“You must tell my nan that. She’s a passionate royalist. I’m trying to picture the king wandering around your house looking at the art.”
“It’s a good job for the safety of the monarchy that he never ate Ma’s quiche.”
“Why?”
“She never follows a recipe. Says it’s cookery fascism. So, she never realised you had to cook it.” I laugh and he grimaces. “I’m amazed we lived.”
He pulls his hoodie over his head in one smooth move and quickly follows that with his T-shirt. He pauses with his hand on the button of his jeans. “Okay?”
I jump as I realise I’ve been caught staring at him. “Perfect,” I say brightly.
I strip off my clothes and stand in my borrowed swimwear. Harry is wearing a pair of patterned board shorts that hang from his narrow hips and show a glimpse of his V-line. He looks incredibly yummy.
I look closer at the shorts. “Are those melons?”
He smiles and hands me a bag. “You can use these.”
“What is it?”
He smiles. “Try opening the bag. I find that always helps.”
“You’re such a smart-arse.” I shake my head. “It’s always the quiet ones.”
“Do you mind?” he asks.
I pause and look at him enquiringly.
He shifts, looking suddenly awkward. “Me being quiet. Other men didn’t like it and?—”
I put up my hand. “I’m going to stop you there. I don’t need the opinions of your harem of shitsticks, thank you. You’re perfect to me.” I step closer, loving the way his hands seem to come up automatically and cradle my hips. His fingers are warm against my skin, and I sway closer. “You may be quiet, but I always know that when you open your mouth, you’re going to say something I’ll want to hear.” I trace the flush on his cheeks with my finger. “You are funny and clever and just being withyou feels like…it feels likehome. When I know I’m going to see you, I feel excited and happy, and when I leave you the world seems dull.” I close my mouth with a snap. I can’t believe that I just told him all that.
He swallows. “That’s exactly how I think of you.”
I gape at him. “Really?”
He nods and I think my smile might have taken over my face.
“No one’s ever thought of me as home before,” he says.
“I can’t imagine why, but their loss is my gain.”
He draws me the final inch forward and wraps me in his arms. He seems to surround me in warmth, his scent calming me. His kiss is soft against my lips, but the gentleness packs a punch, and when he pulls away, I feel like I’m drunk.
He clears his throat and nods at the bag. “Put them on. I can’t wait to see your reaction.”
“Why?” I open the bag and stare at the contents in horror. “Oh my god, they’re bootees,” I say, pulling the offending articles out.
“We’ll all be wearing them. There are some sharp rocks under the sea here.”
“This is beginning to sound like an excursion for someone called Perseus.”
His lip twitches. “They’re to stop the stones cutting your feet and give you a bit of traction when you walk over them.”
“I’d rather beintraction than forced to wear this offence to fashion.”
He snorts. “Just put them on and we can get in the sea.”
“That’s not as big an inducement as you think. I looked up the North Sea on Google last night and the water isconsiderablycolder than the sea in Cornwall.”
