Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
A n hour later, I return to the pickup truck and find Patrick already sat behind the steering wheel. There’s a frown line creasing his forehead now and the fragile skin under his eyes shows tiny lines that weren’t there before. His mood doesn’t seem to have improved.
I jump onto the passenger seat and close the door as I say, “Thanks for waiting. Everything okay down at the pub?”
“You got everything you needed?” He’s dodging my question with a question of his own. I know to mind my own business when required so I shrug.
“Everything I needed? Yes. Everything I wanted? You probably know the answer to that.”
His lips quirk up. At least I got a smile out of him.
“A ferry comes once a week. If you put in a request with James”—he points behind him at the fishmonger’s—“you can get pretty much everything from one of the bigger cities without ever having to venture there. I can wait another few minutes if you want.” He places his hands on the steering wheel and turns to face me, waiting for my answer.
I hesitate, considering his offer.
There’s a lot of things I didn’t think of packing back home, like more comfortable shoes so my poor feet can survive mounting that hill on my way back from work. Or the kind of personal stuff that I’d rather not buy from the fishmonger’s while James, the owner, is literally breathing down my neck.
True story.
During the short time I spent in there, he kept watching me like a hawk. Apparently he couldn’t decide whether I was a species from another planet or there to rob the fish market.
There’s no way I’d go back in there for the second time today.
“What is it, princess?” Patrick asks. “We haven’t got all day.”
I grimace. “I think I’ll pass for now. I really don’t want to go back in there.”
His brows shoot up, amused. “The smell too much for you?”
“If only it were the smell.” I clear my throat and wave my hand at his questioning look. “Let’s just say while James is probably a nice guy, he doesn’t seem very fond of strangers and his customer service sucks.”
“Stalked you all the way through the store, huh? Don’t take it personally. He does that to everyone he hasn’t seen in a week.” He hesitates for a moment. “Are you sure? You can still change your mind. I’ll come in with you if you want. Distract him for you so you can browse.”
I wave my hand again. “No. Just drive. Home, please.”
It’s only when his eyes narrow a little that I realize I’ve just put my big foot in my mouth again. The estate isn’t my home; it was his. It would still be his if his mother hadn’t left it to me.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortable under his scrutinizing gaze, unsure how to rectify my mistake.
“Home it is then.” Patrick puts the truck into gear and speeds off. His attention stays focused on the non-existent traffic like we’re driving through Manhattan in the middle of rush hour. I breathe a sigh of relief, eager to put this little awkward episode behind me.
During the brief drive, I’m acutely aware of his presence, even more so with the unnatural silence looming over us. The truck finally stops on the driveway, a few feet from the entrance to the house. Patrick’s staring ahead, pretending to be captivated by the shrubs and whatnot, but I can sense his hesitation.
Well, no need to prolong the torture for either of us.
My hand flies to the door handle while my mind goes through a selection of possible things to say.
Thank you. As much as I want to keep things civilized I’m not sure this is working.
Let’s not do this again. Ever.
It’s not you, it’s me. Okay, maybe it is you a little.
All viable options. Nothing arbitrary. Nothing personal or offensive at all.
I open my mouth to thank him for his time and say goodbye when I realize the door won’t open. I pull the handle a few times and press my shoulder blade against the glass.
The thing won’t budge under my weight.
Dammit!
What’s wrong with this car? Why won’t it let me out?
Panic shoots through me at the prospect of being stuck in such a confined space with him.
“Allow me,” Patrick says and leans over me to fumble with the door.
I turn my head sharply and find myself barely an inch from his face. His lips are so close to mine I can feel his hot breath on the corner of my mouth. Our eyes connect and the air charges again with something.
There’s so much tension I could probably cut it with a knife.
I should turn away, signal that his proximity isn’t welcome. But I find myself frozen, my lips parting in anticipation.
The silent invitation is there and he takes it.
His mouth crushes against mine as his fingers nestle in my hair, tugging slightly, pulling me to him with enough fervor to send my mind spinning. My lips part further to grant him access and he slips his tongue inside my mouth.
