Chapter Twenty-Two
Fin
He’s gotthe arms for it, I suppose.Do gardeners have big arms, or is that some kind of porn-workman-genre thing?Because arm porn, if it isn’t a thing, it surely should be. And he’d make a fortune.
He’s so big. And masculine. And that ass.Wonder how many squats it takes to get an ass that firm?
I’m so screwed.
And I was so sure this day couldn’t get any worse.
I’d woken this morning from another watery nightmare, arms flailing and saltwater stinging the back of my throat. Only this time it was different; different as in worse. This time, Marcus was there. Marcus and his PA—as in personal ass-piece—had stood on the deck of his yacht, laughing as I’d struggled against the current, my legs growing heavy under the effort of staying afloat. He’d wrapped his arm around her waist, anchoring himself before he’d used his boot to push my head under, ignoring my begging and desperate cries for help.
It was only a dream, I know, but the echo of it had followed me all day. I’d wanted to end it—the day, not my life—draw a line under my marriage once and for all. I needed something symbolic; some way to take my power back and it seemed I’d decided just how.
I’d stopped wearing my wedding ring, regarding it as a sign of my own stupidity, one I’d kept in the bottom of my make-up bag. But yet not fifteen minutes ago, the baguette-cut diamonds had glittered in their platinum band, weighty and solid as always, though this time not on my hand, but rather in. I’d stood on the freezing cold shoreline, contemplating the level of cliché of pitching it in.
Because, yep, that was my big gesture. Cure all ills.
A more sensible plan would’ve been to sell it—I’m sure I could’ve lived off the proceeds for a year or more—but it seemed I wasn’t feeling so sensible. Either then or now. A sensible person would’ve at least remembered to pick up her jacket before dashing out.I’d gone as far as to raise my hand when I’d noticed the pale circle of skin where the ring once sat, memories rising like mist from the ocean. Though not those of Marcus. No, my body had heated and tingled in all the wrong places as I’d recalled the best bad idea I’ve ever had.
Twice.
Warming rapidly, I’d lowered my hand as tiny sparks of awareness began plucking at the edges of my focus. I’d turned, not truly expecting anything, and yet, there he’d stood. Rory. Like I’d conjured all six foot something of him.
As though my imagination is that creative.
I close my eyes as I crush the dish towel between both my hands, right now recalling that other impressive length of him.Long, thick and hard.Just how the hell did he get to be so striking? Tan and tattooed, ripped and so very, very masculine. As Nat would say, he’s built like a brick—
Oh,shit house.
Fucking Rory. He coughs slightly and I realise he’s smothering a laugh, no doubt catching me staring blindly while my mind had slipped into the land of alcohol fuelled nights, bulging biceps and hot sex. Of how, in this land, one of those strong arms had banded my chest as he’d twisted my face to his, covering my neck and mouth with kisses. He didn’t so much as take possession as he did move in lock, stock and massive barrel, demolishing the hell out me.
Fuck my life. Zoned out again.
‘P—pass me the tea bags, would you?’
Dust motes dance in the air between us as the sun begins to set, sending rays of burnt amber and bronze through the tiny high-set windows. We’d made our way from the beach to the kitchen supposedly for his desire of tea, though I’m not buying. I’m also a tiny bit terrified of what this could mean.
The kitchen has yet to be updated; it’s a truly hideous space and I try not to dwell here very often as it’s so frigidly cold. Stuck somewhere between the 1870’s and the 1970’s, one long wall houses Formica fronted cupboards and brown tiled counter tops, while the other has a huge sort of oven range. An ancient cold store stands at the far end of the room and behind us, out of sight, is an unused butler’s pantry full of nothing but cobwebs and dust. A Victorian lath hangs over a scarred wooden table, a solitary towel hanging where it had been left to dry.
Despite my request for the tea canister, I sense he hasn’t moved. And though the man was clearly made for looking at, I force myself to not turn. Instead, I keep busy by filling the kettle and dragging out a couple of scarred mugs. It’s not that I don’t want to look at him. No, because he’s more than easy on the eye. In fact, I’d be interested in seeing him naked again, maybe in the daylight this time.
No—no you wouldn’t,I intone. That’s not happening.
Though I can’t help but wonder. What if I’d built our last night up to more than it was?More than he was.Between the tumult of emotion triggered by those awful photographs and the realisation that I could sleep with Rory again, so many years after the first time, maybe my mind had embellished our evening together. Passion isn’t something I’m intimately acquainted with; perhaps I’d been so starved for attention the evening was less than the sum of the parts I recall. Perhaps his abs aren’t as ripped, his tattoo’s not so vivid or striking. And maybe my mouth doesn’t really thirst for his tongue.
So, it’s not that I won’t turn because the view doesn’t appeal. It’s more that I don’t trust myself not to want to investigate him morethoroughly.
It feels unnatural, keeping my gaze averted against this magnetic pull. I swallow against the notion, wondering if the sexual energy between us is flowing only one way, but as my gaze glides over my shoulder, the fine hairs on my arms stand like pins.
His butt is pressed against the table, his long legs stretched out in a study of calm.A picture of nonchalance.He might not have moved—he might not yethave madehismove, but according to his gaze, he clearly has plans.
‘Tea,’ I say again, this time my gaze directly on him, the word hitting the air as more of a demand.
‘Are you givin’ out orders, titch?’
I close my eyes, his tone washing through me as my fingers grip the wood framing the tiled countertops.Was that an aural flashback, or did he actually speak?
