Page 10 of Actually Yours

Time to go, Amelia.

“I’d better go.” I smooth down the front of my dress and try to hike up the top at the same time. It’s been almost sixteen hours since I put it on this morning (or was that yesterday now?), and I’m dying to take it off.

“You have no shoes.”

We both look down at my bloodied toes.

“Excellent powers of observation.”

“You came here with no shoes on?”

I point to where I’d dropped my stunning, but torturous strappy heels by the door. “They hurt.”

He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes and I feel bad. The poor guy has to work tomorrow, and I’ve kept him up with my childish ranting and raving.

“I’m sorry to have woken you.” I say these words now, feeling terrible for not saying them sooner. “You’ve got work tomorrow, right?”

His lips twist into a smile. “It’s Monday tomorrow, Millie. Everyone has work.”

“Not me!” I point out. The hair salon where I work is closed on Sundays and Mondays and I can’t wait to spend the entirety of my day off tomorrow in bed, binge-watchingGilmore Girlsto soothe my battered soul.

“That’s right, Mondays are a day off for you,” he says like a person who knows my schedule.

Strange.

“Yes,” I mutter, flustered, but unsure exactly why. “But I’d better let you get some sleep. You probably have a big court case or something tomorrow? A closing argument to the jury, perhaps?” When I’d learnt that Jake was a lawyer, I’d imagined his daily life to be like that of Matthew McConaughey inA Time to Killor Gregory Peck inTo Kill a Mockingbird, filled with courtroom drama.

“I’m not a trial lawyer, Millie,” he reminds me, effectively crushing my fantasy. “I spend my days filing motions and negotiating across a boardroom table.”

Ooof. Maybe I was right? That sounds boring.

My thoughts must have flashed across my face because he gives me an amused look and ruffles my hair, like I’m a six-year-old child. “Too boring for you?” he teases. “Not as glamorous as, say, a drummer in a band?”

I laugh. “An under-study for a drummer in a band! You can’t get more glamorous than that.”

“You know how to pick the good ones.” This douses my merriment and has the pesky tears threatening to re-emerge. It’sdefinitelytime to leave.

“I’ve got to go.” I half stumble away from him, seeing a flash of regret on his face before I turn away.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice urgent. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“You’re fine,” I lie. “I just need to get home.”

“Let me drive you,” he offers, trying and failing to catch my gaze. “It’s too late to be calling an Uber.”

I limp to where my shoes are waiting for me. “It’s how I got here.”

“Well, I’m here now.” His words hit a spot in me, stopping my forward march to the front door. “Let me drive you home. It’s the least I can do…you know, to apologise for my brother.”

I look at him. He seems upset and genuinely remorseful—for what? The actions of his brother? Or his own words, which were like a knife to the gut?

I decide to accept his offer. It’s just one ride home after all, and then we won’t have a reason to see each other again.

Huh, a strangely sad thought.

“OK.”

“OK?” he repeats, like I’ve given him a gift instead of just accepting a ride home. “Wait here.”

---