by Jane Linfoot
‘And you’re how old?’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘And you’ve been doing it since you were…’
‘Nine. Maybe younger.’ He watched her nod her head, saw her nostrils flare in silent surprise. Or was it horror.
‘Wow. You really are institutionalised.’ She chewed on her toast, thoughtfully.
‘That’s one way of putting it.’ Something about her earnest concern diluted the insult, and had his lips twisting into a wry smile.
‘And when do people stop?’
A casual question, requiring a simple answer. No need for his heart to drop two feet into his gut and start panic-jumping.
‘Most cyclists carry on as long as possible and when they’ve achieved all they can, they make the choice to retire.’ Saying it like this, like he was talking about other people made it sound a breeze. He missed out the bit about the fear that gnawed at his gut in the wakeful early hours when he remembered that the choice of when to retire might yet be wrestled away from him, that he was going to need a whole load of luck and more to even get back into racing at all. He took a large gulp of coffee to hide the fact his palms were sweating at that thought and clocked Bryony’s eye-roll across the top of his cup. Some trouble was better pre-empted.
‘Okay, what now?’
‘Nothing.’ She twitched her lips. ‘It’s just funny that you were the one telling me to lighten up, when it seems like you’re the one who needs to.’ Her twitch spread into a full blown grin. ‘Plus, I’m wondering how you ever found time to earn that dreadful reputation of yours…’
Bang. She’d nailed him to the spot, simply by raising one querying eyebrow. For a second he wriggled under the scrutiny, then he bounced free.
‘I’m truly dedicated to whatever I set my mind to, and there were times I was hell-bent on going wild.’ And then some. Not that he was going into that now. He let out a chuckle, partly at the way her mind was working, but mostly at the brainwave that just came crashing into his head. ‘And right now I’ve decided to dedicate myself to relieving you of your administrative duties. That way you get to learn to chill and at least one of us comes out of this thing better off.’
And he got to keep Princess Bossy-Pants off his case. Pure poetry. Granted, it had taken him a couple of days to get the measure of her, but now he had, he was winning all the way.
‘Excuse me?’
There was something astonishing about how wide she opened her eyes when she’d been knocked off her game. He ignored that it made his pulse gallop.
‘We’re only organising a few routes for your programme. I can handle it from here, leaving you free to concentrate on enjoying yourself.’
One silent coup from him, and he braced himself for the explosion. And waited. He narrowed his eyes, scoured her face for a clue. No reaction at all. Not even the give-away flare of a nostril. Should that worry him?
‘Okay Jackson. That’s fine by me, if you’re sure?’ If anything, her mouth was lilting, almost as if she were trying not to laugh. ‘So, it’s over to you then. What are you suggesting?’
She tilted her head expectantly. Was she enjoying his eyes popping in surprise?
He floundered for a moment. Not often that he was at a loss for words.
‘As I see it, we’ve got two weeks to sort out some rides. There’s a lot to go at here on the south coast; I know the area so I can wing it. I’ll sort where we stay as we go. Only three rules. No hotels, no camper vans. And we have to have a hell of a good time.’
‘Wing it?’
He wasn’t sure if that squeak was scepticism, excitement, or Princess Cherry having a full-blown seizure.
‘In two weeks we should have enough material to pitch and that’ll still give us time to film before I go back to full-time training.’ If he said it fast enough he could almost convince himself the last bit was going to happen. ‘All good?’
He made a grab for the low-fat muesli and rattled some into a bowl. Concentrated the power of positive thinking in as many places as it was needed.
‘Sounds perfect.’
Not a hint of mockery in that cherry-lipped smile she turned on him. And, more surprising still, no argument. Yet from somewhere he got the feeling she was only stepping back to measure out enough rope for him to hang himself.
Chapter 23
‘So today worked out okay, didn’t it? A ride on Dartmoor sorted, a drive down the coast, a serious shopping opportunity, water-side dinner, and now a wander round a picture-postcard Cornish village?’
