back in, but it sticks, as if it’s expanded and no longer fits the same space.
‘I guess not.’ Unless one of us is still holding on to the past when the other has glimpsed the future. I could push. I want to push. To wring her dry until she’s as brittle as I feel, but I’m aware it’s late and the renovations start tomorrow. I’ll bide my time. And, in the meantime, guard my feelings more circumspectly. I’ve already shared more with her today than I’ve shared with anyone else, perhaps ever, so I let it drop and offer her a lighthearted wink and myself a route back to the casual safety zone. ‘Only I’m older and more cynical. There’s still time for you.’
She offers up a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, grasping the shift from confessional to conversational with a return flash of humour. ‘Loads of time—I’m a spring chicken.’ She tugs on her underwear and jeans. ‘I’m going to head home—big day tomorrow.’
‘You don’t want to stay?’
She shakes her head and ducks into her shirt while I exhale the relief she’s turned down my genuine offer. Perhaps we both need distance. Time to regroup.
‘Thanks, but I have an early start tomorrow,’ she says. ‘And I don’t want to upset my grumpy old client.’
I tug her to her feet, push her hair back from her still flushed face and swoop in for a lingering kiss I hope will banish the creep of doubts. ‘I’m sure he’d forgive you. And I’ll drive you to your car.’
‘Didn’t you leave your car at the Faulkner?’
I shrug. ‘Us grumpy old men can afford more than one—we’ve been earning money for longer.’
‘Great!’ Her smile twitches but her eyes still carry the strain, which pulls me up short and reminds me there’s as much at stake now as there was the last time I erred close to the kind of feelings germinating.
Question is, do I give them light and water, or rip them out by the roots?
Blair
I’M HEADING BACK to the Faulkner’s rear staff entrance, having spoken to the team of carpet fitters working on the top floor of guest rooms today, when I spy Reid striding my way. I freeze, my pulse leaping double time and my face heating with remembered shame, which dilutes the excitement I feel at his appearance. Because I was a coward. I had the perfect opportunity to tell him I fully understood what Sadie had put him through—because Josh had not only done the same to me, but also gone one step further and actually succeeded in ruining my business—and I couldn’t do it. Because the way he made me feel highlighted how invested I was in him. Not the work, or Graham, but Reid himself. I couldn’t confess how naive I was. Not after the sofa session, not after he gave me the control I asked for, told me he trusted me.
That moment, a perfect moment when I saw past the Reid Faulkner he projects to everyone else. As he lay beneath me, naked, vulnerable and turned on all because of me, something cracked open, spilling inside me and filling me up until I could barely breathe. I not only wanted his trust, I craved it, validation I could have what I want, be who I want to be and never have to compromise again.
I was falling for him, addicted to him, the man I’d stupidly thought I’d known at eighteen, but now saw for who he really is with the clarity of a woman falling in love. And I didn’t want him to think less of me, to think of me as anything but the competent, capable professional I’ve strived to become. I couldn’t tell him what I haven’t even admitted to my family—the full extent of Josh’s betrayal for fear of we told you so recrimination.
The minute I hinted that my own betrayal wasn’t that dissimilar to his, I sensed his barriers slamming back up. He said all the right things, but he withdrew, his reminder, albeit through humour, of our age gap and his experience and wisdom loud and clear. He said age wasn’t a barrier to our sexual relationship, but perhaps it would be a barrier to us ever becoming more.
I search his face for evidence of his feelings, learning nothing. Perhaps he’s not even here for me; perhaps his emotional withdrawal on Sunday means he’s also withdrawn his trust. Perhaps he’s checking up on me after all. It’s his hotel—he has every right to keep an eye on the renovations and with any other client I wouldn’t question his motives. But now, with my feelings growing harder and harder to ignore, I crave his belief in me more than I want his recommendation or his repeat business. Perhaps even more than I want the addictive, life-affirming sex. Because I crave all of him, the whole package, the man he is today. Is that, too, naive?
‘Hi,’ I say. ‘Have you come to check on progress?’ My stomach gripes with persistent, hard-to-shake doubts. I’ve been to the Faulkner three times this week, and each time I’ve caught myself looking for his tall frame and his dark head of hair. Each day as I’ve been driving home I’ve considered dropping into his place and allowing all my ugliness to spill, an insane act of bravery, which would tell me, one way or another, exactly how he feels about me, and whether we could have any serious future relationship. Every time I speak to the painters, I find myself smiling at his lime-green aversion. And passing any sort of upholstered furniture sends me up in flames as I recall me riding him on the sofa, our sweaty, carnal twins reflected from the mirror.
He presses a kiss to my cheek and then, as if thinking better of it, slides his mouth over mine while hoisting me up to his kiss with arms banded around my waist. ‘No—I’ve been a little busy this week. And I’ve come to see you.’
‘Oh? Why?’ Pleasure at his words shudders through me, dampened by the cowardly secret hanging over my head.
‘Well, one—’ he presses a brief kiss to my lips ‘—because I’ve missed fulfilling your fantasies. Two—’ he reaches inside his breast pocket and produces a business card ‘—because Mia wanted me to pass this along—she’s serious about some decorating advice and wants you to call.’
He takes my hand in his and I try to contain the euphoria of how right it feels, how I want to keep it there all day. How I want to confess not only my darkest shame, but also my most enduring fantasy—him taking me, us, our relationship outside of the bedroom seriously. Him wanting me for keeps.
‘And three—I wanted to invite you to the Hoteliers Association Gala on Friday.’
My heart beats a silly rhythm before I slap it back with some good, old-fashioned common sense. This doesn’t mean anything. Just because he’s missed the sex doesn’t mean he’s missed me. Just because he wants a date for Friday doesn’t mean he sees relationship potential in us. And, of course, he feels obliged to invite me after Graham’s suggestion at lunch.
‘So you need a plus one?’
He grins as if he sees through my flimsy assurances. ‘Sure. So, will you come? It’s black tie. Dancing. Kit and Mia are going.’
‘I...’ My teeth catch my lip—this should be an easy yes. He’s enough of a temptation dressed in one of his impeccable suits, this one royal blue. I love dressing up fancy and dancing. But somehow things have changed, and I changed them. Now I crave more of those moments when he lets his guard down and lets me in almost as much as I crave his sexy smile, his penchant for tugging me under his arm and kissing the top of my head, and his uninhibited laughter at my teasing. Decisions I’d have made in a heartbeat a week ago now require more serious consideration. More thought. Because
