The Runaway Ex
Page 1
Cover
Title Page
The Runaway Ex
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Shani Struthers
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Omnific Publishing
Los Angeles
Copyright Information
The Runaway Ex, Copyright © 2014 by Shani Struthers
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
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Omnific Publishing
1901 Avenue of the Stars, 2nd Floor
Los Angeles, California 90067
www.omnificpublishing.com
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First Omnific eBook edition, December 2014
First Omnific trade paperback edition, December 2014
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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
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Struthers, Shani.
The Runaway Ex / Shani Struthers – 1st ed
ISBN: 978-1-623421-46-5
1. England—Romance. 2. Relationships—Fiction. 3. Miscommunication—Romance. 4. Friendship—Fiction. I. Title
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Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna
Dedication
This book is dedicated
to the Runaways themselves—Layla, Joseph, Penny,
Richard, Hannah, and Jim—a great bunch of characters
that remain close to my heart.
Chapter One
“SO, THAT’S IT, you’re just going to walk away? After all we’ve been through.”
“I’m not walking, I’m running—as far as I can get.”
“But I thought we had something, something real.”
“We did, until you took the ‘real’ and trampled all over it.”
“But…”
“There’s no ‘but.’ There’s no anything anymore.”
Turning on her heel, Layla Lewis strode across the floor of her studio flat. As she reached the door, intending to hurl herself through it, she burst out laughing. Thank God the angst being played out was purely in the realms of fiction—scenes being “rehearsed” from the book she was writing to check whether or not they worked.
From behind her, she heard a loud harrumph.
“And now you’re laughing. I’m in pain here, serious pain, and you’re laughing.”
She whirled round to face her boyfriend. “Joseph, that’s not part of the scene. We’re done.”
“But it could be,” he said, quickly closing the gap between them. “It works.”
Layla pushed at him playfully. “I’ve told you, no more words. She’s too busy storming out of his life.”
“Because of a misunderstanding?”
“Because of a misunderstanding,” she confirmed.
Joseph shook his head ruefully.
“If people talked to each other more, misunderstandings wouldn’t happen.”
“If people talked to each other, I wouldn’t have a book,” Layla pointed out. “Besides which, it’s not that black and white. Some things aren’t.”
Joseph looked at her again, a slight frown creasing his features. “I suppose.” Eventually he shrugged his shoulders. “Anyway, it’s a lucky escape, I reckon.”
“For her? I know.”
“I meant the poor bloke.”
She shoved him a little bit harder.
“I’m joking, I’m joking,” he said, holding his hands up in mock supplication. “I just wanted to see you all fired up again. You look bloody sexy when you’re fired up.”
“Stop it. You’ve got work to get to, and I’ve got a laptop to pound.”
“Lucky laptop,” he said, sighing long and low. “What chapter are you on?”
“Twenty-three. I’m over halfway through now.”
“Fame and riches will soon be ours.”
“Or a whole stack of rejection letters. It’s hard to get a book published nowadays.”
“Have faith, Layla. You’re good, really good.”
“Your trust in me is touching.”
“My trust in you is absolute.”
“I’m good at other things too, though, aren’t I?” She couldn’t help it; his close proximity was making her feel coquettish.
“Probably, but I can’t think what else right now.”
Before she could hit him for a third time, Joseph pulled her close for one last kiss—one last lingering kiss—a vivid reminder of what had transpired that morning.
“I suppose we could practice just a little bit more…” she said upon release.
“The reunion scene?” His voice was just as husky as hers.
“I’m not sure there’s going to be a reunion yet.”
Joseph reared back. “Whoa! So, it’s a serious misunderstanding?”
“As serious as it gets.”
Joseph looked almost sad at the prospect, sad and then mischievous. “Well, if I was him, I wouldn’t let her go. I’d show her what I was made of.”
Before she could even think of arguing further, she was back on the bed, what few clothes she had on rapidly discarded. His lips, his tongue, his hands ran the length and breadth of her body—patiently, impatiently, and then patiently again. What should she do? Reciprocate? Or just lie there, her arms above her head, in a state of wanton abandon? The wanton abandon option appealed—she had taken the lead earlier, pushing him back against the pillows, her inner dominatrix coming to the fore. It was his turn now, or her turn, depending on which way you looked at it. She’d revel instead in his touch, the hands that knew which buttons to press at exactly the right time; there was one button in particular that right now he seemed to be deliberately avoiding.
“Oh, Joseph,” she murmured, the impatient one. Press the damn button!
“All in good time,” he whispered back, reading her mind as well as her body.
So close, too close—she tried to hold off. Concentrated on other things instead—the sound of the city outside. Florence was coming to life around them, heat rising from the pavement as it was rising in her. Hustle and bustle, to and fro, car horns beeping, people yelling to one another, sometimes in greeting, more often in temper. The Italians, they were a passionate lot. Their love and lust for life was ingrained not only in them but also in the buildings that surrounded them, in the air itself. A passion that was all consuming; certainly it had consumed her. Correction, was consuming her.
