by Donna Alam
‘I just don’t know . . .’
‘I might be older—by fifteen minutes—but I think he’s doing all of the aging, y’ken?’ he says, squeezing my waist again.
But I don’t ken. In fact, I understand very little right now. ‘There was no other girl for me that day. I mean, I was a bit of a lad, but two girls in the same twelve-hour period would be something to brag about. What I mean is—’
‘You don’t have to explain. Quite frankly, you’re only making this worse.’ Because if he isn’t guilty of being a dick, then it means I’m doubly so.
‘I’ve never led you on, Fin,’ he says soberly. ‘I’m not gonna apologise for—’
‘No.’ I place a finger across his lips, silencing him. ‘That’s not why it’s worse. It’s worse because . . .’ If I thought it uncomfortable to say before, now it’s downright torturous. ‘I’m just going to come out with it. Gonna rip that Band-Aid off fast.’ As I say this, I’m making the motion with my hand, Rory’s confused gaze following.
‘It was good—real good—but afterwards, not so much. I was young and hurt after seeing . . . what I thought I saw. I don’t think I ventured from my bedroom much in the weeks that followed. Don’t look at me like that—I wasn’t to know the truth. Anyway, it was time to grow up, but we were going to have one last fling, Ivy and I, before growing up. I went travelling and in Thailand I met a guy. An older guy.’
‘How old?’ He’s frowning again.
‘Not that old.’ I find myself adding Marcus’ age as Rory’s frown develops into a scowl. ‘A little older. A lot more sophisticated. And I’d decided before I left Scotland I wasn’t—wasn’t going to be like my mom.’
‘I think I see where this is going.’
‘I wish I had. I wouldn’t sleep with him—I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again—and looking back, I think he became infatuated. With me, I mean.’
‘I can see how that would happen,’ he says with a sad smile. ‘So he asked you to marry him?’
I nod. ‘And even more foolishly, I said yes.’
‘No man asks a woman to marry him because he just wants in her knickers. You know that, right?’
‘So maybe he thought he loved me. Maybe I thought I could love him in return.’ My hands are in the air and I’m trying hard not to cry, because the truth is, I was running from my past and Marcus saw me as something to possess. ‘I made stupid assumptions and decisions, doubly so, as it turns out, because it wasn’t even you with that tramp! God, I’m such a fuck up. Ivy’s totally right. I do make stupid, rash decisions.’ I bring my hands up to cover my face, surprised as I’m suddenly flush with his body, his arms banding my back.
‘You should’ve told me.’ My hands slide around his neck, his words rumbling through his chest and into mine. His reaction is so much better than I could ever have imagined, even if this is totally mortifying. And I’ve missed this. Being held. This is what I like best about relationships, I decide. The best thing about men. Right here, like this, being held in strong arms. Arms that would take on the world on your behalf.
‘Can you imagine if I’d told you all this before? Maybe after the cottage?’ The words are muffled against his skin, but not so much that he doesn’t laugh. ‘You’d have thought I was a nut.’
‘Yeah, well you sort of are. You did give me a fake name, after all.’ Ouch . I feel myself physically cringe. ‘I knew there was something familiar about you.’
‘Because we’d met in the salon.’ I tilt back my head to really look at him. ‘Even if you pretended not to remember.’
‘Aye.’ He quirks a brow, kind of wickedly. ‘I told you, I was only playing along with what you wanted. But seriously, I remember thinking that I knew you from somewhere. I was even daft enough to wonder if you were the hotter sister of someone I’d already screw—well.’ He halts. ‘It wasn’t a very sensible thought and probably no’ worth repeating.’
‘And not very flattering.’
‘I mean it,’ he says, laughing softly. ‘It was like déjà vu.’
‘Déjà who the fuck are you, more like.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ he says, holding my face. ‘The elusive blue!’
‘So you remember me?’ I hate how small and hopeful my voice sounds.
‘Jesus wept, woman! ’ he exclaims. ‘I know we’ve had some pretty spectacular sex, but I’m not likely to forget that night. I had’nae shaken so much since I’d lost my own virginity.’
