Just one kiss (The Ashcrofts Book 1)

by Anderson, Poppy J.

  When she’d come home the day before and started to search the internet for job listings, his first impulse had been to simply give her the money to pay her bills. It wouldn’t have been a problem to give her some cash or make a quick bank transfer, but two considerations had held him back.

  First, he knew Amy would reject the offer because she was far too independent.

  And, second, he would have been forced to explain where the extra money came from. He didn’t want to tell her another lie, so his only option would have been to finally explain to her that he wasn’t some lowly worker bee. Quite the contrary.

  But how would she have reacted to that? Probably with anger, because he’d been posing as someone he wasn’t for three weeks already.

  Patrick didn’t want to risk alienating her. But, at the same time, he knew she would be more hurt and angry the longer he waited to tell her. His biggest worry right now was how to resolve this dilemma.

  “Whatever you’re planning,” Amy interrupted his spiraling thoughts, leaning over and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek, “I appreciate that you want to treat me to something.”

  He uttered a dry laugh, shifted gears, and winked at her. “Are you about to tell me I’m a romantic again?”

  “Maybe.” Her blue eyes twinkled with glee. “By the way, do you know that you look kind of funny behind the wheel of a Fiat?”

  “Funny?”

  “Yep. Like a freakishly tall kid in one of those plastic cars for toddlers. You know those red and yellow ones everyone had as a toddler?”

  “Just wait till I get out of this.” He yanked on the turn signal, realizing just in time that he needed to take the next exit. “I’ll get you back for that!”

  “Oh no, I’m so scared!” Of course, her giggling belied her words. It warmed his heart.

  “I’m starting to get the feeling you don’t take me seriously.” He pretended to pout.

  “Aw.” She sighed and stretched, which was followed by a yawn, as she was got more comfortable in her seat. “I’m taking you very seriously,” she insisted, sounding genuinely happy, “but I can’t be scared of you. You are a romantic after all.”

  “You have no idea what you’re doing to my reputation.”

  She placed a hand on his thigh and a kiss on his arm, before quietly snuggling up to him.

  They spent twenty minutes like that, Patrick steering the car down ancient country roads, both of them reveling in the landscape around them. Trees in full fruit, rolling fields, and an azure sky overhead were a soothing enough sight, but as they approached the coast and Patrick pulled onto a road that was only partly paved, Amy gasped with delight. The road ran parallel to a deserted stretch of beach with gleaming white sand.

  Amy sat up very straight. “Patrick …” she whispered. Excited, she leaned forward and stared out the window. “We’re going to the beach?”

  Seeing her genuine pleasure, he tenderly explained, “I thought you deserved a little break and some relaxation, baby.”

  “That’s so … sweet of you,” she replied. “Really! I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything,” he replied, his voice soft. “Just enjoy it. We have a small house right on the beach, so we can spend the entire day lounging by the water if you want. And I smuggled your drawing pad into the bag, so if you’re in the mood for that …”

  She was silent for a few moments, but then she took a deep breath. “That has to cost a lot of money, Patrick,” she whispered reluctantly. “I don’t want you spending so much on me.”

  He didn’t acknowledge her concern, pointing at a road sign instead. “Only three more kilometers! If we’re lucky, we’ll be completely alone on our stretch of beach. You know what that means, right?” He waggled his eyebrows with a leer. “Skinny dipping!”

  Fortunately, that seemed to distract her, for she burst into snorting laughter.

  He wanted to keep her from mentioning money again, so for the next five minutes, he pointed out the waves, the beach, clumps of driftwood, and the swell of the dunes. Finally, he stopped in front of a small building—the rental company headquarters—and fetched the key for the small beach house he’d booked only hours before.

  A few minutes later, he parked the tiny car next to a small building that looked like a fishing hut from the outside. Amy squealed with delight as she jumped from the car, and Patrick watched with a smile as she ran around the hood and fidgeted in front of his door, impatient for him to get out as well. She practically dragged him toward the house, and he suppressed a chuckle when she started hopping excitedly, telling him to hurry up with the key.

  “So you like it?”

  “Oh my God, Patrick! I love it!” she cried. “I mean, look at that beautiful beach! And what an amazingly cute house!”

  He’d never seen anyone that excited to see a beach, or that ready to treat a rickety beach hut like a regal palace, even though it had no air conditioning and its furniture was musty. But Amy beamed with pleasure as she stepped out onto the back deck, gazed out at the sea beyond, and then peeked into the kitchen and the adjacent bedroom.

  “It’s so cozy!” she gushed. She pivoted on her heel and wrapped her arms around Patrick’s neck with another squeal of delight. “Nobody has ever done anything this nice for me! Thank you!”

  He studied her pick cheeks and her blue eyes, which were swimming with tears. His throat felt tight. “Well, high time someone did,” he murmured and rubbed his nose against hers. “How about a dip in the ocean?”

  “I didn’t even bring a bathing suit,” she protested with a grin.

  “That was part of my plan,” he replied with a wink.

  Chapter 9

  Amy didn’t want to tell him again, but she felt that Patrick had be the most romantic man in the world, even though he’d deny it fiercely.

