Fuck.
“Here.” I dug into my pocket, pulled out the handkerchief my mum gave me for Christmas and stretched backwards. Her fingers burned mine, the touch barely more than a graze. Still, it was enough to make me bite my lip. Grip the doorframe like my life depended on it.
“I can’t use this; I’ll ruin it.”
“My mum embroiders a new one every week.”
“This is very on brand for you.” I could almost hear the smile in her voice, and I frowned at the wood.
“Carrying a handkerchief?”
“Yep. You aren’t shaking the Mr Darcy rumours anytime soon.”
Darcy? She’d really read me wrong if that’s who she was comparing me to. And just to prove it, I said, “I wonder if Darcy ever considered tossing Elizabeth Bennet’s skirts up, right there on the coffee counter, to make certain Wickham knew exactly what he lost.”
That was definitely a violation of her rules.
She was quiet for so long, I almost turned around. If only to see how thoroughly I’d shocked her. Instead, it was my turn to be caught off-guard.
“Probably. They were a lot hornier back then.”
“Isla.” Her name was little more than a choked gasp. A plea.
The tap turned on, and I finally exhaled. “Is your T-shirt ruined?” I asked, just to fill the silence.
“Looks like it. What kind of monster drinks coffee while exclusively wearing white?”
“The kind of monster who infuses cupcakes with rose water.”
“I thought that would be right up your street, city boy.”
I grinned at her teasing, knowing full well she couldn’t see it. “You’re getting city confused with snob. Enjoying variety doesn’t mean I’m sipping champagne and eating caviar every night.”
“Just on the weekends?”
“Exactly.”
The hand-dryer switched on, the stream of air loud enough to knock a scrap of sense back into me, before she quietly cleared her throat. “Done.”
When I unpeeled my hands from the doorframe, I swear I’d left imprints. Turning slowly, my eyes roved over her flushed cheeks, before finally taking inmyT-shirt. It strained just enough over her chest, then dropped down, falling almost to the bottom of her skirt. I watched in real time as her nipples pebbled and strained through the fabric.
It was natural. Just her body’s reaction to the cool air. The facts didn’t stop me from feeling dizzy.
Outside, music and laughter from the food market droned on, reverberating in the walls of the small structure we stood in. But they didn’t penetrate the little bubble.
“You missed a spot,” I said after a moment, pointing to my own neck. Indicating where several splashes of coffee remained.
“Oh.” Her hand went to the damp handkerchief she’d hung over the sink. I beat her to it, needing to be doing something. Anything.
“Can I?”
She nodded and my fingers were at her jaw a heartbeat later, angling her face, wiping along the column of her throat like it was my hand’s singular purpose now.Take care of Isla Lang.
At least while we were in this room.
“Do you think she did it on purpose? Annabelle,” she asked. I could tell the thought had been turning over in her mind.
“Yes,” I said simply, wiping the point of her chin.