Rory lets out a slow breath, his eyes raking over me, his expression leaving me in no doubt as to where his mind is. This could have gone so many ways given what has passed between us, and the way he’s looking at me is a reaction that gives me hope. Hope that we can do this thing.
‘I’ve thought about that night often.’ His voice is low and gravelly as his hands slip from my face to my shoulders. From my shoulders to my hips .
‘I tried not to for a long time. Mostly I failed.’
‘You were so sweet, Fin. So lovely. Like a ripe peach.’
‘Yeah,’ I say, laughing, as I press my hands against his chest and push. ‘I get the metaphor.’
It’s a weak attempt at movement, but allows his hands to slip under my oversized t-shirt. Skin on skin for the first time in months, I’m not sure whether it’s the brush of his calloused fingers or the look in his eyes that causes my stomach to flip. I sigh, my thighs giving way, pressing me against his lap.
‘You liked the tongue piercing?’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You didn’t have to, you dirty little girl.’ His husky voice and light touches tie my insides in taut, pleasurable knots.
‘I’m not sure you were ever a little boy,’ I say, gently rocking against him.
‘I’m no’ little right now.’ Hands still on my hips, he slides me against the hardness barely concealed by his cotton pyjama pants. ‘And I’m feeling very, very possessive.’
‘Yeah?’ His velvet, seductive tone has me fighting a full body collapse.
‘Yeah. My t-shirt and my shorts.’ he growls. ‘I want them back.’ Suddenly, his fingers push the t-shirt up my body and pluck it from my head. And I’m not wearing anything under there.
‘It’s nice to share.’ My reply is low and throaty, the word pure reflection of his gaze. He looks hungry; like one wrong move and he’d inhale me on the spot.
‘But better to possess. God, you’re so lovely,’ he rasps. ‘You’re so . . .’ His gaze flicks from my chest to my face, my soft sigh drawing off as he leans forward, taking my nipple into his mouth. My whole body shakes, his tongue plucking pure sensation between my legs. ‘So fucking edible ,’ he hums, pushing me backwards and onto the bed.
‘You’re crazy,’ I half speak, half sigh.
‘And you love it,’ he replies, his body poised over mine, his expression an unholy sinful sight.
‘Oh God, I do,’ I say, smiling suddenly. Smiling and fighting back tears as I slide my hands around his neck again. ‘I love it and I love you, Rory.’
‘Don’t say it if you don’t mean it,’ he answers, his expression faltering; becoming serious. ‘You’ve been through so much and I can wait. In your own time.’
‘You don’t get it,’ I say, unable to hold back the flow. ‘My life was such a mess. I loved you, but couldn’t say. I couldn’t even admit it to myself.’
Then he covers me. Covers me with his body and kisses. He kisses my cheeks. My neck. The corners of my mouth. And then he kisses me—wholly. Absolutely. He kisses me like he’s a man possessed and I’m the one responsible.
And if that makes me the devil, I really don’t care.
My heart swells—I’m so full I could quite literally burst. I hold him tight, my hands in the nape of his neck. I’m crying and laughing, and suddenly, I’m staring up into his handsome face as he pulls back.
‘I wasn’t joking,’ he says, his voice strained. ‘I want my shorts back. Get ‘em off.’
Epilogue
Fin
; At the front of the room, Kit taps his champagne glass with a piece of silverware. I still find it disconcerting how much he and Rory look alike at first glance. They both have the same chestnut hair, silver-grey eyes and knife-sharp bone structure, but whereas Rory is quick to smile and has a semi-permanent gleam in his eye, Kit is much more serious. Some would say grave . But he’s just as handsome. Okay, maybe a tiny bit less so than my man. It could be his lack of tattoos, because I’m a big fan these days. I’m in love with Rory’s most recent ink: a pin-up girl complete with Betty Paige bangs, very much like I’m wearing my hair again these days. Pin-up girl is super sexy and sort of provocative; tiny denim cut-offs and a risqué bikini top. She bends from the waist, her head turned coquettishly over one shoulder, her expression almost a dare. I’m not sure if I like that she resembles me best, or the swirling script written above her head. In a blue moon. And it’s not in reference to her ass. As Rory says, a love like ours comes infrequently and we’re lucky to get a second chance.