  What other man would surprise his girlfriend with a spontaneous trip to the ocean, spirit her away to a lonely beach, and build a campfire at night, where they could sit and munch on the amazing antipasti he’d brought?

  Her belly was full, she was exhausted and happy like never before, and now she was staring into the flames of the fire, lowering her head so he wouldn’t see her satisfied smile.

  After almost three hours in the car, a long day at the beach, and a lengthy bout of sunbathing, she was struggling not to fall asleep right there on the spot. She had feasted on olives, mozzarella, shrimp, prosciutto, and crispy Italian bread, and she felt as protected and at home with Patrick as she had never felt with anyone before. So it really was near impossible not to give in to the urge to close her eyes and drift off.

  “Tell me something,” she said to fight the lethargy.

  “What would you like to hear?” he asked, amusement in his voice. He pressed his lips against her hair.

  “Anything.” She nestled against him. “I just want to listen.”

  “I see.” He chuckled. “So now I’m in charge of bedtime stories?”

  She shook her sleepy head and admitted, “I just like listening to your voice.”

  He gave a surprised laugh. “What?”

  “You could read the phone book to me, as long as I could hear your voice.” She couldn’t fight the feeling that she shouldn’t be telling him stuff like that, but at the moment she was too tired to care. “Hearing your voice makes me happy.”

  He didn’t answer, but Amy wasn’t worried. She took his hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. He sighed deeply and pulled her even closer, which she took as a good sign.

  “Have I ever told you I was in the marching band in high school?”

  That piqued her curiosity and made her forget her tiredness in an instant. “You were in band?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” he said with mock pride. “I was bass drum, even though I secretly wanted to be drum major. Unfortunately, I lacked the discipline necessary for that.”

  Amy couldn’t help herself; she burst into laughter. “Help! My boyfriend played drums in a marching band!
”

  “The big drum,” he pointed out.

  “Help!” she teased again.

  “Hey,” he protested, “we were really good. We came third in state one year.”

  But that only made her laugh harder. “Oh, congratulations!”

  He snorted, which tickled her ear. “Why are you laughing? I looked pretty sexy in my uniform.”

  “I can imagine that.”

  “Yes,” he murmured. “You should have seen the fancy hat I had to wear.”

  “Stop it, Patrick,” she pleaded. “I’m about to pee my pants.”

  “It’s not that funny, really.”

  “Oh, but it is.” Amy tilted her head back to look up at him. Even though she was having fun at his expense, she couldn’t help but notice the starry sky behind him. There could hardly be a more romantic atmosphere than this. “I’d never have guessed you were a band geek in high school. And the bass drum, of all things.”

  “What, did you think I was tone-deaf?” he asked with mild curiosity.

  “No, that’s not it. I just thought of you as more of a basketball kind of guy.”

  “Basketball?” he asked.

  “What’s wrong with basketball?”

  “I like to watch a game now and again, sure. But playing it?” He clucked his tongue. “Not my thing.”

  “Ah, not very athletic, then?”

  “No!” He snorted again. “I was on the swim team. I even swam in college.”

  Amy looked at him with exaggerated admiration. “Wow! Marching band and swim team! You’re a man of many talents.”

  “Yeah, just go on making fun of me,” he scolded her good-naturedly. “I was even picked to do the commencement speech at graduation.”

  “Show-off,” she teased him. “And now you’re going to tell me you went to Harvard, aren’t you?”

  “No,” he replied dryly. “I went to Stanford.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Stanford? Jesus, you must have gotten a major scholarship! I didn’t know you could get scholarships to Stanford for marching band.”

  Amy expected a humorous retort, but instead he merely mumbled something unintelligible and sighed. Then, without a hint of amusement, he said, “I was just lucky.”

  “Getting a scholarship doesn’t usually have all that much to do with luck.” She smiled a little. “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said without envy. “I applied for an art scholarship, but with the high number of applicants each year, I didn’t stand a chance.”

  He cleared his throat. “An art scholarship?”

  “Yeah,” she said with a sigh. “I dreamed of studying at CalArts. It has the absolute best fine art program.” She made a face and shrugged. “In the end, I went to a state school in Oregon, which was the best I could afford with the money I inherited from my mom.”

  “That sounds tough.”

  “Aw, no,” she brushed his concern aside. “It wasn’t half bad. And even if I had gone to school in L.A., I doubt I’d be a famous painter now, with huge exhibitions at famous galleries.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She shrugged again. “Because you need one more thing to do that. Other than a prestigious art school degree.”

  “Which is?”

  “Connections,” she said with a sigh. “If you don’t know someone who knows someone who knows a gallery owner, you don’t get a shot. And since I’m from a small town in North Carolina, and I don’t know any gallery owners or their friends, there won’t be any glitzy shows in my future anytime soon. But that’s okay,” she concluded, sounding surprisingly placid about it.

  “Maybe you should move to New York,” he said, his voice a little hoarse. “The place is packed with galleries.”

  “It’s also packed with other artists,” she pointed out with a small smile. “To be honest, I’m rather content with the way things are now.”

