Isuppose this was what balloons felt like when they popped. All the air seeping out of me in an uncontrolled rush as I stepped backwards making my hands let go of him so I could cover my face.
Oh fuck. Now I’d done it. Now I’d properly done it. Because this was not what I had planned to do this morning. I hadn’t even had leaving my flat on the radar, thinking I would just stay in and vegetate in my current state of confused anger.
The world was not a solid place, and I was currently spinning out of control.
Then somehow the world had hit a full stop, and I’d had this awful idea of trying to look up Peter’s address. As if someone like him would have it listed right there on the world wide web. Things didn’t work like that. But neither did I. This was my bread and butter, and yes, the tax office business registry was most accommodating in my quest for detail.
Mary Priscilla Fenton had sat on the board of several companies. All registered to some PO box in Mayfair. Sensible and normal. Peter Christopher Fenton, though?
He owned his own company, and the address of his practice was everywhere. He didn’t live there, though. But…
Yeah. The internet was forever, and at some point, Mary had been a stakeholder. Mary. Registered at 42 Thorn Crescent in Newton Hill. Central. Nice area. Residential.
Yes. I wasn’t proud, nor was I ashamed of myself because this was all public knowledge. That particular property hadn’t changed hands in the last decade, and now, when I knew where to look? I looked, and I looked everywhere. It was a nice house. Value had risen sharply as expected, an extension planned for and added a few years back. It was all there for anyone to see.
Which is why I’d got dressed and thrown myself in a taxi and turned up on his doorstep banging on that door with a ferocity that had kind of surprised me.
I had planned on being calm and collected. Not feral and rabid, and then now like this.
Exhausted.
“So…” he said slowly, just standing there looking at me. “So, we kiss now?”
“Apparently,” I snarked back.
He smiled. He bloody smiled.
“Don’t be an arsehole,” I shot straight back at him. “You don’t need to be a dick about it. You know this. You knew all of this.”
“Oliver.” He sighed. Just the way he said my name made me relax. My heartbeat slowing down. Because he was him and he was just looking at me and there it was.
Shit. It was all there. Live and unscripted. The way he looked at me. If he didn’t stop doing it, I would lunge at him again and press him into the wall. I wanted just to have his body against mine and his arms around me again, and what the hell was I doing?
“I think we should…sit down.” He was trying so hard to stay in control.
“Not sitting down,” I spat out. Still angry. Still…
Hurt. I was bloody hurt. Fuming. Betrayed. All the feelings muddling up in a maelstrom inside of me.
Breathe. Breathe, Oliver.
I allowed myself to look at him. Really look at him. The way he was standing there, with his fingers nervously holding on to the worktop behind him. Small tapping noises, skin on wood.
His pyjama top was buttoned up wrong. And there…
He had such lovely arms. Strong. Athletic almost. Some chest hair peeking up from underneath. I’d seen him, of course I had. We’d shared a bed for weeks. Changed clothes in front of one another. I’d even once snuck a peek at his arse.
Peter Fenton was a handsome man. Still?
Granddad. Not my type.
His hair was a mess, and he looked exhausted. Like he’d been here this whole time with nobody to look after him. Care for him. Make him a nice cup of tea.
The thought of that was absurd. He was a grown man, and he could…
Shit.
“I’m going to make us a cup of tea,” I declared, making him flinch. Like I’d lunged at him or something. I supposed… Fuck. “And we’re going to sit down here and talk.”
