Page 110 of The Unlikely Pair
Luckily, Harry chuckles.
“And you proved you are very capable in one arena of life, even if it doesn’t creep into your politics,” he says.
“I always did think I had lots in common with Sir Francis Drake and Sir Ernest Shackleton,” I say.
His forehead rumples in confusion.
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, I was just in uncharted territory, wasn’t I?”
Harry groans, putting his forearm over his eyes like he’s trying to blot out the reality of my jokes.
I tug him to me so I can kiss the side of his head. He comes willingly, sliding across to bury his head against my shoulder. As I nuzzle into his hair, there’s that uncomfortable feeling inside me again. But rather than just stirring, it now feels like it’s hammering to get out.
Which is definitely not welcome.
I struggle to control my breathing, fighting down panic. I shift, putting some distance between us, trying not to mourn the loss of Harry’s body against mine.
We don’t have to define this thing between us. It’s something borne from exceptional circumstances, and I don’t need to spend time thinking about it.
Oliver always used to ask me for my analysis of the situation.
But I’m determined not to analyze what’s happening between Harry and me.
Chapter Thirty
Harry
Toby Webley.
I can’t wait for him to wake up every day because I can’t wait to discover what he’s going to say, even though I know half of it will irritate me. But the other half makes me laugh.
He challenges me. Infuriates me.
Makes me want to kiss him madly.
The best thing is every time I feel like that, he is happy to oblige.
Toby and I now frequently kiss without it leading to sex. Sometimes, we’ll be simply going about our daily tasks, like checking the snares or chopping wood, and I’ll see a particular furrow on his forehead or a quirk of his lips. I find myself closing the distance between us to kiss him, knowing he’ll always kiss me back.
Toby likes kissing. It’s not surprising because he is naturally very adept at it and likes to flaunt his skills at any opportunity.
Not that I’m objecting.
The other thing about Toby is how he’s always probing beneath the surface of everything, trying to look for a deeper meaning. And because I’m the only person around for him to talk to, I get to be the recipient of the full benefit of his musings.
Today, we’re checking our trap line, collecting a satisfactory haul of two hares, one rabbit, and a squirrel.
“I have to say, I do prefer my meat coming on trays from Waitrose,” Toby says as he looks down at the trap.
I huff a laugh as I bend to untwist the wire around the hare’s neck.
“It’s confronting, being forced to actually catch and kill the food we eat. Do you think if more people had to do this, there would be more vegetarians?” he asks.
I try to hide it, but I actually enjoy being privy to the contents of Toby’s mind.
“I think that’s a reasonable supposition,” I reply.
