Finally, she spoke.
‘I don’t have time for complications,’ she said.
Complications.
As if what happened last night hadn’t rocked her the way it rocked me. Maybe it hadn’t. Maybe I was just ablip.
‘I didn’t think it was complicated, I thought it was hot.’
The way her pupils dilated gave her away, and I couldn’t help but grin. But she recovered instantly, her jaw tightening.
‘I need to go,’ she said, already moving.
I stared after her. She could pretend it didn’t happen. But I’d heard her moans. Seen the messages. Got a glimpse of the woman beneath the pristine exterior. And I wanted more.
Needed more.
And if the rest of the week kept going like that, I wasn’t sure either of us would make it to Christmas without exploding.
eleven
AMANDA
I had spent halfthe day pretending I wasn’t avoiding Henry, which I failed at constantly. Whenever he was in the same room as me, I couldn’t keep my eyes off him. He was attractive enough when he was bounding about all smiles, but the brooding energy that rolled off of him was tantalising. It hit a part of me that I’d left wanting far too long.
And yet one single night of, well, barely even phone sex, had me sneaking looks at him like a lust-drunk idiot.
By mid-afternoon, Henry went AWOL. And although I resisted the urge to hunt him down for a solid forty-five minutes to catch a glimpse, I found myself heading into the warm humidity of the orangery. Not the fancy one many older mansions had, but one that breathed on its own, with tropical plants wedged in every corner.
And one Henry James.
The thick air made my chest ache as I stepped inside. Condensation dripped, marking a soft beat as I made my way through the jungle of plants.
Henry stood near the centre, tall rose bushes framing him, shirt sleeves rolled up, and a sheen of sweat glistening on his throat. The late winter sun threw golden highlights over him, like a Renaissance-painted angel. But under those sweet blond curls, he wasn’t cherubic at all. I’d seen beyond his curtain of cheer, and something altogether more delicious lurked there. Something potentially worth risking my reputation for.
Maybe.
I lingered in the doorway, both unsure about approaching him and riveted at watching him work. Stepping forward, the door clicked behind me. His gaze snapped to me, and I stilled.
‘Amanda.’
Had his voice always been so damned throaty? When he said my name like that, I wanted nothing more than to throw myself at him. But I held back. He quirked a brow when I froze, before placing his snips on the rough wooden worktop.
‘Come here.’
The demand forced my feet forward, every step closer, sending my pulse rocketing in my throat until it sounded almost as loud in my ears as the dripping condensation.
‘I wanted to apologise about this morning. I didn’t mean to blow you off. Well, I did. But I might be regretting it.’
He folded his arms, the muscles bunching.
‘It’s alright.’
‘I admitted something that I wanted to take back, but that’s obviously impossible.’
His eyes darkened.
‘When you offered to lick up my mess, or when you called me Sir?’ There was no malice in the question, but it still made me squirm.
