by JC Harroway
I shake my head—it’s too full, too conflicted. ‘I can’t. I need to focus on me.’
To work out who I am and where I come from. To...try and stop running.
Without that, what do I have to give, even if I do meet someone who can give me everything in return?
When did beginning the search for my birth parents become the least scary of my problems?
I shudder in a breath, marginally appeased that my brother knows me so well that there’s no need to vocalise the way I feel. Perhaps making that call isn’t so terrifying...
And Kit?
I look up at Will, my watery smile earning me a hug. I close my eyes and succumb to my brother’s big, bulky comfort offering. I’m overthinking this. Overcomplicating the issue. At the end of the day, all I have to do is let things with Kit unfold.
Kit loves Laura.
I’m leaving London.
A plus B equals simple.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mia
THE MODELS, JAMES and Bryony, still wearing Faulkner-monogrammed robes, talk while I review the footage we’ve spent the morning shooting. It’s been two days since the burlesque party and Kit has been notably absent. It’s a good thing. I focussed on the photo shoot of the hotel’s interior—simple stills of James and Bryony taking a champagne breakfast in the restaurant, drinking cocktails in the bar and enjoying the spa facilities.
But in between shots, my mind stubbornly refused to leave Kit. I hallucinated him striding through the hotel foyer in one of his sharp suits, the epitome of confident male swagger. Deservedly so.
‘Okay, guys, that’s a wrap. You can get dressed. Thanks for all your hard work today.’
The duo were so professional that we’ve finished a day ahead of schedule, a fact that should please me but leaves a nasty gnawing in my belly and my head full of dangerous ways to fill the time... Not physically dangerous. Emotional peril is far more terrifying.
Yesterday I researched websites that help you locate adoption records and missing family members. My fidgety fingers didn’t quite press ‘send’ on the enquiry form, but I’ve taken what feels like a massive first step.
A clatter of claws on the tiles forces my already fluttering heart into my throat, alerting me to Bob’s arrival, Kit by his side.
My pulse goes into overdrive for the sight of the owner decked out as I’d imagined him earlier in one of his suits. I channel my enthusiasm into greeting Bob, whose tail swings while I scratch at his neck and fight hard to keep my face from hiding against his sleek fur until the urge to kiss Kit abates, despite the way we left things.
Come home with me.
I’ve asked myself a thousand times if he was simply trying to stamp his need for control on me, on our sexual encounters, or if he meant the request that, as time went on, sounded less like a command and more like a plea.
Will I see the answers I’m searching for if I look at Kit’s face? Will those answers even help? Or will I see what I always see when I search for a hint of more: regret?
I focus on Bob instead of risking confirmation either way. ‘Are dogs allowed in here?’ I don’t care one way or the other, but my guarded question is better than the alternative—succumbing, kissing Kit and then demanding to know where his head is at and whether, if I returned to London, he’d want to see me again.
I stroke Bob, falling back into the no-man’s-land of our non-relationship and my endless run-stay cycles.
Kit shrugs. ‘The Faulkner is a pet-friendly hotel. And even if it weren’t, I’m one of the owners.’
Duh...he can do what he likes. He’s always done what he likes. He’s always been in control of this. Of us. I’m the only loose cannon here.
Dragging myself away from Bob, I close down my laptop and continue packing away my filming equipment, keeping my hands busy and my vision occupied. ‘Well, I’ve just finished. The models have gone home, so if you were hoping to add direction to the shoot, you’re too late.’ Although if he’d have been here any earlier there may not actually have been any footage worth having. He’s a perfect, mouthwatering distraction and, despite all that’s gone through my mind in the last forty-eight hours, I want him still.
Kit leans against a pillar, hands casually slung in his front pockets while his keen stare follows my every move. ‘I’m not.’
A lens cap clatters to the tiles. I retrieve it with an internal curse. I need to get my shit together, before I make a fool of myself by reading too much into his words. By blurting out questions when I’m not ready to hear the answers. There are enough of those in my head.
