It isn’t him. It can’t be because he’s never been self-conscious or bashful or sheepish or anything but cocksure a day in his life.
And that smile?
The one he’s now sending across the room? It tugs at something primal deep in my belly, like nature, or fuck, I don’t know—like it’s the devil himself standing next to June, beckoning me to dance to his tune.
His teeth graze his full bottom lip, and I swallow, the motion the beginning of a ripple of need that terminates between my legs. But this turns out to be a vowel, not a tease. A vowel followed by a couple of consonants, his mouth silently wrapping around the delivery of my name.
The devil. It is the fucking devil, and Dylan is his name.
Before I know it, my body is in motion, faces moving past my vision as though I were on a train. Well, those who aren’t standing in my FUCKING WAY!
‘Excuse me—excuse me. Would you just evermove!’
I make a beeline for the side entrance, almost knocking the black-and-white clad teenage waitress from the wood as I slip out into the late summer sunshine, but what now? Where do I go now that I’ve realised I’m not imagining things?
What are the chances this is a massive coincidence, and I’ve just made a complete arse of myself? Christ, does it matter? He’s here, and I need not to be, or else.. . or else.. .
The door handle at my back begins to turn, and I shoot off along the side of the building, catching the knuckles of my hand against the rough-hewn brick. I don’t remember the last time I moved so fast—I’d give Usain Bolt a run for his money. Maybe if he were six months pregnant. And my height. And wearing strappy Roman sandals and a dress.
‘Ivy!Ivy, wait!’
‘Not fucking likely,’ I wheeze out as I turn the corner of the building, moving past the wall of glass. People are inside. My people. People who might not have noticed the explosive nature of my departure. Maybe God will be good and they won’t notice me passing by the massive window either. But you can bet your arse they’ll notice the man following me.
Don’t look in the window, Ivy. Don’t!
So I don’t, though I have no idea where to go next. I can’t see beyond this web of lies I’ve woven, and the sudden panic is lacing its way through my chest.
Another corner: Turn right or left? Right is the carpark, left is where?
The cottages? Outbuildings, too, I think.
Or maybe a better escape; the carpark! Maybe I make it to my car before he reaches me; get inside and turn the—
Ah, shit!’
The key. It’s upstairs in my room. I’m thankful for the first time for puffy toes. Because they’re the reason I’m wearing flats today. To think I wanted to cry over my clothing choices this morning.
‘Ivy, stop—goddammit!’
‘Go away, Dylan.’ The words leave my throat in a sob, a sob he won’t hear as I turn left instead. My feet scuff across the gravelled walkway, some spraying up and into my shoe in my haste. ‘Ow!’ I don’t have time to stop—I can’t—as I turn right by some bushes and right again, expecting somewhere to hide but instead finding sky.
Sky and sand dunes and ocean, as far as the eye can see.
‘Shitballs!’ I bring my hands to my face and exhale a pained, strangled sob. Despair, anger, and fear. Regret—fucking regret—all pile on my chest until it becomes hard to breathe.
Before I know it, I sense him standing behind me. He whispers my name, or is it the sea?
Chapter Thirty-Three
Dylan
‘Ivy.’
Dark wisps of hair escape from her thick braid and dance in the wind. I hold my hand out ready to sweep them away like I’ve done a hundred times, my heart and arm sinking as slowly as the notion dawns: I’m not that man for her anymore.
Christ Almighty.I swallow thickly. Why doesn’t this get any easier? The longer we’re apart, the less it’s supposed to hurt. It’s hard, dammit, and I’m hard. Hard-headed and arrogant for being in this position in the first place, but I might also be hard in another sense. Slightly.Yeah, that kind of hard. Blame the length of her hem or those dainty painted toes at the ends of those gorgeous bare legs. Or maybe just blame the fact that I’m some kind of fucking closet masochist when it comes to this woman.
You’re here to bring her bad news and an apology—several apologies—not to get emotionally involved.
