He disappears and returns as I’m buttoning my coat high up my neck at the rear entrance to the farm.
‘You were right; it is freezing!’
‘Of course I was right. I’m always right and it would pay you to remember that fact. Here, put these on,’ he says, handing me shiny, black, Hunter wellies.
Glowering, I take the wellies from him and pull them over my denim trousers. ‘Whose are these?’
‘Spares or Marian’s, maybe.’
Gregory’s also wearing a pair of wellies over his jeans and has buttoned his fitted Barbour coat to his neck. He really can look splendid in anything.
‘There’s a country boy in there just crying to get out,’ I say.
He flashes his sexy half-smile then puts two fingers in his mouth and whistles: an ear-piercing sound. Both dogs come running straight to him.
‘What are they called?’
‘This one’s Hugo,’ he says, patting the liver and white dog. ‘This one’s Betsy.’
‘You’re joking? Hugo and Betsy?’
‘No joke.’
‘For dogs?’
He shrugs and strides out into the field, illuminated by the low winter sun, the green grass sparkling with dew. The dogs run to be the first to collect a stick he throws far out in front of us. For a moment, a fleeting, unrealistic moment I could kick myself for, I wonder what it would be like to live here. Our country retreat. Me. Gregory. Our dogs. We could set up an office with two desks and spend days working from home, having indulgent, hot sex between calls and emails. We’d drink an aperitif by the fire before dinner and eat at the large, oak dining table by candlelight, our chairs pulled close together at one end of the table, so close, we’re almost touching.
Shaking my brain back to reality, banishing my wishful thinking, I remind myself that I’m probably just Miss This Month for Gregory and next month, he’ll be back to dating royals and Victoria’s Secret models. I run to catch up with him and walk by his side. He reaches down and slips his strong, warm hand into mine.
I can enjoy it while it lasts.
‘Tell me, Gregory Ryans, how does one come to have all of this by the age of thirty?’
‘Greed, pride, arrogance.’
‘For the record, I don’t consider ambition to be any of those, although you can certainly be arrogant.’
He laughs: a short, tense sound.
‘Really, I’ve always wanted to be my own boss and control my own future. I get a kick out of deals, seeing the worth of a company grow, discovering an innovative product and getting it into a market. There aren’t many jobs where you get to do all of that and do it mostly the way you want to.’
‘I know what you mean. The close. For me, closing a deal is such an adrenalin rush. I don’t love my job all day every day but closing is what I live for.’
‘Until a few weeks ago, my job was the reason I got up in the morning. It was my purpose. And then this whirlwind lawyer burst into my office with her stiletto heels and tight-fitting dresses.’
‘You mean it wasn’t my razor-sharp mind?’
He stops and turns me to face him, then lifts my chin with his index finger and kisses me. When he withdraws, his expression changes; his brows furrow.
‘You should know that there’re times when I can’t be around, Scarlett. I want to be fair to you. I travel overseas and sometimes, there’s just a lot going on and taking up my time. And I’m not… I’m not like other men. I don’t do emotional.’
Panic booms under my ribs. A siren.
‘I just want you to know up front because I don’t want you to get stuck in something you’re not happy with.’
My torso relaxes on an exhale.
‘Well, that makes two of us. I know how the city works and I know what it takes to stay at the top of your game. As long as you respect me and trust me, I can cope with not seeing you every day.’ We can work on the emotional stuff, whilst ever this lasts.
