Page 91 of Paper Roses

“Good,” I say with relish.

He shakes his head. “That’s your nephew.”

“This will get him back for the evening when he threw up in my lap while I was babysitting him.”

“One more shovelful, and he might recreate that night.”

I start to laugh, and his fond look makes my belly warm.

“I love it when you laugh,” he says.

I reach out to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear. The brown waves are getting long now, and I love it. I particularly love grabbing it when I’m fucking him and making his back arch until he comes, untouched.

A faint flush shades his sharp cheekbones, and I’m hit with my usual wave of lust for him. It doesn’t seem to matter how many times we have sex—and we have a lot—but I’ll start to feel desperate if I’m not inside him. He’s only had one partner, but he’s the sexiest man I’ve ever been with—intense, passionate, and eager to try everything.

But what catches me the most is the tender way he treats me, as if I’m somehow special. I feel it in every touch he bestows on me. Last night, we’d lain in bed, and I’d rested my head on his chest. I’d fallen asleep to the feel of his fingers gently stroking my hair. I know I’ll want to both cling to and push away that memory. I don’t want to address what it might mean.

I also don’t want to address how I’d felt last night when he was out with Ben. The man has got to be an idiot. Who in their right mind would leave Artie after having the pleasure of being with him?

I swallow hard. I’ll be the one who’s out of my mind in a few weeks. The end of our arrangement is nearing, and it’s becoming harder to push away the panic whenever I try to envisage a world where I don’t have him. All his smiles and the light he brings to my life will be gone, and I’ll be alone again.

But of course, I can’t be with him. I’d barely survived losing Mick, but I know that if I had a real relationship with Artie, but then lost him, it would be a thousand times?—

I stop that disloyal thought in its tracks. Artie’s watching me anxiously, so I bend and kiss him. I’d only meant it to be an affectionate peck on the lips, but as usual, one touch of those bee-stung lips, and I’m lost, grabbing his arse and bringing him close so I can grind against him.

He moans gratifyingly loudly, but we quickly break apart when a cough sounds from behind us.

I spin around and find a man grinning at us. He’s quite possibly one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen, with a slim, tall body and long, chocolate-brown hair that frames a sharp face. He looks as out of place here as an orchid in a vegetable patch.

His grin is wicked and seductive and… does absolutely nothing for me.

Hmm. I don’t want to know what that means.

“Are you the happy couple?” he says brightly. Then he blinks. “No, you can’t be. One half of the partnership is a lady called Claire who isratherdemanding.”

I grimace. “Rather? That’s a bit of an understatement.”

He throws his head back, laughing, and there’s something unconsciously studied about him. I realise this must be Claire’s mystical supermodel.

“You must be Mal Booth,” I say.

He takes my hand and shakes it. His eyes are very wicked. “Must I? I suppose there’s only me that couldpossiblybe that.”

I put my arm over Artie’s shoulders and draw him forward. “My husband, Artie.”

I can feel Artie’s startled pleasure at the title.

Mal’s eyes sharpen. “Goodness, you are pretty, Artie.” I can’t help my instant frown, but Mal catches my gaze and rolls his eyes. “Oh, not for me. I meant for potential modelling. He’s pretty enough for that, and he has beautiful bone structure.” He winks at me. “I’ve got a farmer in my bed who keeps me very busy. You know the saying, ‘Once you’ve gone Cornish, you never go back to Dawlish’.”

I blink. “I don’t think that is the saying.”

“Really? What a silly flibbertigibbet I am. Well, itshouldbe the saying.”

He looks around, taking in the barn, which looks beautiful in the autumn sunshine. A temporary wooden floor is down, and tables are covered in immaculate white linen. The flower arrangements add a delicate fragrance to the air and the glassware gleams. The numerous hay bales festooned with fairy lights aren’t to my taste, but each to their own.

“Goodness, the barn does look nice. It’s actually tidier than our house. Maybe Cadan and I should move in here after the wedding and let the sheep have our room.”

“Well, I’ve moved the fucking sheep.” A Cornish-accented voice sounds irately from the doorway. An equally stunning man appears—tall and broad-shouldered, with brown-blond shaggy hair. “They’re now in a field that’s so far away from the farm they might as well be part of our neighbour’s stock.”

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