Page 46 of Book People

‘Yes,’ I say tersely. ‘Cancer. It was a long time ago.’

She opens her mouth and I expect the usual platitudes, but all she says is: ‘I’m sorry. I lost my mother a couple of years ago. That was cancer as well.’

I’d heard. The relationship breakup was news, but not her mother’s death.

I’m not sure what to say. Grief shadows her eyes, echoes of an incalculable loss. A loss that echoes inside me too. But my grief is older, the edges filed away and not so sharp these days. Hers is still raw. It still has teeth.

Words can’t encompass it, but words are all we have in the end, so I say, ‘I’m sorry too.’ And then, ‘You don’t get over it. But you do learn to live with it. It’s not what people want to hear, but it’s the truth.’

The moment sits between us, heavy with the weight of our losses. But it’s not uncomfortable for a change. It feels as if we’re sharing something.

Her mouth curves and, finally, there is the smile. Bittersweet but there, and, yes, it’s mine. She gave it to me. ‘I’d prefer the truth any day of the week.’

And just like that I can’t stand the distance between us. I can’t stand that she’s just across from me with the little breakfast barin between us, preventing me from reaching her and pulling her into my arms.

Her dress would be so easy to get rid of. I’d only have to pull the tie that holds it closed and it would open. It would fall off and then she’d be in nothing but her underwear.

I bet she is beautiful.

I bet she is to die for.

Would she smell as sweet as she did last night, sitting on the couch next to me? Would she melt like warming candle wax against me, all soft and pliant? Would she sigh again? As if she’d been waiting her whole life to kiss me?

This is a disaster of epic proportions and only now do I see how much I’ve been lying to myself the whole time.

The envelopes are just an excuse.

I didn’t come here for them, I came here for her. And this . . . obsession, or whatever it is that I have with her, won’t end until I have what I want.

Which is her. All of her. In bed. All night.

Taste her sunshine. Wrap it around me, cover myself in it.

And maybe if I do, then I’ll be able to think.

A silence falls, thick and heavy and full of the buzzing tension that is always between us.

She flushes. ‘Would you . . . um . . . Would you like a drink? I don’t have any scotch, I’m afraid, but I have some white wine.’ She smiles again and there’s a faint, wistful hope in her gaze. ‘Or maybe some tea?’

Every muscle in my body is tense. ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Miss Jones.’

‘Why?’

‘I would have thought the reasons would be obvious.’

She blushes deeper and, as with every expression I’ve seen on her face so far, it suits her. Makes her eyes glow. She really is a rose in that delicate pink dress. ‘You can’t even have one drink?’

I shouldn’t reply. I shouldn’t.

‘I think you’re underestimating your considerable charms,’ I say, like the idiot I am. Then again, it’s not as if I haven’t told her how I feel already. ‘And my susceptibility to them.’

She doesn’t look away. ‘Susceptible? You? I could be dancing naked in front of you and you probably wouldn’t even blink.’

My throat is tight all of a sudden and so are my trousers. If that isn’t a direct challenge, I don’t know what is, and of course my inner Neanderthal wants to rise to it (double-entendreabsolutelyintended).

Her. Naked. Dancing.

‘Care to test that theory?’ I say, before I can stop myself.

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