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His mouth brushes against mine, even softer this time, before he pulls out, and disposes of the condom. I lie back, still trying to catch my breath, when he lies next to me, pulling me into his arms.
“Christ,” he mutters. “How the hell do you do that?”
“Do what?” I manage to ask him, lifting my face to look at him.
“Just be perfect.”
I grin. “It’s innate.”
He laughs softly, stroking my hair with his palm. “Let’s stay here in bed for the next few days.”
“That sounds nice,” I murmur. “Do you think anybody would notice?”
His chest rumbles with a laugh. “Probably not.”
He holds me close, and I feel my eyes starting to get heavy. All I can hear is the soft cadence of our breaths and the crashing of the sea faintly from beyond the glass.
And then his phone starts to ring.
“For fuck’s sake.” He groans against my temple, before he rolls over and picks it up, his eyes skimming the message.
“It’s Caleb,” he says, brushing my hair from my face with his free hand. “He and Beck are at the Inn.”
“The Inn?” I frown. “They’re not staying here?”
His mouth curls. “My mother isn’t his biggest fan. And he says sleeping in a pub has always been his childhood dream.”
It’s nice that they’ve come to support him.
He tosses his phone on the bedside table. “They want us to join them for dinner in a bit.” He traces my jaw with his fingers. “Do you want to go?”
I can tell that he does. And maybe getting out of this house – even for a little while – will do us both good.
“Why not? We need to eat at some point, right?”
He reaches for his phone again, not releasing me this time. “I’ll tell them we’ll be there in an hour.”
“Is it that far away?” I ask.
He grins. “No.” Then he pulls me toward him, kissing me again.
It’s slow and unhurried, like we have all the time in the world. Like there isn’t a sea outside these windows and a deadline waiting for me across the ocean.
And me, lying here on his bed, trying – and failing – so hard not to fall for the man I shouldn’t.
17
THEO
It takes a little over an hour for us to arrive at Anchor and Hope. The small, ramshackle inn is on the edge of the little village a mile north of Ravensmere, but it took us almost half an hour to drag ourselves out of bed.
It’s started to snow again and I put my arm around Georgia to shield her from the worst of the flurry-filled gusts as we hurry to the door. When I push it open we’re greeted by a burst of warmth and noise.
The air in here smells of woodsmoke with a side of stale beer. Wet coats hang from every hook, umbrellas are propped against the walls. Someone has wrapped fairy lights around the old beams and a crooked Christmas tree stands off-kilter in the corner, the baubles mismatched.
A spaniel lazing by the fire cocks its head up as we walk past, his tail wagging as he lollops over to us and starts to sniff Georgia’s legs. I take her coat, admiring the sweater dress she’s wearing. It clings in all the right places, accentuating her perfect curves.
Like he’s noticed, too, the dog’s tail whacks her ankle and she laughs, leaning down to ruffle his fur. “Hey cutie,” she murmurs. The dog pants with delight, then licks her hands.