Heat begins to rush through me.
My open palm spreads across his chest, ready to explore him the way his mouth seems to explore mine. I’m not thinking about the consequences of our actions; I’m not thinking at all.
All I want is for him to touch me.
He feels like everything I ever imagined he would. All hard muscles and taut skin intermingled with that heady fragrance of his. I want to push my hands beneath the fabric of his shirt, trail my fingers all over him, know him like no one’s ever known him before.
Alarm bells begin to go off at the back of my head.
What am I doing?
I can’t get involved with this guy, not at this point in my life.
And yet my brain’s a mushy heap of nothing, unable to form a coherent thought against his hot mouth and the way he seems to savor every inch of it, dipping his tongue in, circling it with mine, then out again to lick my lips. Somehow, his hand finds its way underneath my shirt and begins to caress the soft swell of my abdomen, his splayed fingers putting just the right amount of pressure. His touch vibrates throughout my entire body, igniting nerve endings I didn’t know I had. A soft moan escapes my breath as the tugging sensation between my legs turns into a raging wildfire.
“Let’s go inside,” he whispers against my lips, as though reading my mind. There’s something in his hoarse tone that signals he has specific plans for us.
I want him so much I open my mouth to tell him I’m game with whatever he has in mind when he withdraws from me abruptly.
Something’s wrong.
Even through the fog in my mind, I can feel the shift in him. I pry my eyes open, trying to make sense of his sudden change of mind when I notice a car rolling up the driveway, gravel crunching beneath the tires.
Patrick doesn’t say a word, instead runs a hand through his hair and straightens in his seat, his gaze glued to the sports car. I don’t need to wait for the driver to exit to know who it is.
Both annoyance and relief flush through me at the same time.
My lawyer’s unannounced visit is bound to bring news, good or bad. It doesn’t even matter at this point when he’s just saved me from entangling myself in yet another mess.
And yet I wish Duncan hadn’t turned up.
“It looks like you have a visitor. Better not keep him waiting,” Patrick says. His voice is nonchalant. I throw him a sideways glance, eager to catch his expression. But his face is blank, his gaze fixed on Duncan’s car.
I hesitate, unsure what to say. It’s been a turbulent day, but in spite of my better judgment I enjoyed his presence.
And particularly that kiss.
Call me delusional, but at some point I thought he did too.
Whatever this was, I don’t want it to end.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for driving me, Patrick. I really appreciate it. I’d like to repay you.” I cringe at my weak attempt at a double entendre. I hope he can see the invitation and ask for something in return, like dinner or a repeat of that kiss.
Actually, forget dinner.
Who needs food anyway? I’d settle for a bit of fondling any time.
Our eyes connect and a soft smile appears on his lips. “No need. You owe me nothing. And I’ll throw in your free departure as well. I could take you to the airport right now, if you want. Have the rest of your belongings FedExed to you. Or even better, I’ll write you a check and you can buy yourself a completely new wardrobe.”
I laugh, realizing Patrick Walsh can be quite funny. Maybe he didn’t deserve to be called the Grump after all. “Look at you. Seems like you’re not as bitter and grumpy as I thought you were.”
His eyes bore into me, holding me pinned to the spot, while his gaze seems to freeze over. It’s so cold, I wouldn’t be surprised to find the nearby ocean covered in a thick layer of ice.
My laughter dies in my throat and my heart takes a nosedive. “Oh, you weren’t joking.”
“You thought I’m bitter? I’m not bitter. I’m not a mug of badly-brewed ale.”
A what?
“Sorry, I’m not familiar with your terminology. Whatever that means, you could have fooled me though.”
I struggle to open the truck door, and curse under my breath when I realize it’s still stuck and I can’t pry it open no matter how hard I push. Patrick leans over to open it, trying his damnedest not to touch me in the process.
I’m relieved when I can finally step out and slam the door with as much force as I can. His gaze is on me, burning a hole in my back, as I head for my lawyer, ignoring Patrick’s gaze burning a hole in my back.