“Ahh…”
But still his hands were nowhere near where she thought they should be. First it was her breasts being caressed, then her buttocks, and then it was featherlight fingers, trailing oh so slowly down to her stomach, lingering at her hip bone, reaching her thigh, her inner thigh. Now was when he’d get down to business. He’d start to move farther inward—she held her breath, feeling like she couldn’t breathe at all. He stopped. Why the hell had he stopped? Oh come on, come on, she urged, but silently. At last his hands started moving again. That’s it. Good boy. Keep going, just a little bit farther. Just a…What? No! Not that way again.
Layla’s eyes popped open. She’d been so busy concentrating…savoring…anticipating…but now she stared accusingly at him. And that’s what did it. His face was directly above hers; his blue eyes boring deep, deeper than he could ever go physically, touching a part of her that only he had the power to reach.
“Ahhhhhhhh.”
It was over, without the need to press anything.
“When my hands stop shaking, perhaps.”
“Just your hands?”
“Not quite.”
Detangling from her, Joseph sat up. Still reclining, she studied him. His blond hair had lightened in the almost incessant sunshine in Florence, their home for the last year. In Trecastle, a small village in North Cornwall, where they had both been living previously, it had been much darker. It was still long, though, still flopping over those azure eyes of his, obscuring them sometimes but tantalizingly so.
“What time will you be back tonight?”
Layla glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The entire morning was hers to write, but she would need to be at La Pasticceria Barontini, the bakery where she worked on a part-time basis, by three o’clock for the afternoon shift.
“Around seven, I think,” she said eventually.
“That late?” He sounded disappointed. In the restoration workshop where he worked alongside master craftsman Paolo Rossi, honing and improving his already considerable carpentry skills, the preference was to start early and finish early.
“If you’re home first, you can cook,” she chanced.
“I cooked last night.” His protest was immediate. “And the night before.”
“Oh, all right, all right. I’ll cook, but something quick and easy, though.”
“Fine by me.” He leaned in to steal another kiss. “I like quick and easy.”
“Get to work,” she replied, ignoring the double entendre.
“I will, but first I need to shower.” Looking at her meaningfully, he added, “And so do you.”
“Oh no.” She was the one who could read minds now. “That shower, it’s not built for two.”
“So, two become one, simple.”
“Joseph…”
“Get in there, now.”
As much as he loved her fieriness, she loved it when he was masterful. Giggling, she rose from the bed and ran naked across the room, Joseph striding purposefully after her.
Chapter Two
THE LATE MARCH SUN was just about perfect, bright but not blindingly so. There was a time when Tara had adored the hot caress of that big, bold ball of fire in the sky, but now she preferred cooler weather. Maybe in recent years she’d had too much of a good thing. Coming to a standstill, she spied a café with several empty tables outside it. Making her way over, she sat down. A waiter appeared immediately.
“What would you like, madam?”
He had an English accent, not Italian. Tara was disappointed. She hadn’t come to Italy to hear English accents. She’d hear those soon enough.
Barely glancing at the menu, she answered, “Cappuccino please,” not caring that in Italy, cappuccino was considered very much a breakfast coffee. She had decided that from now on, she could damn well have what she liked, when she liked.
As the waiter sauntered back to the kitchen, Tara relaxed, or relaxed as far as it was possible to do on an aluminum chair with no cushion to soften its hardness. Looking around her, she smiled. Florence. She was finally here, in a city she had always wanted to visit but had never made the time to. She had been in Rome too, just a couple of days before, and prior to that, Venice, both of which were also on her list of “cities I really must see.” She enjoyed losing herself in culture, something that hadn’t been in plentiful supply where she had just come from, and, in all honesty, just losing herself. Florence was her last port of call before heading home.
The waiter reappeared with her coffee and one of those dinky amaretti biscuits plonked on the side, small and round with an almond taste. She had developed quite a liking for them recently. Saying thank you, she noticed the waiter had dark, close-cropped hair, similar to Aiden’s. His eyes were as dark as Aiden’s too. Only his build was different. Aiden had a rugby player’s build, solid and strong; the waiter was much slighter. Her hand shook as she picked up her coffee, but she quickly steadied it. She mustn’t think of Aiden. He was the last person she should think of.
Unexpectedly, a tear tumbled over Tara’s lower lashes and raced down her cheek, as though glad to have found escape. She immediately reached up and brushed it away. The café wasn’t overly busy, just a few people sitting here and there. Couples of course; it was always couples in Italian cities, she’d noticed, each respective pair looking longingly into each other’s eyes. If she’d thought she’d gotten away with her show of emotion, however, she was wrong. The waiter was hovering again.
“Sorry, miss,” he said, looking slightly awkward.
