FOURTEEN
The English Aristocrat’s Bride
Bride of Desire
All about the author… Sara Craven
Liz Fielding
“I’m so sorry, Mike—”
“I’m so sorry, Willow—”
They both spoke at the same time.
Willow frowned. “What are you apologizing for, Mike? I’m the one who left you standing at the altar. Was it awful?” she asked. “Did my mother have hysterics?”
“I don’t know, because I wasn’t there. I wasn’t there,” Mike repeated.
“What?” Her breath was coming in tiny little gasps as what he was saying finally sank in. “You did it too, didn’t you?” She felt almost dizzy with relief. “We both ran out on our wedding!”
‘DON’T go.’ Mike kept his arm around her, holding her close. ‘I love it when I wake up and you’re the first thing I see.’
Willow loved that, too. Loved waking with her cheek pressed against his chest, his arm around her, his corn-coloured hair flopping over his forehead. Loved him. And nestling against him in the dark, his kisses tempting her to stay put and damn the consequences made it hard to be strong.
Getting out of a warm bed to drive home late on a Sunday evening was not top of her ‘fun-to-do’ list, any more than it was Mike’s. Which was why she always found some pressing reason to drive to his place, rather than have him pick her up. With her own car parked outside, she didn’t have to make a big deal of it.
‘Sorry, sweetheart.’ She stirred, kissed him and then forced herself to get out of bed. ‘If I stay, I’ll have to get up at dawn and dash across town to change for work. Mondays are stressful enough, without that.’
‘You should bring a change of clothes with you.’ He propped himself up on an elbow and watched her. ‘Keep some stuff here. That’d beat the stress.’
It wasn’t the first time Mike had suggested this, but Willow was having none of it. She’d handled the toothbrush issue by buying a little travelling set, with a folding toothbrush and a mini tube of toothpaste, easily stored in her capacious shoulder bag, along with a clean pair of knickers and a spare pair of tights. She was a journalist, she reasoned, and had to be prepared for any eventuality. Even on a regional rag like the Chronicle.
Leaving clothes at his place was much more serious. The edges of their relationship would become blurred. She’d become too accessible. Before she knew it she’d be there more often than she was at home and he’d be taking her for granted. Expecting her to take on the routine domestic duties because she was there. Because she was female. She’d seen it happen a dozen times.
‘It wouldn’t help. I have to feed Rasputin and Fang.’ She grabbed his bathrobe and headed for the shower. Her two needy goldfish, won by Mike at a visiting fair, were worth their weight in fish food.
‘Bring the fish, too,’ he called after her. ‘I’ll build an extension and you can bring your entire collection of cuddly toys, if you
