48. Epilogue
Roscoe tilted the laptop screen, squinting against the sun glare that made the words almost impossible to read. He was sitting on a sun lounger by a swimming pool, the laptop on his knee. His swimming trunks, hair, and skin were completely dry, and there was a beautiful girl in a bikini stretching languidly in the water nearby—and quite rightly mocking him.
“Only you, Roscoe, thinks a laptop is appropriate poolside attire.”
He pushed his sunglasses into his hair and looked over at Poppy just as she pushed off from the poolside for another length.
Her bikini was the same ocean green as the sea far below the sloping hills over which their villa looked. White boats clustered around the village harbour, as tiny as speckles from an artist’s brush. The countryside was every shade of turquoise and umber, gauzy now in the dry afternoon haze, and here by the pool, olive trees baked, as content as cats under the heavy heat.
Roscoe put his laptop on the table by his lounger and swung his legs over to sit sideways, the stone hot on his bare feet. “I’m not working,” he protested when Poppy finished her length and came to rest with her elbows on the poolside. When they had arrived, she had admitted she couldn’t actually swim. But three days of extremely hands-on lessons had given her a passable…breaststroke.
“I was emailing Hugo,” he said. “I’m still helping him out with some estate stuff. And there was one from Aubrey. They just officially put him on the tax project. But then I saw an email from the solicitor—the sale of the flat just went through. I was checking the conveyancer’s details.”
“It sounds a bit like work.”
“It sounds like cause for celebration.”
“That, too,” she conceded with a grin.
“Come here.”
“I’m all wet.”
“Even better.”
She gave him a narrow-eyed look, threatening that he would regret this very much, although they both knew he wouldn’t. Then she climbed out of the pool, water sluicing off her pale skin, her shoulders sun-pink despite his enthusiastic insistence on slathering her with sunscreen at every available opportunity.
He sat back again on the sun lounger, legs stretched out, and patted his lap with a grin. She gave her dripping self a dubious look then shrugged and climbed inelegantly onto his lap, legs astride his hips. Her skin was icy cold against his but blissfully so after the sun’s heat. Her damp bikini bottoms soaked through his swimming trunks, and she lifted her wet ponytail and shook out the drops over his bare chest. “Happy now?”
He grinned. “Extremely.” Then he ran his thumbs over the cups of her bikini bra, tweaking her nipples so they stood even firmer, the thin, wet fabric leaving little to the imagination. He made a sound of satisfaction. “Even happier now.”
She shifted on his lap. “So I feel.”
The bikini was a tie one, and he tugged the knots at her shoulders loose, peeling the clinging fabric from her breasts, because leaving even a little to his imagination was too much. Her skin was wet and glistening, her nipples pink and pert. He cupped her breasts in his hands, lifting them, entranced, because at times like this he was a very simple man and extremely easily pleased. She was so gorgeous, though. Not an inch of her he didn’t love.
He brushed his thumbs over her nipples again, watching the way her eyes slitted closed as she fought to hide her response. “It’s a good job…” she began breathlessly, breaking off as he caressed her again.
“Yes?” he prompted.
“That you’ve rented this paparazzi-proof, celebrity-ready villa in the middle of nowhere.”
“And why’s that, Poppy?” He undid the knot at the back of the bikini top and drew the garment off completely.
“Because you keep undressing me by the pool.”
“I regret none of these decisions.”
He ran his hand up her spine and pulled her to his mouth, their kiss slow, almost lazy, painted in gold by the sun shining through his closed lids.
It was true. He regretted none of it. It was over a month since he had given his father that letter of resignation. They had stayed in London until Poppy had finished the last of her three interviews at LibertyBrooks—even now they were waiting to hear the final result. Over a month and not a single moment in which he doubted his decision.
There had been a few days of feeling strange. Guilty and on edge, dreading every phone call, in case it was one about his father. But he had called his mother, even called Liz, and they had nothing to report—other than his father’s fury. But he could live with that.
Mostly, his phone had rung with headhunters, recruiters, contacts at BlacktonGold’s competitors. He could have chosen from a dozen roles. And while that helped cure his lingering doubt over whether his role at BG had been due to nepotism or merit, he wasn’t tempted by any of the jobs on offer.
He was starting his own company, just as he had told Poppy he would. And obviously that brought with it its own slew of worries—his anxiety was in respite, not cured—because starting a company from scratch single-handedly wasn’t any less stressful than his role at BlacktonGold. It was probably more so, given it was all down to him. So he had decided, after discussion with his doctor, on a type of talking therapy to help him manage his anxiety, give him some strategies and coping mechanisms.