Tara glanced up. He looked young, around mid-twenties, younger than she had first thought. Previously, she had put him around the same age as her, thirty.
“I couldn’t help noticing. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she replied, hoping her eyes weren’t shining too brightly, betraying the words she had forced from her mouth. “I’ve got a slight cold, that’s all.” As an afterthought, she added, “Thanks for asking, though.”
It was nice to know he cared, that someone in this big, anonymous city cared.
Instead of leaving, however, he pulled up a chair.
“Hope you don’t mind me resting my feet for a bit. We’re not busy, and the manager, Franco, he’s away on an errand at the moment. Or at least that’s what he calls it, an errand, but he’s not fooling me. What he’s doing is drinking Aperol at someone else’s café, leaving me to run his. The Italians, they love café society.”
Taken aback by his actions and his words, Tara couldn’t quite decide if she did mind him sitting down and talking to her. He hadn’t exactly given her time to mind. Looking at his friendly face, she relented. It wasn’t so bad talking to someone; she hadn’t done so properly since leaving Australia three weeks ago.
“So, you’re from England,” the young man was talking again. “Whereabouts?”
“Erm, er, Cornwall. I’m from North Cornwall, from a small village you’ve probably never heard of. Most people haven’t. It’s called Port Levine.”
The waiter shook his head. “No, I can’t say I have. I’m from the other side of the country, from Whitstable in Kent. What brings you to Florence?”
“Apart from the art and culture, you mean?” she replied, unable to keep a note of sarcasm from creeping into her voice. Softening her answer, she added, “I’m just passing through. I’ve been in Australia for a while now. It’s time to go home.”
“On your own?” the waiter probed.
“On my own,” Tara confirmed.
Holding out his hand, the waiter introduced himself. “My name’s Lucas. I’m a student at The Florence Academy of Art and, as you can see, a part-time waiter too. Glad to meet you.”
“Hi, Lucas. I’m Tara. Glad to meet you as well.”
“Hey, you’re smiling. That’s better. Nobody should be sad in Florence.”
Another couple came in and sat down at the table beside her, and Lucas gestured to Tara with a nod of his head that he had them to attend to. As she watched him take their order, she mulled over his last words to her. He was right. Nobody should be sad in Florence; it was a beautiful city, one of the most beautiful cities she had ever seen, a city that made you feel glad to be alive.
Refusing to allow any more tears free rein, she immersed herself in the scene before her: people rushing to and fro, lights shining from other cafés, from shops and bars too, holding back the dusk. Mentally, she reeled off the sights she’d seen: the Coliseum in Rome, the Doge’s Palace in Venice, the attributes of a certain famous sculpture residing proudly just a few streets away. She’d seen all these things, but she had seen them alone—not quite what she’d envisaged.
She had finished her coffee. Quick to notice, Lucas was by her side again.
“Another one?” he said hopefully.
She had meant to have only the one coffee and then move on, go back to her hotel room and have a sleep before dinner. Perhaps even blow off dinner
altogether; her appetite wasn’t up to much lately, and she was tired. She’d been walking all day, just wandering through back streets, soaking up the atmosphere, the history of ages long gone. But it was pleasant at this café, in this square, and Lucas looked as though he’d genuinely like her to stay, so she acquiesced; another coffee would be fine.
When he returned to her table, he’d included two biscuits this time, not one. His obvious gesture made her laugh.
Sitting back down, he said, “You know, I’ve always wanted to visit Cornwall. Never managed to, though. I’ve been just about everywhere else in the world, but never there. Spent a summer in Australia too, near Sydney. Loved it. Great surf.”
“There’s great surf in Cornwall too,” Tara offered.
“I’m sure. But the weather’s not usually conducive to a dip in the ocean. That’s what I don’t miss about home—arctic temperatures, even in May.”
Tara couldn’t agree. Yes, it rained a lot in England, and okay, temperatures sometimes never got up to speed, but where she came from, it was so beautiful, few places could compete. She remembered lush green countryside, interspersed every now and then with granite rocks and boulders, rolling down to dark, dramatic cliffs that fringed endless stretches of golden, glittering sand. When the sky was blue, it contrasted magnificently against such jeweled tones, a natural work of art no artist could ever hope to capture fully on canvas, no matter how great their talent. When skies were stormy, there was an incredible intensity to them, dark and brooding like the hero in a Brontë novel. As a child, she had loved to watch clouds race across such a sky from the comfort of her parents’ cottage, staring out of the living room window, a log fire burning in the grate, feeling warm and safe inside. That’s what called to her now: that warmth and safety, a need to be protected again, nurtured. And the only place she could feel that was at home.
“Your coffee’s getting cold,” Lucas pointed out.
“Oh, right, yes. Thanks.” Tara took a sip.
“So, you’re swapping Australia for Cornwall. Briefly or permanently?”
Making a deliberate effort to keep her voice steady, Tara replied, “Permanently.”