Page 51 of A Cornish Love Story
‘What do you mean?’ Ethan flexed his fingers at his sides, as if touching me had left them aching.
‘I mean, the house still isn’t prepared to release us, and we’ve just had the best song of the Noughties—’
‘Of all time,’ he corrected.
I grinned. ‘Right, so what’s next?’ I tapped my fingers against my lips, snagged hold of another memory of dancing around my bedroom while Ethan sat on my bed, his head in his hands. ‘Sparks, play “You Belong with Me” by Taylor Swift.’
‘Fuck no,’ was Ethan’s emphatic response, but it was too late, and the first chords filled the room, drowning out the thunder and rain.
I remembered all the words and, that memory replaying in my head, I let go, dancing around the huge, opulent lounge, around the fireplace in the centre, dodging sofas and chrome tables and all the delicate touches that made the room so special.
Ethan folded his arms tightly across his chest, and I ran out of patience. I danced over to him and slid my hands along his tightly strung forearms. ‘Do you realize how distracting this is?’
He frowned down at me. ‘What?’
‘This whole arms-crossed, aren’t-my-muscles-impressive move?’
His lips tugged up. ‘I can’t even show my dissatisfaction at you playing Taylor Swift through my state-of-the-art sound system?’
‘Be dissatisfied,’ I said, ‘just don’t be so fucking sexy while you do it, OK?’
‘Fine,’ he shot back, but his smile widened. ‘How’s this?’ He put his hands on his hips and furrowed his brow.
‘Uh uh.’ I danced away from him, exaggerating my movements, making my dancing extra stupid. ‘Still too sexy.’
He clasped his hands under his chin coquettishly and fluttered his eyelashes. ‘This?’
I laughed, my stomach flipping over. ‘Better. Except I don’t think you realize how funny you are.’ I wove behind the sofa, in front of the fireplace. ‘How hot you are when you stop being so serious.’
He changed pose, doing a classic Popeye, his armsup and biceps flexed, his expression a stern pout. ‘You think it’s hot when I stop being serious?’
I guffawed and did a little twirl in front of the French windows. ‘I love not-serious Ethan. I love seeing you stop giving a shit, even if it’s only for five minutes.’
‘And I love your ridiculous dancing.’ He abandoned the pose and ran a hand through his hair. ‘I love everything about you, Georgie.’ The way he said it was tentative and incredulous, as if it was something he’d only just realized, but it didn’t lessen my surprise and I faltered. I tripped over the edge of a rug and, as I put my hands out, thinking how lucky it was that the room was so full of large, soft things, I didn’t see the corner of the chrome-edged table and my shoulder glanced off it, a sharp pain slicing along my collarbone as I hit the carpet with an ‘Ooof.’
‘Georgie!’ Ethan sounded panicked.
I pressed my palms into the carpet and tried to push myself up to kneeling, but my shoulder protested and I dropped down again.
‘Shit.’ Ethan put his hand on my back. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I don’t know,’ I said into the carpet.
‘Can you sit up?’
‘Of course I can.’ But I didn’t complain when his hand slid under my waist, and he gently raised me to sitting, then tugged me towards the window. I didn’t understand what was happening, my shoulder throbbing, but then I felt his firm chest behind me, and I realized he was sitting up against the French windows,his legs wide, and he’d pulled me between them so I was resting against him.
The glass was thick enough that I didn’t feel a chill, but the thrum of the rain was loud, and Taylor Swift had finished singing. Mostly, I could hear Ethan breathing and feel the rise and fall of his chest against my back.
‘I’m OK,’ I said.
Ethan brushed his fingers along my collarbone, pushing back the neckline of my dress, and I winced. ‘You haven’t broken the skin,’ he said softly, ‘but it’s going to bruise. Did you lose consciousness?’
‘I didn’t hit my head, just my shoulder.’
‘Are yousurethough? You seemed disoriented.’
‘Because I whacked into a chrome table. It hurt.’