‘I’ve come to escort you to your next assignment.’ Kit’s lazy drawl grates over my eardrums and sparks every wrung-out cell in my body to vibrant life.
I need to withdraw, not succumb. To wean myself off his effortless lure. Reminding myself I’m the same person I was two weeks ago—and so is Kit—helps.
But it’s poor protection.
‘I’m kind of done for the day.’ I have ample footage already. A couple of days of editing and I’ll be out of his hair.
Kit smiles, self-assured and so tempting. ‘Think of it as a field trip.’
I look away from his navy stare, deep and dark and full of promises.
The physical kind.
That’s where my focus needs to be honed. On where we began, and the reasons why. Perhaps if I can get back there, the tumultuous feelings in me will disappear. But I suspect Kit’s as dangerous as ever.
Zipping up my backpack and tossing it over one shoulder, I say, ‘What’s the assignment?’ The sight of a spectacular Kit slouched casually against the wall with a regal Bob at his heels scrambles my already threadbare wit. Who needs models when Kit is around, all brooding, untouchable masculinity?
‘Off the Guidebook offers a weekend trip to a winery on Jersey. Ever been?’
I shake my head, my mind tripping over itself with the timing. It’s past noon. Will it be an overnighter? My chest tightens as the fizz of adrenaline builds, even as I tell myself it’s not a good idea.
The hesitation must show all over my heated face, because Kit adds another layer of inducement, as if spending time alone with him isn’t temptation enough. Even if our time is running out.
‘We’re taking Bob.’
I raise my brows, about to ask if dogs are allowed on planes. But they probably are on private aircraft and... Kit is all the permission required.
I’m still prevaricating, battling myself and the crazy flights of fancy my mind conjures. I give free rein to my fidgeting.
Come home with me.
When he steps up behind me I close my eyes, my body swaying. I stiffen my muscles, preventing me from leaning back into his solid chest.
He’s close, his breath on my neck. My stomach clenches—close, but not close enough.
‘It’s work, Mia.’
My stomach drops like I’m on a roller coaster. I open my eyes, the room coming back into focus. Of course, he’s right—it’s part of my job. There’s no question.
‘Plus...’ his voice drops and the fabric of his jacket brushes against my bare arms ‘...you’ll soon be done. Your work for us completed...’
Yes. This is the reminder I needed. For Kit, I’m work. Temporary. A distraction. All he can be to me.
Liar.
I stare until my eyes burn at a peaceful watercolour on the wall at the far end of the spa reception area to stop myself from turning into his chest.
He can’t be my comfort, my consolation. I’m a big girl. Self-reliant, same as always.
His next statement makes me smile and snaps me from the heavy turn of my thoughts.
‘Bob’s really looking forward to it.’
He doesn’t need to coax me, he could simply wave my contract in my face and insist. I capitulate, clinging to the fact it’s work, probably the last pla
ce I’ll film before I leave.
‘Did you just anthropomorphise your dog?’
He shrugs with a grin that flips my belly. Then he takes my elbow, hefts my backpack onto his shoulder, crumpling his immaculate suit, and whistles for Bob.
The flight takes an hour. Kit regales me with details of the winery we’re to visit and the history of Jersey, the largest of the Channel Islands between England and France, and the beauty of the beaches.
Before we land Kit changes into jeans and a T-shirt so that when the car pulls into the gravel driveway of the boutique winery he lifts my backpack from the boot, instructs our driver to have the remaining luggage delivered to our rooms and, taking my hand, whistles for Bob and turns for the nearby cliffs.
‘I thought you might be missing the beaches of home.’ He keeps his stare focussed on the horizon, as if his thoughtful admission leaves a bad taste in his mouth. ‘This one is private and quite stunning, and Bob needs a walk.’
‘Great. Come on, Bob.’ I slip my fingers from his—I’d been enjoying them there too much and need to wean myself off—and trot ahead down the winding, sandy cliff path behind the excited dog.
