Page 56 of Save Me
I sigh. “Yeah. Dad. I guess Mum is now Megan, the bitch who sold out her own daughter for a life of sun, sea and sand.”
“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t mean to remind you.”
“You didn’t. It’s always there now. Probably always will be.”
“You deserve this chance to get to know your dad,” he ventures cautiously. “It sounds—and I’m only saying what I think—like your mum wanted you away from him.”
“So he wouldn’t find out she was stealing all the money he sent?” I ask bitterly, and he curses himself under his breath.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that, but maybe you’re right. I just meant that if she had been open to you seeing him, maybe he would’ve made it work somehow. I know he wanted to protect you from this life for as long as possible, but maybe that’s just his excuse.”
“He’s a big bad mafia guy. If he wanted to see me, why would my mum stop him?”
“That’s fair,” he murmurs.
“And why are we talking about me now? We were talking aboutyou.” I glare at him, and he laughs.
“Okay, busted. I’m not big on rehashing the past. But I will for you.”
“I don’t want to make you tell me things you don’t want to. Whatever you want, in your own time, is fine.”
He nods but doesn’t say anything else as we leave the city behind, the buildings giving way to open space, the sky expanding above us. Harry turns onto a road less travelled, surrounded by the untouched beauty of nature. Trees whisper secrets in the wind as we weave through the darkened path.
“Where are we going?” I ask, curiosity piqued as the headlights cut through the enveloping darkness.
“Somewhere we can see the stars,” he says, a hint of vulnerability flickering.
We arrive at a spot overlooking the city, much like the one Quentin took me to, only higher and further away.
“I like open spaces,” he murmurs. “I hope this is okay?”
“Of course. I love scenic spots.”
“I know Quen?—”
“This is perfect,” I interrupt him.
“Okay, good. Another thing about living in hotels. You don’t have your own space.”
I nod at that shred of insight and lean forward to brush my lips against his, lightly, promising more later.
As we climb out, the night wraps around us like a cloak.
Harry pops the boot and gathers up the picnic basket and blanket.
We walk a short way to a patch of grass on the edge of the hilltop, and he lies the blanket down.
He opens the basket and pulls out some fake candles, flicking the switches and placing them all around, to my delight.
“Oh, this is wonderful!” Taking my seat on the side of the blanket, Harry joins me, pulling glorious food out of the basket. The spread is nothing short of a feast—there’s cheese, cold meats, grapes, what looks like homemade bread, and even a bottle of red wine, its label too fancy for me to recognise.
“Harry, this is...” I start, but words fail me for a second. He watches me with those deep eyes, waiting.
“Too much?” He asks, but there’s a twinkle in his gaze that tells me he knows it’s perfect.
“Just right,” I correct him anyway, and I mean it. It’s not the extravagance, it’s the effort, the thoughtfulness.
Harry pours the wine into two glasses. He hands one to me, and our fingers brush—a jolt of heat races up my arm.
