Page 84 of Wildflower
“Oh.”
I didn’t expect that answer, but it gives me a rush.
Brain buzzing, I let the drive continue in silence. London traffic is the worst; it would have taken me less time to jump on the tube. But this is comfortable, at least. The steady hum of the Bentley’s tyres on the tarmac is soothing, and I appreciate how the reflection of streetlights in the raindrops makes the window sparkle.
And I can sit here and mull over this concoction of emotions in my chest. If this was a cocktail, it would be a terrible one. There’s a sweet sensation of hope lurking under my ribcage, trying its hardest to overpower the bitter, almost acidic simmering in my gut that says this will not end well.
Mark, as Robin, has over the last few weeks become a big part of my life. And the way he seems to enjoy my company and conversation, I’ve started thinking it could become something more.
The simmer bubbles up, making me scared.
Mark is stirring something in me that’s never beentouched. Not properly. And it feels fragile. I wrap my arms around myself.
“Here we are, pet,” Neil calls out in his comfortable Yorkshire dialect, yanking me out of my darkening thoughts.
“Thank you, Neil.” I force the words out from my tight throat.
“Would you like the umbrella, miss?”
“No, thank you. Don’t get out for me, please.”
I open the door and hunch down instinctively as the raindrops hit my face. Neil couldn’t find a spot by the curb tonight, so I have to run between parked cars.
Jesus, who drives an Aston Martin on this street? Surely, no oneIknow.
I hurry past it, keeping my head down, and rush through the gate. It’s only when I get closer to the steps I spot someone standing under the awning.
I look up, raindrops blurring my vision.
It’s Mark.
Words are stuck in my throat, and I stand gaping.
He walks down the steps and into the rain toward me, stopping when he gets to the bottom. Just out of reach. His face is dimly lit, but I can make out the intensity of his gaze, and how his jaw is working hard.
He’s driven all this way.
Is it to let me down face to face? To tell me to keep it secret and sign an NDA?
I step closer to him, needing to see him properly.
His usually stylish waves now hang heavy over his forehead. Water runs over the tip of his nose and down his luscious lips. The white shirt clings to his arms. His waistcoat is drenched.
Because he’s here.
And the fire in his eyes tells me exactly why.
He’s here for me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
you’re wet
MARK
For a decade, I’ve made decisions based on my system of priorities and goals. Sometimes I need to work before I can exercise, exercise instead of sleep. Choose where and when to invest. Work instead of seeing my family.
Productivity over mindfulness.
