There it was. Her parents’ shambolic, ten-bedroom ivy-clad manor house, built in the 1920s along medieval lines, with other styles randomly thrown in. It was dark outside, but I could make out the outlines of the overgrown garden in front, a wild pond to the side, and the backdrop of rolling green hills and pastures. As a builder, driving up every day for the past three months, I felt my heart sink, seeing only the work the house needed. But as soon as I stepped inside, the intricately carved staircase, stone fireplaces, and oak paneling charmed me again.
We’d been confiding, so this was a good time for me to speak freely, which I’d been waiting to do for two hours.
“Tabitha, we can’t work together on the show. I don’t have to explain how collaborating under the constant scrutiny of the camera and a production team would be a terrible experience for both of us. I really want to do this show. Please, could you call them and say you’ve reconsidered?”
She turned sharply, and I could see her breath on the window.
“No.” She swung around to me defiantly. “Just like you, I want to do the show too. End of story. Get used to the idea.”
“Oh fuck.” I dropped my head into my hands. She didn’t need the money, so why did she want to do the show? “I don’t understand—are you signing up to torture me? Get me back for something? I know we haven’t seen eye to eye through the years, but I’ve had such a bad day—can’t you just let me have this? Please?”
“Not everything’s about you, Tim. I’ve had a bad day too.” Her annoyance turned into something softer as a drunkenly crooked smile played across her lips. “But you know what would make my terrible, horrible, no-good day better?” Her face lit up, and it was the first time I’d seen a real spark in her eye during the journey.
I gave her what I hoped was an encouraging smile back. “What would make your no-good day better? I’m up for it.”
Maybe she wanted to open a packet of our favorite chocolate biscuits—Hobnobs—and enjoy a cup of tea in her parents’ old kitchen. Or maybe I could fry her a bacon butty to soak up all the booze coursing through her veins. And bring up the subject of her dropping out of the TV show again.
What was going on with her fingers?
“How about some hate sex?” she blurted, her eyes as glimmery and wide as ponds.
As if in one motion, she unclicked her seat belt, and a flash of red and a lot of bare skin lunged at me.
8
Tabitha
Why was Iso attracted to him? Probably the booze. Maybe because I’d shared very personal details with him, been vulnerable with him, and he’d reacted sensitively but also gratifyingly pissed off on my behalf. Whatever the reason, he’d be up for a little fooling around—of course he would.
I threw my torso across the console.
Pressing against him, I squeezed his thigh. Hard and bulging and muscular, it promised a long, sustained night. My lips met his, and an instant zing ran through me.
But he froze.
Froze?
Confused, I pressed my lips harder against his.
He pulled away and touched my wrist. His fingers were big and callused, and scraped with heat over my skin as he plucked my handoffhis leg.
What was happening?
I took a good, long look at his face. His furious and appalled face.
Instant humiliation bolted through me.
OhGodOhGodOhGod.
“What are you doing?” His expression was hard, his brown eyes dark with anger.
“You-you don’t want to?” Every organ I possessed seemed to sink to my toes. I’d never been so embarrassed.
“No. You’ve had a lot of drink. I’m just giving you a ride home, that’s all. I wouldnever—” He clamped his mouth shut.
I sobered up with every second his eyes held mine.
“What were you going to say?” I asked. “You would neverwith me?”