They were picking their way along beside the pretty white-washed shops and houses in the last splashes of the evening sun, dodging the sunburnt tourists in surf-shorts, very carefully not bumping shoulders with each other. And why the hell he was hell-bent on seeking her approval, he had no idea.
‘Mmmm, fab day Jackson. And later I can sit and finalise my notes for the route.’ She bit into the chocolate flake of her ice-cream cone, then tidied up the chocolate crumbs. She was still obsessed with work then, even when he’d wrestled the decision-making away from her.
‘So, how do your sneakers feel, now you’re walking in them?’ He was almost gazing over her head now she was a good five inches shorter. Increasing his height advantage might seem like a marginal gain, but when you were tussling an opponent like Cherry Bomb every little counted.
‘Flat.’ She surveyed her rolled-up jean bottoms dismally, squinted at her new Converse with a critical eye, as she chased an escaping dribble of ice-cream. ‘Scarily flat, and difficult to walk in after heels, although now they’re on they are a very classy shade of grey.’
Now he’d heard it all. ‘We’re in Cornwall, surf paradise. Jimmy Wangs are hardly practical for the beach, are they?’
‘Today’s were Christian Louboutins.’ She shot him a disparaging eye roll, as if he should know the difference. ‘And I’m not really a practical girl, in case you hadn’t noticed. Although, like Ginger Rogers, I can manage most things in heels, backwards if need be. But you’re right – the salt on the beach would have spoiled them, so thanks. But don’t forget the deal. I’m only wearing sensible shoes if your van gets glammed up – as soon as we see a shop with bunting, I’m buying some. And next time, by the way, I’m going to insist you have an ice cream when I do, and a cupcake.’
He took a deep breath, listened to the chink of the rigging banging on the masts of the boats moored along the harbour edge in an effort to give his eardrums a rest, and made a superhuman effort not to wilt under the onslaught. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of a shop doorway, festooned with flapping fabric. He shuddered and quickened his pace. Why the hell was he wasting time on marginal gains when it was obvious he needed something way more major?
A sudden iron-grip thrusting on his forearm made his legs veer across the cobbles like they belonged to someone else. ‘Steady on. Where are we going now?’
‘Don’t act like you don’t know.’ She stared up at him indignantly.
Now she’d lost those heels their eyes were nowhere near level. Her looking up at him was a whole new experience which, in theory, should give him the advantage. This he could get used to. Up was good. Although, it wasn’t proving that effective as a Bryony-blocking tool. She was still on his case.
‘If you take off your flashy cycling sunnies, Jackson, you’ll see we just walked right past a bunting shop. Come on. Judging from all the pretty stuff that’s hanging outside, your van is one transaction away from the most fabulous make-over ever. No eating in the shop, though, so I need to finish this.’ She rammed what remained of her cone into her mouth, rubbed the crumbs off her lips, and brushed her hands together.
And what if he happened not to want a make-over? What then? For a second he raked his fingers through his hair, contemplated resisting. Then a sharp thrust in the small of his back propelled him forwards, and a yard later he landed in ditsy-print-central, in a space so confined he had to clamp his arms hard against his body to fit. Then two seconds later Cherry Bomb
arrived right beside him, and filled his personal exclusion zone with woman scent so reminiscent of that other night by the sea that it made his head go fuzzy.
‘So. Did we have a deal?’ Jackson pushed his shades up onto his head and forced his face into a grin. Some things weren’t worth fighting; you simply had to work with them, woozy head and all.
‘We certainly did.’ The smile she swished up to him was pure pleasure, and not in the least triumphant. But something about her clear, unguarded enthusiasm set his alarm bells ringing. Open, honest women were part of why he had his one night only policy. Open and honest went with high expectations, an immediate ability to empathise and the tendency to bond – although not in a good way. Clingy women who stuck like glue were his nightmare scenario. To be avoided at all costs.
‘Come on, Jackson. Let’s shop!’