The bay, a secluded inlet, is exquisite, backdropped by the pink and orange tinges of the setting sun. Kit arrives at my side and hands me my backpack with a smile, before I’ve even had a chance to ask for it, as if he knows I’m itching to capture the views. Within seconds I’ve fitted the harness and camera to Bob and set up my digital SLR with a wide-angle lens.
Bob bounds into the gently lapping surf at one end of the bay in pursuit of the small pebbles Kit skims across the surface, while I take some photos of the view at the opposite end. But the beauty of the setting sun can’t compete, and my focus is quickly drawn to the man and his dog frolicking at the water’s edge.
My bare feet pivot in the damp sand as I grab my second camera, adjust the shutter speed and fire off shot after shot, unseen. The evening sun glints off the water, Bob’s sleek coat is dark and soaked as he jumps and runs back and forth, but it’s Kit who draws my eye, holds it captive and burns his image there for all of time. Because he’s laughing. Joyous, delighted, head thrown back in laughter as he rough-houses with Bob, his jeans, even his T-shirt, getting splashed over and over again while he selects a new pebble to throw.
With every click of the camera, my heart beats faster until it feels like it’s trying to climb out between my ribs. I taste salt on my tongue and realise my mouth is open.
I return my cameras to my bag and stride towards him, my feet acting on instinct, as if Kit’s a magnet and I’m little more than a pile of iron filings, as fine as the sand and held together by unseen forces.
He turns at the last second, catching sight of me, his face split into the beatific beam he wore in his portrait with Laura and Bob—eyes alight from within, a deep groove on one side of his beautiful mouth and his hair lifted by the breeze. I expect the smile to slide from his handsome face as I place my bag on the dry sand, but it stays there, only morphing into something hotter, more licentious, when he guesses my intentions.
As I reach him, his arms come around my waist and I stretch up on tiptoe and grip his face between two palms. And then our mouths are lost to our kiss—smiling, talking, even breathing forgotten.
Before I’m even aware I’ve moved, he’s hoisted me up and my legs are wrapped around Kit’s waist while I kiss the life from him. Kit carries me, stumbling a few paces to the dry sand dune behind, before laying me on my back and following me down until his body covers mine.
I switch off my thoughts, my doubts, my fears and just feel. His hip bones dig into my thighs, sand trickles down the neck of my T-shirt and marram grass tickles my cheek. But I claw at Kit’s T-shirt, my mouth never leaving his, desperate now to prolong this moment. Just us. This. Now. Kit and Mia. No past to regret and no future to fear.
Kit’s ice-cold fingers snake under my shirt and I squeal. He laughs, his cool lips moving over mine while he mumbles an apology against my mouth. I’ve just released the fly of his jeans when a shower of salty spray leaves us both shrieking and breaking apart. Bob drips water over us as he wags his tail, and jumps up and down, keen for the game of fetch to continue.
I clamp my hand over my mouth, stifling hysterics at Kit’s expression, which is one of frantic coitus interruptus. His eyes dart around the deserted beach as if problem-solving a way to continue what we’ve started, and then he braces himself over me, a defeated grin replacing the very turned-on man of seconds ago.
‘I can’t perform while he watches.’ He kisses me again through my sniggering. ‘And I don’t want my arse licked during proceedings.’ His hot stare, full of promise, the return of that smoulder he’s so good at, ends my fit of mirth. ‘To be continued.’ His voice is gruff and I can barely speak, I want him so badly.
Playful, jovial Kit.
A man I’ve inadvertently fallen for.
Stupid, reckless Mia...
We right our clothing, throw a few more stones for Bob and head back up the coastal path. This time I let him have my fingers, luxuriating in his warm palm sliding against mine. Who knew hand-holding, an activity I’ve always associated with teenage crushes, could imbibe my entire body with gooey heat and leave me craving Kit’s arms, his touch, his kiss? So this is what it feels like to...fall.