Back to our Master of Ceremonies, dressed impeccably in Saville Row, as his deep baritone rings confidently across the room.
‘Ladies and gentlemen.’
‘And Natasha,’ sniggers a voice in my ear. Ivy.
‘Shut it, tubby,’ Nat whisper-hisses over me. The giggling to my right morphs into a sharp intake of breath.
‘You . . . you absolute cow!’
‘Better not let June hear you swearing,’ crows Nat.
‘I asked you last week if I looked like I’d put on weight and you said no,’ Ivy whines plaintively. ‘Call yourself a friend?’
‘For the love of—will you two just shut the eff up ?’ I whisper-hiss. ‘I’m trying to listen.’
‘What for?’ they ask simultaneously.
‘Because some of us aren’t here for the free bubbles and canapes.’
Ivy frowns at the wad of used napkins crushed in her hand.
‘No, seriously, what for?’ deadpans Nat.
‘This is a momentous occasion in my boyfriend’s life.’ No need to go into details. ‘And I want to hear what Kit has to say.’
‘Blah, blah, blah. Thanks for coming, now bugger off and eat some grub,’ Nat gripes. ‘Those trays look full of grubs, anyway. I’ll probably need to order room service later.’
‘It looks great, though. Very avant-garde ,’ says Ivy, her gaze scanning the room.
‘She means a bit mad,’ clarifies Nat.
And they’re both right. The room we’re currently standing in is a new extension to the original house, and not so wild. Intended to cater for larger gatherings, it’s a modern yet a sympathetic edition; exposed stone juxtaposed by walls of glass, on one side providing a view to the sand dunes and the ocean beyond, while to the other, an extensive patio and outside fireplace—for those twelve days a year it doesn’t actually rain—and the croquet lawn . . . which will probably only get used by drunk people at the very posh weddings that will eventually be held here.
Like Nat says, very classy, though the main house rocks a different vibe. It still has a country manor house feel, only the kind of country manor you might find the Queen of Hearts holidaying in. Because they’re all mad here . . . The residents bar is painted in hues of orange, pink and gold, and houses around a hundred stag heads hanging from the walls. Stuffed antique ones. Carved wooden ones. Contemporary metal ones. One’s as big as . . . well, you get the picture.
‘Have you seen the bedrooms?’ Ivy asks, shuddering at the heads adorning the walls.
‘Not since they’ve been finished.’
We’d arrived a couple hours ago and Rory had taken our bags straight to our room, via the rather grand staircase, while Kit suggested we order coffee for the three of us. It’s been a stressful time for them both, especially as they have another hotel opening next month. But it’s so great to see the finished place and I’m so happy I’d been able to help plan today’s opening. I’m still employed by the same company, though it’s taken Savannah a couple months to stop glaring green daggers at me. But I suppose if I was going home to Pierce and his Viagra stash, I’d be envious of me, too.
Rory. What can I say? That it’s gotten better with each passing day? Not absolutely true. We still have our ups and downs, like all relationships, but we’re having fun. And we’re in love. And we’re actually dating, as in Rory picks me up at least twice a week like our relationship is brand new. I’d mentioned I’d never really done the whole dating thing, and my man is as accommodating as he is hot.
Oh, and as of last month, I’m unmarried again. Well, divorced. Same thing.
‘When did you see the bedrooms?’ I ask, Natasha’s words belatedly sinking in.
‘When we arrived. I just popped up for a wee keek. Did you know,’ she says, her eyes suddenly sparkling, ‘there’s a room up there called the Master’s Suite.’
‘Yeah, it’s the hotel’s main bedroom.’
‘Well, the name’s pretty apt.’
‘What do you mean?’ I ask, turning to her. ‘Specifically, because that’s the suite Rory and I are staying in tonight.’
‘I’m saying nothin’,’ she says, sniggering. ‘Except maybe it gives off vibes of the red room of pain . I’d say someone’s in for a skelped arse tonight.’
‘Give over,’ scoffs Ivy. ‘It’s not that kind of hotel.’ Her gaze glides to mine. ‘Is it?’
I start to answer, but my attention is drawn by the sudden sound of applause as Kit introduces Rory. Dammit; I missed what he had to say. And this must be an impromptu addition as Rory had said earlier he didn’t want to be involved.