Her excited cry bounced off the ceiling, despite the damping effect of a thousand quilts and cushions, stacked high, waiting to be bought. Unnervingly uncomfortable, the way it made his stomach clench, and nothing to do with retail excitement either. He gritted his teeth, hardened his resolve, and blocked the fleeting thought that she’d bent to his will all day. Maybe he’d misread her bossy domineering side. Definitely dismissing that one. She was ahead of him now, dipping, delving, whooping like a child. His credit card may be in for a meltdown, but he had to be sure to keep his libido on ice and stay far away from Cherry Bomb. For the sake of both their sanities.
‘You know I can’t see a damn thing out of the windows with these flags hanging everywhere. I know it’s only heather and more heather, but a view would be good.’
Bryony let out a sigh as Jackson slung himself into his seat, slammed the door and peered into the rear-view mirror. They were back in the middle of moorland nowhere again and it was her fault for stuffing up earlier, and failing to get all the pictures they needed.
‘You don’t think you’re overreacting? It’ll be dark soon, then you won’t be able to see anyway.’ She was determined to jolly him along, rather than argue. In retrospect, she had overbought on the bunting – the stripes and flowers were so pretty she hadn’t been able to resist – but no way was she going to admit that. Admission of anything was a sign of weakness that Jackson would pounce on and take advantage of, and if it meant her getting her way when Jackson didn’t, well, so much the better. She wasn’t quite sure how he was doing it, but this far he was making a good job of doing just what he pleased at her expense. And what was worse, the louder she complained, the better he seemed to get at outwitting her. Shutting up and fighting him by any means other than head-on had seemed like her only hope. And even though she wasn’t naturally an antagonistic person, she was ashamed to admit to herself that the bunting driving Jackson around the bend was a huge incentive for her to big it up. Desperate times and all that.
‘A guy has a right to see out of his own van windows without being obstructed by daisy print.’ His fingers hammered on the steering wheel. ‘As for these…’ He threw a disparaging snort at the flower garlands hanging in the windscreen. ‘We’re not in Hawaii.’
‘No, Jackson, and to quote someone not a million miles away, “We’re in Cornwall, surf paradise”. Where you’re supposed to hang loose? That’s what the garlands are about. And seeing how you’re the one who’s always telling me to lighten up, you might like to take your own advice on that, because from where I’m sitting you’re the one who needs to.’
By way of reply he shot her a look, one long smouldering disapproving stare that made her take a mental grip on her panties. She dragged on her own seatbelt and made herself look anywhere but at his lean tanned hands. Insides melting over some guy’s sexy thumbs was not a good place to be.
‘Thanks for doing the detour anyway. We were lucky to get the shots before the rain started, but I can’t think how I missed those crucial pictures this afternoon.’ Except she could. Totally unable to keep her mind on the job because snogging Jackson last night had blown her concentration skywards. She added blatant lying to the ever-growing list of today’s bad deeds and tore her eyes away from Jackson’s hands as he took his phone out of his pocket and tossed it onto the dashboard. ‘Who’d have thought it would get dark so fast?’
‘Just bad luck we had to come back to the remotest part. Not to worry, we all screw up sometimes.’ He flashed her a grin through the dusk. ‘These little moorland roads are slow to drive on. It feels wild and remote. There’s no phone signal, but we’re probably not much more than an hour from the house.’
And phew to that. Sixty short minutes, then she could get some distance.
‘Great.’ Her eyes snagged on his T-shirt as he reached forward to the ignition key, slid to catch the slice of bare skin at the base of his back. She gave herself a mental jolt as her mouth watered. Dribbling over a guy? Really not so great.
She watched him turn the key, waited for the engine to roar into life. She heard one small click. Nothing more.
Jackson cursed. ‘Damn thing.’ He tried again. Nothing. ‘What the hell…?’
He flung open the door, jumped down, then she heard him open the engine bay at the back of the van. He banged about for a few minutes, then jumped back into the driver’s seat.
‘Everything okay?’ She breathed in the smell of wet man.
‘It’s the ignition.’
‘Right.’ As if that told her anything, but he didn’t sound too concerned.
‘Probably linked to the battery.’ He gave a sniff, swiped the rain off his forehead. ‘Common problem, happens all the time, goes with the territory. It’s why you see so many of these vans on the back of recovery vehicles.’