The surge inside me on the beach when I saw Kit’s unguarded expression of joy hit me like a tidal wave. I want that for him. Every day. And I want to be the one to put that look on his face.
But some wants aren’t meant to be...
Back at the hotel, with Bob handed over to the accommodate-anything staff, there’s no question I’m following Kit to his suite, even though he’s reserved me my own room. Within seconds of the door softly closing we’re naked and plastered all over each other. My mouth is frantic on his, as if kissing him will silence those questions still filling my head and the dead-end feelings stealing my breath.
He never made me any promises. Not one. When I walk away, I can do so without regret. But for now, I’m still here.
I’m still kissing him like there’s no tomorrow but at every turn Kit slows things down, dictating the pace as if demanding more from every touch, every look, every whispered moan. By the time he finally pushes inside me, I can no longer hold in the sob that escapes me, hiding it inside a cry to prevent giving myself away.
This I can feel. The chemistry. The euphoria of us together, physically, all it can ever be between us—an unavailable man and a commitment-phobic woman.
With one hand braced on the pillow beside my head, he cups my cheek with the other, his fingers tangling in my hair as he leans low to kiss me before he rocks into me again and again. I come with his eyes on mine, his hand cupping my face and a searching look shining from his heated eyes. He finishes and collapses on top of me with a loud groan, his face buried in my neck while he pumps through the last of the tremors.
My heart rate should be settling but adrenaline kicks in, the usual urge to flee shunting it sky-high once more. Kit rolls onto his back, his arm pillowing his head as he stares at the ceiling and recaptures his breath.
I must have made some tiny movement, because his free hand jerks out and his palm settles, warm and detaining on my belly.
‘Stay.’
A single word. A demand, but soft, heartfelt.
My throat burns, the only words I’ll allow searing nerve endings as they emerge. ‘Why? We’ve talked about this. This isn’t a relationship.’
Is it...? Tell me what this is...what it might be...
I hold my breath.
His fingertips trace a hypnotic path on my skin, the pleasure of his touch bordering on too close for comfort. Too intimate. Because he’s silent still.
Then he presses his lips together, determined. ‘This is a relationship, Mia.’ His voice is low, a look in his eyes that makes breathing impossible.
And just like the first day I met him, I’m powerless against the pull of his force field.
Can I risk this? A one-off indulgence? A goodbye gift to myself? So when I walk away at least I’ll know I gave my all, even if I couldn’t tell him what I’m beginning to suspect.
Kit’s lips skate over my temple, his soft sigh gusting through my hair. ‘I wake up with your scent all over me, my pillow, my sheets, and no you.’ He cups my face, his thumb gliding over my cheek. ‘Please, just stay...’
I’m already too attached. To his country, his rare smile, even his damn dog. But I swallow down the tightness in my throat and nod, powerless to the Kit effect.
We shower together, soaping every inch of skin without conversation. Over a room-service dinner we watch an old movie, our hands entwined between us on the bed.
Later, with the room in darkness, I lie next to Kit, my breathing shallow and my heart racing, so far from sleep. Sharing Kit’s bed is as bittersweet as I’d feared. I grew up wondering where I belong, but I know with certainty I can’t ever belong here.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Kit
I WAKE WITH Mia’s head on the pillow next to me, a hot kick of satisfaction delivering more than lust to my gut.
She stayed. All night.
I hold my breath, acclimatising to the ring of triumph roaring in my head. My stare traces the freckles across her nose, so many that I’m certain I’ve spied a handful of new ones I’ve never seen before. I follow the constellations past the dark crescents of her thick lashes to her cheeks, an ancient astrologer scanning the beauty of the cosmos.
She must sense me looking, because I’ve deliberately kept my body still and my breathing shallow but her eyes pop open and land on mine. Her cheeks flush and she clears her throat, as if she’s embarrassed to be caught snoozing.
