Page 93 of Love and Loathing

Cringing, she wrinkled her nose. “Aubrey, this is…” she started to protest, but when she looked up, he was still watching her from over his coffee. And a corner of his mouth was twitching.

“Are you laughing at me?” she demanded.

He put his cup down, twitch turning into a barely smothered grin. “You’re just so amazingly unromantic for the soppiest person I’ve ever met.”

“I…” she protested. “That’s…”

“‘Like an itch,’” he quoted her. “It’s almost as good as justthinkingyou might love me.”

“I can’t believe you’re laughing at me,” she said.

“Annoyingfeelings,” Aubrey said, laughing to himself. “Get some gum. Try a patch. Shethinksshe loves me.”

She reached out to slap his arm, and he caught her fingers.

“Pretend I’m a pigeon,” he said. “And try again. With feeling this time.”

She glared at him, pretending she wasn’t laughing, pretending her heart wasn’t soaring, pretending the grip of his fingers on hers wasn’t being felt in every pulse in her body.

“I prefer pigeons. They don’t laugh at me when I’m baring my soul.”

“Your soul, Evie, is the strangest thing I’ve ever met.” He lifted her fingers to his lips, pressed a kiss to the back of them. “And the most wonderful.”

Her eyes filled with tears—soppy tears, he would say. She swallowed them back. “I do love you. I’m sorry I’m rubbish at saying it.”

“Show me, then.” He pulled gently on her hand, brought her to him until their bodies were almost touching. He bent his head to hers. “I love you, too.”

The words were warm on her skin, on her cheek, against her lips. He kissed her slowly, and she melted against him, hands finding the back of his neck, running up into the soft, short hair she loved so much. She pulled him closer, thoughts sliding with the sweep of his tongue, but the sting of unspent tears was still sharp behind her closed eyes. The sense of relief was dizzying, but she couldn’t quite reach for it fully. It wasn’t this easy. There was more to say.

“We’re OK?” she whispered. “Things are OK? You forgive me?”

He gave her a searching look, dark eyes very close, then for a moment he paused, forehead to hers as he plaited their fingers together, studied the pattern they made when interlocked. Him, her, him, her. Therewasmore to say, and however reluctant he seemed to say it, she knew he was about to. Her heart twisted, nervous.

“Let’s sit,” he said.

They sat on the little blue sofa, the wooden frame creaking under their combined weight. Aubrey shifted, uncomfortable, reaching behind himself to tug something out of the way. She smiled at his expression when he realised it was just the sofa itself, not a wayward cushion.

“Is this bloody thing stuffed with boulders? Taxidermied cats?”

“I suspected potatoes, but you might be right.”

“And yousleephere? When you could be in your Mayfair mansion?”

“You’ve met my father.”

“Fair point.”

He sighed, legs stretched out, crossed at the ankle, preparing himself to answer her question:do you forgive me?

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot, Evie. Over and over and round and round. We’d only met twice by the time we got to Conyers. We hardly knew each other, and I’d given you no reason to like me. But it doesn’t make it right, what you were planning to do.”

“No. I know.”

“I’ve been hurt before by lies. By someone I love saying one thing and meaning or doing something else entirely. You know that, too.”

She nodded, an ache in her throat.

“I took Liv back after she cheated on me because she told me what she knew I wanted to hear. And I believed it because I wanted to believe it. I don’t want to make the same mistake again. Can you understand that?”

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