4
ROWAN
We eventually escape London and the giant car park known as the M25 and make it onto country roads. I’m using the SatNav to guide me, as I’ve never been to the hotel the ball is at before. I settled on Classic FM to listen to, which Damon hasn’t objected to so far, even though they’ve played the occasional bit of Christmas music. The countryside is beautiful—not that I can see much beyond the sweep of the headlights as there’s no streetlighting on these roads—the car is a dream to drive, and there’s a gorgeous, if grumpy, man in the back seat. Everything’s perfect except the clouds. Mid-grey clouds are pulling in fast, hiding the inky darkness of the sky, and the wind is picking up. I switch the radio to a local channel.
“Something wrong?” Damon asks.
Does he realise how low and sexy his voice is? Even when asking a question, his tone has a demanding purr.
“I just want to check the local weather report.” Right now, the radio station is presenting the news, so it shouldn’t be too long before we get a weather update.
He stares at the sky. “Worried?”
“Maybe.”
“How far away are we?”
I check the SatNav. “An hour.” I grin at the rearview mirror. “Don’t worry. I’ll get you there on time, boss.”
He hisses in a breath and stares pointedly out the window. Was it something I said?
“Why driving?” he asks out of the blue.
I pat the steering wheel. “Because I get to drive beautiful cars I could only ever dream of owning.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“Nigel owns beautiful cars he never drives, and you drive beautiful cars you don’t own.”
I chuckle. “He’d enjoy driving it.”
“He’s scared he’ll scratch it.”
Flakes of snow drift down at a steep angle. I focus on the roads which have not been gritted. Not that a few flakes of snow are a cause for concern. They probably won’t even lie.
“Are you looking forward to the ball tonight?” I ask.
He scowls. “No. It’s not my thing.”
“Why not?” It’s none of my business, but that doesn’t stop me from being curious.
“I don’t like making nice with people I don’t know. I’m not good at chit-chat.”
“You’re talking to me.”
“This isn’t chit-chat.”
“It isn’t? What is it, then?”
“A conversation.”
I can’t help but smile.
He tugs at his collar. “This costume is uncomfortable. I should have waited and changed at the venue. I can’t believe I have to wear this thing all night.”
“Why Scrooge?” Please say ‘bah humbug’. Please say ‘bah humbug’.
