“What’s this?” I ask, studying the bottle.
Pride flashes in his eyes. “I’ve started making my own wine. Rob from down the road got me set up with a home kit. It’s a Spanish variety, Rioja. It’s turned out pretty decent. Here,” he says, extending the bottle towards me. “Share it with April.”
I accept it, reading the subtle changes in his expression. He looks relaxed, almost content. I lift the bottle in salute. “Will do, Dad. Cheers.” I’m just about to step out the door when Mum’s small fingers wrap around my biceps. I stop in my tracks.
Mum considers me, her voice firm. “She’s a beautiful woman, James. You treat her well. She’s been through enough.”
“I will,” I promise, bending down to plant a kiss on her head.
On the way home, I belt out the lyrics to my favourite song. I’m so relieved we managed to have that conversation without anyone losing their shit. It feels like a monumental weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
No more secrets.
No more sneaking around.
I step on the accelerator, eager to get back home to my girl.
Chapter 42
April
James returned home from visiting his parents yesterday afternoon, and he told them everything about us. My heart raced with nerves until he assured me they are happy for us. The relief that washed over me was indescribable. They’ve always been so kind and supportive, welcoming me into their family with open arms when I was with Lucas.
Despite her own internal struggles, Caroline always goes the extra mile. She has a special motherly way of making the people around her feel heard and loved. She’s a beautiful soul, with a heart so tender, and knowing she’s given us her blessing is elating. They’ll be at the audition next week, which will be the first time I’ve seen them since the engagement party. Standing by them while I cheer James on will be quite the juxtaposition, but I’m excited to see them again.
I step through James’s flat, wearing nothing but his T-shirt. My hair is tied in a messy topknot, and a dull, delicious ache throbs between my thighs from last night. I peer through the doorway to his kitchen and watch as he cracks two eggs into a bowl. He’s shirtless, wearing only grey tracksuit bottoms, and I salivate as I study the muscles in his back working while he whisks. He flings a tea towel over his shoulder before seasoningthe egg mixture with salt and pepper. I smile to myself as the smell of bacon sizzling and coffee brewing fills the flat.
I bypass the kitchen, to his bookshelf and begin thumbing through the titles—Dante, Dickens, Freud, and de Beauvoir. Classics spanning literature to philosophy are arranged neatly by genre. This, right here, is him. The softness beneath the hard exterior.
“Coffee?” he says, and I jump, whirling around to face him.
“You gave me a fright,” I say, holding my hand over my heart, and he smirks. Extending his arm towards me, I accept the mug and bring it to my lips. “Mmm,” I moan. “You make the best coffee.”
“Breakfast’s ready too. You need to eat. Your stomach has been grumbling for the last hour.” He chuckles. I follow him to the small table nestled against the kitchen wall. Setting my mug down, I pull out a chair and settle in. He grabs two plates from the counter, placing one for each of us before taking a seat. I sneak a perve, catching a glimpse of his abs tightening as he scoots his chair forward and reaches for his cutlery. I almost drool on the table.
A thick slice of buttered sourdough is topped with creamy scrambled eggs, crispy rashers of bacon, sautéed mushrooms, wilted spinach, and a plump pork sausage.
“Thank you. This looks incredible,” I say, picking up my knife and fork to dig in.
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” he replies, giving me a soft smile as he slices into his bacon. The sound of utensils hitting porcelain fills the air as we eat.
“So,” I manage around a bite of bread, “have you read all those books on your shelf?”
He swallows a large mouthful. “Most of them, yes.”
“I didn’t really take you for the philosophy type.”
He smirks. “Then I guess you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.”
Cheeky.
“Touché,” I say, pointing at him with my knife. “When did you start reading philosophy?” I ask.
“When I was eighteen, one of my old school friends from Toton gave me a book by Jean-Paul Sartre calledThe Age of Reason. I picked it up one day when I was bored after moving to London. Since then, I’ve just accumulated more. I love it.”
I raise my eyebrows, a smile tugging at my lips. Music and philosophy—this man just keeps impressing me. “A little different from my romance novels,” I tease.
He chuckles. “Just a little. But if you ever asked me to read one, I would. For you.”
