Page 16 of Omega's Forbidden Heat
The village shop huddles in one corner of the green, opposite the vicarage and the cricket nets. It’s an old Victorian cottage and the man who runs it has been there as long as Jack can remember. When he reaches the door, it swings open and out strides a pile of boxes, two legs protruding from their base. It feels like some cruel joke. Boxes taunting him wherever he goes.
There’s that all too familiar scent as well, the one that seems more intense each time he comes face to face with its source. The scent that has his stomach cartwheeling and dick twitching like some randy dog.
She hasn’t seen him; her view blocked by the boxes, so he starts to turn and stride away in the opposite direction, knowing he’s being an arsehole but not wanting another invitation he’ll have to fight to resist. But then there’s a crash and a string of blue words, and, when he twists around, she’s scrabbling on the ground.
He halts a spherical package with his foot and picks it up, and she peers up at him with a wide smile he’s pretty sure he doesn’t deserve, a blush spreading across her cheeks.
“Hi,” she breathes.
“Hi.” He hands her the package and she lays it on top of the pile of boxes she’s rebuilding. Then she scoops the bottom one up and slowly rolls herself to standing, the packages wobbling madly.
He sighs. “Do you need a hand, Amy?” He’s always been a sucker for a damsel in distress and he can’t just walk away no matter that he should. He really should.
“Oh no. I’m fine,” she mumbles, taking a step forward and catching a sliding box with the crook of her elbow.
“Just let me take some.” He lifts the top load from her pile. “Blimey, these are heavy. What’s in them? Make-up?”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right, because make-up weighs this much. It’s some shit Finn’s ordered for work. If I knew they were his parcels, I would never have bothered stopping by to pick them up.”
“You must be stronger than you look,” he says, unable to help but let his eyes slide down her form as he follows her along the path.
“I am.”
“Where’s Finn, then?”
“He didn’t tell you?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “Working down Portsmouth way.” They pause on the pavements to let Mrs Rose, who lives on the village square, pass them with her old scottie dog, his stomach so large it nearly drags along the ground. Amy smiles at the old lady and wishes her a good morning, and he nods at her curtly. “I haven’t seen you around the last few days,” Amy says to him.
“Hmmm.”
“What have you been up to?”
“Nothing.”
“Sounds fun.”
“It’s not.”
“Why don’t you come round ours then, hang out? Or come to the pub. You know half the village is dying to see you.”
“They are?” He doesn’t believe that. Some of the old boys may be, the ones who’ve already swung by the house and offered their condolences. But the others, they probably hate that someone like him is back, polluting the air of their perfect little village. It’s why he didn’t come home straight away after they let him out. He couldn’t face all those disapproving glares.
“Yes. You are still the golden boy round here.”
That irritates him and he can’t help snapping at her as they turn into the driveway. “Don’t fuck with me, Amy.”
She spins, her brown eyes dancing across his face before her brow furrows. “I’m not fucking with you. You know, there were people who cried when they sent you away. Most people thought it was a complete injustice.”
“Not all, though.”
“No, not all, but Jesus Christ, Jack, considering what this village can be like when it turns against someone, I promise you’d know if they wanted to drive you out.” A dark shadow passes over her features and a deep sense of shame engulfs him, from his head to his toes. What had they put her through? And for what? Something she couldn’t control? The hypocrisy of it is difficult to swallow and makes him less keen to get out into the village and see people.
She drops the boxes at her feet and motions for him to do the same as she digs her hand in her jacket pocket. Coming up empty, she tries the other pocket and then shoves her hand down into each of the pockets of her jeans, and he tries not to notice how her hand slides over the curve of each cheek of her arse.
“Shit,” she says as she searches her jacket pockets a second time. “Shit. Where’s my key?”
“In your purse?”
“I don’t have my purse with me. I only popped out for milk.”
