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“Why?”
“Tell me where you are.”
“Hamish—”
“We need to talk and there’s no way in hell that’s happening over the phone.”
She closed her eyes, knowing he was right, knowing she couldn’t keep avoiding this. She gave him the name of the hotel and a moment later, he’d disconnected the call.
That evening, for the first time since arriving in Paris, she changed out of her loungewear and put on a dress. A fitted, black dress with long sleeves, a boat neckline, and black leather heels. She styled her hair in a bun that sat low at her nape, and she took time to apply her makeup as though she were going to meet a client. Neat, impeccable, stylish and elegant, with bright red lipstick to signal a confidence she didn’t feel.
Her hands shook betrayingly as she reached for her clutch purse and slipped the hotel room key into it, glancing at her appearance in the mirror one last time before moving towards the door.
She’d texted Hamish to meet her in the hotel bar. Her room felt like too much of a mixed message. Too much of something. Too intimate, for how and what they needed to be.
At least in public, she’d have to keep things somewhat level-headed and professional.
She focused on her breathing as the elevator sank to the foyer of the hotel, and then tried to tune out everything and everyone. Not to even think as she put one foot in front of the other and walked to the elegant bar on the other side of the ground floor. The doors were glass, revealing a beautiful wine bar; she stepped into it, jazz music reaching her ears and going some of the way to soothing her frazzled nerves.
Her eyes scanned the already-busy room, but didn’t land on Hamish. Good. That would give her time to find a position and be waiting for him when he arrived, feigning nonchalance, like she did this kind of thing all the time.
She ordered a glass of wine in flawless French when the waiter appeared, glad that he returned with a glass before Hamish appeared. But barely. She’d only just taken a sip when he strode in, his gaze following the same trajectory as hers had ten minutes earlier but landing hard on her, skidding to a stop.
Just like her heart.
If there’d been any hope that she’d been wrong about her feelings, or cared for him less now, then it took a split second to realise that wasn’t so. Just the sight of him made her feel achingly weak, weak like she never wanted to be again. She tried, tried, tried to control her rioting emotions, not to give in to the heavy, drowning feeling, but with each step he took towards her, the truth rushed through her like a raging river.
She loved him, and it wasn’t the kind of love that would ever go away. It wasn’t the kind of love that could bear a separation. She had to stay married to him, even knowing he’d never give her what she wanted. If it meant they could at least spend their lives side by side, she’d take it. She’d take whatever he’d give her, greedily, hungrily, desperately.
The realisation that she’d allowed herself to be vulnerable was the final death knell—the proof she hadn’t really needed that her heart was fully encased by his.
She sipped her wine then stood—it felt better to meet him like this, at full height, rather than seated. He came close to her, so close she could see the flecks in his eyes, and her pulse trembled.
“Hamish,” she said, voice guarded, heart hurting.
“Tia,” he responded and kissed her lightly on the cheek. It didn’t matter that it was just a brushing of his mouth to her skin, her pulse went as haywire as if he’d dragged her fully into his arms.
He stepped back, his eyes raking over her face like a starving man at a buffet. “Hello.”
She nodded, sat back down, cupped her wine glass. He took the seat opposite, large frame barely making sense in the elegant wine bar.
The waiter appeared and Hamish ordered a mineral water.
She sipped her wine again.
“We said we’d talk,” he reminded her, the words not accusing, so much as a statement of fact.
“Yes,” she agreed, almost conversationally, turning to look out the window, lips turning down. “I wasn’t sure I knew what to say.” But she did now. She would take whatever crumbs he’d give her, and she despised herself for that.
His response was a large exhalation, a heavy sigh. She turned to face him. “Nor did I,” he said, brow furrowing. “In fact, I completely fucked it up, didn’t I?”
It was the last thing she’d expected. “Fucked what up?”
“Everything.”
She ran her fingertip down the side of her wine glass, feeling the condensation. “You really didn’t. What happened with Cressida wasn’t your fault; it wasn’t even a big deal. It just helped me realise how I felt and that’s what I was reacting to.”
“I don’t mean bloody Cressida,” he said urgently. “I mean the day I came to your office, when you told me you loved me.”