‘What?’ She tried to keep her voice level. ‘We’re on a tiny lane in the middle of nowhere, it’s almost dark, I can’t remember when we last saw a house, or even a car, and there’s no phone signal. What are we going to do?’
‘No need to panic. I’ll give her another try.’
‘Great.’ She tried for sincere, not ironic, held her breath as he went for the key again.
One click instead of the roar of the engine sent her heart into free fall. The next click it went plummeting past her knees.
‘Nope. It’s completely dead. That’s not going anywhere. ’ He leaned back in his seat, grabbed a handful of hair.
Oh, shit, this couldn’t be happening. ‘So?’
He blew out a long sigh. ‘Good thing you bought those covers. I’m sorry, Cherry Bomb. I’m going to have to go back on the no camping promise, just for tonight. On the upside, you get to try the rock and roll bed.’ He gave a wry grimace. ‘Probably best to go for help when it gets light – don’t you think?’
She sat, listening to the rain drumming on the roof. A night in a van, with a guy who was driving her crazy on all fronts? A rock and roll bed? Shudders on all fronts for those things. On the other hand, why was Jackson asking what she thought? That had to be the silver lining to this cloud.
She flipped off her shoes, drew her legs up underneath her, and counted how many hours until dawn.
Chapter 24
‘Oh, my.’ Bryony wriggled a stiff shoulder, pulled on a corner of quilt, and eased one eye open. Registered the blinds at the van windows were pale with light.
Top to tail. Last night it had sounded like a fool-proof method. And back to back. The best arrangement to fit two tall people into the space available, and more importantly, to ensure a contact-free night’s sleep for both of them. Safe as houses, seeing as she’d planned to stay awake anyway and wrap herself in a ton of quilts to make a job of it. But if she was waking up now, that meant she must’ve been asleep, and it had to be morning because there was enough light for her to see exactly what she was using as a pillow. Inky blue denim, just like Jackson’s…
Crap! She was lying on him! And where she was lying couldn’t be worse.
Cheek crushed onto his crotch?
As her stomach disintegrated, she snapped her airways shut. If she stopped breathing she would move less, and maybe his man-
scent wouldn’t make her head spin so much. Man-scent. That’s what she could smell. Soap and musk. And even though she’d been here all night it was still registering. Playing havoc with her hormones too if her sticky pants were anything to go by.
‘Oh, crap, again.’ It was going to take a damn good plan to get her out of this one. Judging by the gentle snoring, Jackson was still dead to the world. With luck and a following wind, if she only moved her eyes, she could assess the awful geography of the situation, then extricate herself whilst he slept, as long as her thumping heart didn’t wake him first.
She shifted the tiniest bit to get a better view. Jackson was lying flat out on his back, one bent arm thrown out above his head at the other end of the bed. Her heart skipped a beat when she watched him lying all vulnerable. And she was oh-so-cosily curled, knees by his ribs, elbow wedged in the valley between his thighs, face gently resting on the oh-so-comfy cushion of his genitals. How the heck that had happened, she had no idea. Achingly, deliciously comfy? She banished that thought before she’d even had it. Listening to the slow, regular rhythm of his breathing, she began to push herself up on her elbow. Slowly, slowly.
‘Cherry Bomb?’ Jackson’s voice was deeper than usual.
She jerked as his hand landed on the side of her head. At first the weight locked her down, then, as she stopped fighting against the pressure, the touch merged into a caress that sent shivers down her spine.
‘Jackson.’ The denim bulge under her chin was hardening, as his erection rocketed into life. Not that it was his fault. He hadn’t asked to be woken up by a harpy head-banging his privates. Her gaze slid across the tanned skin of his stomach, the gap below his T-shirt, followed the trail of hair that started at his navel, and descended. The waistband of his jeans hung slack across the hollow between his hip bones. What the hell kind of an excuse could a girl make for this? Clever and witty fell by the wayside, as all she could find was lame. ‘This is not what it looks like.’