‘Thank you,’ Rory begins. ‘But if I could just ask my lovely partner in crime to come forward. Fin?’ As his eyes scan the crowd I feel myself shrinking into the neck of my dress. ‘That is, if she’s not too busy yammering to her friends back there.’
Warm laughter ripples through the crowd, the modest but select sea of people parting.
‘Go on, then,’ says Ivy, her hand at my back. ‘Go see your man.’
‘Did you know anything about this?’ I whisper through a painted on smile.
She doesn’t answer beyond giving me a sharp push.
Crowds make me nervous these days, but I can focus on Rory . . . while wondering what he’s up to, though it can’t be. Surely not. He’s not going to ask the question he’s asked me at least once a month since we got back together.
He wouldn’t . . . would he? Not in front of all these people.
As I approach the front of the room I can’t help but marvel at what an attractive figure he cuts. He’s hot in jeans and a tee, or what I like to think of as his Mellor’s get-up , but in black Armani he’s absolutely breathtaking. It’s not his fault. It’s just the way he’s made: the sharpness of his cheekbones; his height; the graceful lines of his body; the permanent gleam in his eye.
His slate coloured button-down brings another dimension to his steely gaze; it’s a gaze that means business, along with a whole host of other stuff we won’t get to until the bedroom. The Master’s Suite. Hells bells . . .
As I draw closer, he holds out his hand and brings me to his chest for a brief hug. In his arms, I feel his chest expand in a deep inhale, silent but for the movement of his body against mine.
‘I hate to do this, blue.’
And then it’s my turn to inhale a quick breath, because that term of endearment is strictly for use inside the bedroom.
‘What do you mean?’ I ask as he steps back, without letting go of my hand.
I can feel my mouth gaping back at his smirk as he . . .
. . . begins to lower his body
. . . a hand feeding into the inside pocket of his jacket
. . . goes down onto one knee.
‘Fin,’ he says, a playful smile tugging at his lips. A smile I suddenly want to smack. Then kiss. My hand comes up to my own mouth to prevent my heart from falling from my throat to the ground.
‘Oh, Rory. You’re not—’ Please don’t say he’s doing this—not in
public. We’ve already spoken about this—I told him I wasn’t ready. Sort of.
‘I’m afraid I am,’ he replies, his eyes sparkling with glee. I begin to shake. ‘I’m honoured to be yours,’ he announces, loud enough for more than those nearby to hear. ‘And I know you value your independence. I want you to know that I’ll never take that away from you, but darlin’, I’m tired of traipsing between Waterloo and my place. Put me out of my misery, Fin.’ He begins to pull his hand from his pocket. ‘I was daft enough to let you go the first time. I’m not risking it again.’
There, balanced on his index finger is a keychain; silver and sparkly. ‘I’m going to ask you again. And if you say no, that’s fine. I’ll just ask you another time, and another, until you tell me the words I want to hear. Fin, will you move in with me?’
As a mixture of sniggers and more heartfelt aww’s break out around us, I take the keychain from his proffered finger, folding it into my own.
‘I could murder you right now,’ I say disparagingly. Undeterred, Rory opens his mouth to speak again, but I beat him to it. ‘Yes, Rory. I will.’
‘You will?’ He stands abruptly, hands now on my shoulders as he stares down at me. ‘You make me the happiest—’
‘What’s this hanging from it?’ I lay the keyring flat against my palm, something bright and sparkling catching my eye. It’s beautiful—oh my God, it is, isn’t it?
‘Don’t worry about that,’ he says laughing softly. ‘All at your own pace.’
Oh my God, it is!
How many carats is this thing?
It’s so beautiful . . . and huge!
While my brain tries to process, working on some kind of happiness induced delay, something catches the corner of my vision: a small, dark head weaving through the crowd at such a brisk pace that people are staggering out of her way.
‘Excuse me—excuse me. Would you just ever move! ’ It’s not like Ivy to be so rude as she all but explodes from the room.
Rory takes the opportunity created by my distraction to thread his arms around my waist. ‘You don’t have to wear it,’ he whispers. ‘Not yet.’
