“Shoot.”
“Did he know all this? Did he know what you needed? Not suggesting you did anything at all wrong. It’s just, I’m a bloke, and we can be sort of oblivious. I’d hate to think that in the same situation, I would…”
“You’re hugging me right now. I suspect your first instinct is to hug.”
He thought for a little while. “I guess? Maybe? I hadn’t really thought about it.”
“That’s my point. You don’t need to. Rory used to say that he wasn’t into all that ‘touchy-feely stuff,’ and that was that. There was this moment, not long after it happened, that I hugged him and he leaned into it for like two seconds, and then pulled back before I was ready. Way before I was ready. I was just getting comfortable, and he was, like, job done. And then he goes and loads the goddamn dishwasher and leaves me standing there, physically aching for that comfort. An absolute bodily craving. I stood there, silently crying, and he started talking about how the PIN override on the electronic fingerprint lock worked. And I knew at that moment, while I watched him load that dishwasher, that it would always be like that. He would never be there for me emotionally. He never really had, but until then I hadn’t realized how important that was to me and how deeply I felt and resented the lack of it. I could see how it would play out—was already playing out—I would eventually give up asking for what I needed, and so I’d stop getting what I needed.”
“Who knew touch was such a powerful thing?”
“Well, you did, obviously. You do.”
“It’s true, I like a good hug.” It felt like a confession a grown man wasn’t supposed to make. But with her, his secrets felt safe. “So, let me guess—this tendency of his had been there from the start, but you’d overlooked it?”
“Exactly.”
“In a way, it was good you managed to find that out before you committed to a forever thing. Most people never get to test their relationship in that way.”
She went rigid, and he wondered if he’d said the wrong thing. “Still hard though,” she said, her slightly defensive tone confirming he had made an error. “Break-ups are never easy.”
“No, you’re right, they’re not.” He winced, remembering how she’d diplomatically chided him when he’d quoted statistics at her. Had he just done it again in a different form?
“It was the hardest choice I’ve ever made, and Rory still hasn’t accepted it. Even this trip… He thinks I need to go away and fix myself and get my head straight and then I’ll go back to him. I’ve made it clear I’m done, but he doesn’t listen, which just illustrates the problem. Though, to be honest, I did have this crazy hope that the break would magically fix me. And this is all way more than you signed up for when you suggested we have a drink yesterday morning!”
“Oh, I think we both ended up with more than we signed up for. But I’m glad you told me.” He’d woken that morning convinced that he’d found his perfect match, but he hadn’t been able to remember why, beyond the obvious attraction-at-first-sight and the feeling that for one day she’d lifted the heaviness he hadn’t realized had settled in his soul. Now, he was assembling a picture. They’d had fun together, sure, even before the brandy. And he felt completely comfortable talking to her, which was rare for him. But maybe that was because of the temporary nature of their connection. They weren’t on some sort of first date that was loaded with hope. They’d approached this with no forethought, no preconceptions or expectations, aside from the expectation that therewasno future in this.
But what if there was? Somehow.
Amelia found his hands, where they rested on her belly, and covered them with hers. Hers still felt cold. “And your love language would be…?”
He recognized the change of subject for the deliberate detour it was. And he hoped the way her finger was lightly tracing over his knuckles was the come-on he suspected it to be. “I definitely like physical affection best,” he said, nuzzling into her neck.
“I had kinda picked up on that.” She sounded increasingly breathless, which was absolutely the love language he liked to hear. “The way someone shows affection is usually the way they like to receive it.”
“Good tip.” He navigated around her coat and slipped his hands under her jumper, excavating through her many clothing layers. When he found her skin, it goose-pimpled under his touch. “Sorry, are my hands cold?”
“No, no, not … atall.”
He smiled. “Not much physical affection in Austen, I suppose.”
“Wickham does kiss Elizabeth’s hand with ‘affectionate gallantry.’” Amelia shuddered under Tom’s touch, in a good way, and he was reasonably sure it wasn’t Wickham she was reacting to.
“The cad.”
“She was probably wearing gloves, in case of accidental deflowering. And there are rather a lot of ‘blooming complexions,’” she said in a passable attempt at an Eton accent.
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
She pushed herself up, flipped over onto hands and knees and kissed him fully on the mouth, which he was only too happy to reciprocate. He slid down the floorboards so he could stretch out fully, though he was touching the walls at either end, then pulled her on top of him. His brain might not remember much ofwhat had happened between them last night, unfortunately, but his body clearly did and was keen for a repeat.
Amelia sat up so she was straddling him. “Charlotte Brontë once complained that what was lacking in Austen was ‘what throbs fast, full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through.’”
“Good lord, did she?”
“She was talking about the heart.”
“Oh. Disappointing.” He rested his hands around Amelia’s hips. “When this salamander potion wears off, how will we even know?”
