. He glances over at them, frowning when he sees how close they're standing,. "Wha's goin' on?" he manages around a yawn.

Before Gemma can panic, Billy has picked up a nearby mixing bowl and dipped his finger into the mixture – really, it's a credit to Billy's quickness because she can panic spontaneously, instantaneously and with magnitude (all three concurrently sometimes) – and pressed it to her lower lip. "Mrs Jones was just taste-testing my cake."

Gemma takes the digit into her mouth because... well, self preservation was never really a skill she honed, and then watches Billy watching the way her mouth moves around his finger. He swallows slowly and they both try and avoid each other's eyes.

Alfie however is oblivious. He rolls himself off the couch and shuffles towards them, rubbing his eyes sleepily, "can I have some?"

Billy hands him the bowl and marches himself over to the other side of the island with the little self restraint he has left.

Nevertheless Gemma takes the opportunity to flee the kitchen altogether, throwing the excuse of work over her shoulder. She spends the next three hours staring at a blank spreadsheet, trying not to think about the Irish man in her kitchen, or indeed any part of his body. (It doesn't work).

Poppy however gets a great birthday cake, with three tiers of perfectly cooked sponge and vanilla frosting. And when Billy presses her against the bathroom door later and kisses her breathless, he tastes even more edible than usual.