‘I’m going to keep making you look me in the eye till I know you’re hearing what I say. I’m not pissed off with you, baby. This is the deal.Youare in control here. You call the shots. Your husband has been fucking around for years. You’re levelling the playing field; you’re taking the pleasure and attention you’re owed. And I’m just…’ I grin at her, tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I’m just along for the ride. At your service.’
‘Okay.’ She exhales. ‘I’m not very good at this, am I?’
‘There’s no rule book. Whatever issues you have with Jackson, those are between you and him. But if guilt is part of what’s making you keep your distance from your husband, don’t let it. I imagine Jackson sleeps easy at night. No guilt there. I told you the other night, this is supposed to make your life better. Not harder. I don’t want to be a pain in your delectable backside.’
She leans into me as I stroke said backside and kisses me, and I focus on doing exactly what I promised. Making her feel better. Fantastic. Gorgeous and desirable. Because she’s all of those things. It’s a pinch-me moment as I stand here with this woman, the woman who’s been the object of my fantasies for so many years.
Because the reality of her is so much better. The pillowy softness of her lips as they move against mine, the emotion in her huge green-gold eyes, and the sensation of her slim body in my arms, pressing up against my bare chest, is nothing short of magic. The fact that I get to do this toHonor Chapmanis ridiculous, but it’s increasingly difficult tosquare the wonder of the woman in my arms with my old celebrity crush.
All I know is, right at this moment, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. And judging by the delicious little moans she makes as I ramp up the intensity of our kiss, my hands smoothing greedily over the skin of her arms and back, she’s as committed to whateverthisis as I am.
CHAPTER 20
Noah
Jackson has upgraded my return flight, so I’m in business class with the James family. It’s a generous move, but it adds to the pain I’ve had to endure for the past forty-eight hours. Thankfully, in a few hours I’ll be home in Westbourne Grove without feeling like a third wheel in Jackson and Honor’s marriage.
I considered changing my flight back, but that feels excessively cowardly. So here I am with Di, sitting right behind Jackson and Honor at the front of BA’s spanking new cabin. I feel uncomfortably like part of their entourage. Excellent.
We managed to find a rhythm for the rest of the holiday that assuaged Honor’s worry on my behalf and her bizarre, but real, fear that her family entanglements had put me off her.
Even so, the past couple of days have been a combination of my working hard to give Honor space while making a genuine effort with Jackson (surprisingly easy, given the guy has bucket loads of charm and hilarious anecdotes and is pretty fucking impressive when he’s not cheating on his wife)and seizing the occasional opportune moment to show Honor I’m still wild about her.
There have been fleeting, hot-as-hell kisses in the butler’s pantry at breakfast. Surreptitious gropes and brushes of limbs in the pool. Innuendos and light flirtations and even a moment in the cabana when we ‘coincided’ by the showers, the mere memory of which makes my trousers tighten.
The flight itself is fine. I’m directly behind Honor, by the window, and if I squeeze my hand between her seat back and the wall of the cabin, I can graze the soft, bare skin of her arm without Jackson seeing anything at all. She covers my fingers with hers, and I close my eyes and lay my forehead against the back of her seat. God only knows what toxic fucking entanglement I’ve got myself into.
Di’s eyes are mainly trained on the aisle. Once or twice she intercepts random members of the public from further down the plane who try to get surreptitious phone shots of Honor and Jackson, and even the kids, on their way back from the front loos. How they handle this bullshit constantly, I do not know.
As we stand to retrieve our overhead baggage, Honor dons oversized sunglasses and her enormous hat. I’m not sure how that thing fit in the overhead compartment. Jackson pulls his baseball cap further down over his eyes and makes sure the kids are wearing theirs, too.
‘You may want to keep your distance from us when we get through customs,’ he tells me. ‘Or stick a cap on, if you’ve got one. The paps are expecting us.’
I know this already. Honor briefed me yesterday evening. Apparently, their publicist thinks their arrival back in the UKen familleis a golden opportunity to present a united front. It seems to me the James family’s publicist is hedging her bets. Keep speculation about Jackson and his co-star alive in the papers, but throw the press a few money shots of him and hisfamily looking sun-kissed and relaxed on the way home from an idyllic holiday.
If only they knew the truth: that Honor, the long-suffering wife in the eyes of the world, has finally started enjoying herself and sampling some physical delights outside of her marriage. Thinking of it sends a warm glow through me. It’s something I’ve been able to give her: a secret she gets to hold on to all by herself. The press is oblivious. And I hope it goes a tiny way towards insulating her from all the bullshit the tabloids throw at her.
‘Got it.’ I nod and exchange a brief look with Honor. Her smile is tight, the apology it holds clear.
‘Will it really be that much of a circus?’ I ask Di.
‘Wait and see.’ She smacks her gum. ‘It’ll be a fucking shit show. But that’s what Jackson wanted. This time.’
Di’s been acting as a buffer between them and the public the whole time they’ve been travelling. It’s clear why they normally fly private. The French have largely left them alone (I suspect the French know exactly who they are but are way too cool to publicly crush on anyone) but numerous British holidaymakers approached them with excited faces and phones at Nice Airport.
We thank the cabin crew, all of whom are still bright-eyed and giggling from their interactions with Jackson and Honor. I can empathise. They’re not the only ones who are star struck.
Baggage collection is eye-opening. The James-Chapman family doesn’t travel light. Jackson, Di and Jackson’s bodyguard pile trolleys with case after case of sleek, cappuccino-coloured Louis Vuitton luggage that’s far too precious to have entrusted to the Heathrow baggage system.
‘We should probably say our goodbyes here.’ Honor glances towards the frosted doors standing between us and whatever circus awaits us. ‘That way, you can make yourself scarce.’
‘Yeah, mate. Run for the hills, that’s what I say. You don’t want any of this bullshit.’ Jackson bro-hugs me, and as I feebly bang his enormous back with my fist, I can’t help but feel the irony of his choice of words. It’s utterly unconscious, and probably excellent, advice. I should run for the bloody hills. Unfortunately, Honor’s cast a spell on me and I’m no more capable of running, or even walking, away from her than I am of choosing not to breathe.
‘Of course. Good idea. I’ll hang back here.’
I lean over and duck beneath the brim of Honor’s hat to kiss her on both cheeks. Quick. Casual. No reaction to the musky, floral scent of her perfume—the scent that’s lingered on my own skin over the past few days.
‘I’ll see you soon. At the hospice.’ I nod and take a step back.