  Patrick made a grumbling sound. “But wouldn’t you be happier if you could work less and paint more?”

  “Sure.” She tilted her head and wrinkled her nose. “It would be awesome if I could focus on painting, but I don’t see how that could ever happen. I’m not failing if I have to make my living as a waitress or a ticket girl. That’s just life.”

  He abruptly hugged her closer and whispered in her ear, “I admire that.”

  She was speechless for a moment. “You admire what?”

  “Your attitude,” he said with great earnestness. “You’re in charge of your own life, and you don’t regret what you can’t change.”

  “Well,” she said softly, “it wouldn’t help if I did regret it.”

  “Do you have any idea how many people would have given up, whining about how unfair life is, if they were in your situation?” He exhaled loudly. “I think there are few people as brave as you are.”

  “Brave?” She almost laughed out loud, though his words were flattering and warmed her insides. “You think I’m brave? You haven’t seen me meeting a spider in my bathroom.”

  “You are brave,” he insisted, with conviction. “I don’t see myself being courageous enough to fly to Rome on my own and set up shop without any safety net.”

  “I’m starting to get scared in retrospect with you going on like this,” Amy murmured.

  He was silent for a while. But then, in a tense voice, he whispered, “I’ve never met anyone more courageous, lovable, and friendly than you. Or anyone I’d rather spend my time with.”

  Amy sniffled and felt tears sting her eyes.

  He must have sensed it. “I didn’t mean to make you cry, love.”

  “But you just did,” she whispered, feeling the urge to be near him, to cling to him and never let go again. So she turned toward him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and nestled her cheek against his shoulder. “You shouldn’t say a thing like that if you don’t want to make me cry,” she berated him between sniffles.

  “Not just a boozehound, but also a crybaby?”

  She nodded, feeling an anxious, tingling sensation all over her body as the adrenaline rushed through her. “It’s your fault,” she murmured.

  “What’s my fault? You crying?”

  “Well, that, too, but what I meant is it’s your fault that … I love you. You’re such a romantic!”

  If she’d expected him to bolt at of her confession, she was wrong. A deserted beach and campfire were the absolute cliché backdrop for a declaration of love, but Patrick didn’t seem to mind. He simply filled his role as the reluctant romantic, brushing her hair aside and kissing her ear.

  “You know what?” he whispered. “I might be. Just a little bit.” His lips remained close to her ear. “And just for the record: I love you, too.”

  ***

  Amy looked around the cozy hut they’d have to leave within the next hour, and what she felt was not merely a hint of wistfulness, but more of a depressing dread at the thought of being back in Rome tonight.

  Though she really liked the Italian capital, and appreciated her life there despite all difficulties, she could hardly bear to leave this peaceful patch of sand and sea. Two nights ago, she’d had the most amazing evening of her life, sitting by the fire with Patrick and hearing him say exactly what she had wished she might hear. When he’d confessed that he loved her, she’d thought she was going to shatter into a million pieces. She’d never felt anything like that before. Then they had made love under the starlit sky and fallen asleep entangled on the beach. She wouldn’t forget that for the rest of her life.

  After that exciting night, they’d spent yesterday on the beach—relaxing, swimming, lolling in the sand—and later took a stroll into the small nearby town where time seemed to stand still. They had wandered through old alleys and deserted streets, and across a tumbledown marketplace, looking at the tiny stores tucked away and then eating at a rustic trattoria. On the way back to the beach house, Patrick had bought her a pair of shoes she’d been admiring in a shop window earlier on.

  Amy had protested, calling him insane, because the Italia
n shoes with their fancy heels and shiny black leather had cost almost 200 euro. When Patrick had whipped out his wallet, she’d felt guilty, and that hadn’t changed when he’d given her an encouraging smile. Even though they’d never talked about it, Amy didn’t think Patrick made much money. After all, when she had suggested he leave his hotel room and stay with her to save some cash, he’d agreed immediately. Rome was an expensive place to live, and the hotels were priced accordingly.

  So she didn’t feel right about him buying her such an expensive pair of shoes that she didn’t really need anyway. He’d already paid for this getaway, which must have cost quite a bit. Though she thought it was extraordinarily sweet and caring of him to be this attentive, and to want to make her happy, Amy couldn’t help worrying that he was making a dent in his bank account, and she didn’t want to be responsible for that.

  Shaking off the money woes with a sigh, she mechanically straightened the crocheted tablecloth on the rickety kitchen table in the beach house, which they’d never sat at. Yesterday morning they’d had breakfast on the deck, and this morning they’d taken their food to the beach with them. They’d behaved a little like hippies the last few days. Patrick had not only persuaded her to go skinny dipping, she had also persuaded him to undress on the beach so she could draw him. That had been a few hours ago, and Amy still giggled when she thought of his frantic race for the house when a stranger had suddenly appeared on their stretch of beach.

  Now their bags stood on the deck packed and ready for departure, and Amy was waiting for Patrick to return from getting gas. In about three hours, they’d be back in Rome, which not only meant she needed to refocus on getting another job, but also that the countdown would begin to Patrick flying back to the States.

  And she had no clue how she would be able to bear that.