Exercise helped. He went to the gym daily. And sleep—Poppy was insistent about that. Sleeping properly definitely helped a lot. Not that it took Poppy much persuading to get him into bed.
He hadn’t seen or heard from his father since quitting. But he’d visited his mother for lunch. She hadn’t seemed much surprised by his defection from BlacktonGold, but she hadn’t much cared either. She had no interest in the company, and little interest in Roscoe himself other than to check he looked well, and dressed well, and to ask if it was true, did he have a girlfriend? When could she meet her?
“Soon,” Roscoe had promised, unsure if he was lying or not. Poppy and his mother? He had no doubts that his mother would like Poppy: she was beautiful, and that was about all that mattered.
As if that’s all she was. This woman who held his heart, who was the other half of his soul. He kissed her slowly, luxuriously, savouring every press and slide of their mouths, his hands running down her sides.
Other kisses flickered through his mind. Drunk and reckless and helpless to resist in a greasy fried chicken shop. Filthy and desperate and stupid on his sofa. Comfort and sweetness and thanks by the riverside on that hot London day, BlacktonGold at his back, when he’d felt half like he was falling and half like flying.
He’d dragged her home—to the mews house, now truly their home—joking about interviews and Italian, delirious and happy even while shaken to the core. He had pressed her up against the door as soon as they were through it, kissing her madly, undressing her, himself, needing oblivion. Stumbling together to the living room, not even making it to his bedroom, but having her there, up against the back of the sofa, her legs around his waist, fucking her as though they might die if they didn’t come then, now, now. Gasping… Meeting her eyes. Finding himself there. His other half.
The Poppy on his lap drew back, smiling slightly, and asked, “Where have you gone?”
The sky was fantastically blue behind her, the light blinding, but her face blocked it a little, made its own soft shadows, every eyelash and freckle and curve of feature. He traced the line of her cheek, those sweeping angel wing cheekbones, and shook himself back to the present. “A happy place. You were there.”
She smiled crookedly, pleased, self-conscious. He stroked the smile with the pad of his thumb, and she nipped at it, drew it into her mouth, the tip of her tongue licking the tip of his thumb. He grunted, and her smile deepened.
Keeping her eyes on his, she lifted herself from his lap enough to free him from his trunks. He sucked in a breath as she closed her hand around him. She squeezed and his hand moved from her mouth, knotted into her hair, delicious tension stealing over him, replacing all his drowsy languor with need.
He fumbled with the ties at the sides of her bikini bottoms. The wet fabric hit the hot stone with a sinful smack that made him smile an unholy sort of smile. Poppy bit her lip at the sight of it, stroked his length as though she still had any hope of being the one in charge here, as though he wasn’t already planning exactly what he was going to do to her—
Her phone rang.
She froze, wide-eyed. “It might be them!”
“It might be them,” he agreed, the skip of his heart mirroring the nervous excitement clear in her eyes.
She reached over for her phone, which was on the table by his abandoned laptop. Her eyes widened at the number, and she met his eyes with a grimace, half-excitement, half-terror, as she put her phone to her ear.
“Hello?”
He heard a faint voice.
“Yes. This is Poppy Fields.”
The one and only. He rested his hand on her hip, thumb rubbing reassuring circles as she spoke. It was the call. Had to be. He couldn’t hear what the other person was saying, but he could tell from Poppy’s expression, her voice. She was looking past his shoulder now, eyes focused on nothing as she concentrated on the call.
He looked at her—at that face that had already seemed familiar when he first saw it months ago in a dimly lit bar. The muse painted on Conyers’ ceiling. Except not quite, of course, because Poppy was alive and real and more beautiful, more unique and wonderful and baffling and hilarious and intoxicating than any painter could capture.
Poppy Fields, naked on his lap.
His eyes moved down her body. It was almost as familiar to him now as her face. Had they caught up on those missed few months? They had certainly tried, neither of them with jobs to go to, spending every possible moment together ever since he had first dragged her back to the mews house.
They had spent the whole rest of that day in bed, tangled together, dozing, talking, and everything else.
“What will your mother say?” Poppy had asked, and Roscoe had guessed she had started there because it was easier than saying: Will your father ever accept me?
“She won’t care much,” he had answered truthfully. “Maybe she might ask me if I have enough money. She’ll want to know I’m not heading down in the world.”
Poppy had swirled idle circles over the muscle of his shoulder and chest, painting him with secret tattoos. Quietly, she had said, “And that would be my fault.”
“Don’t even think that.”
“I don’t. Not really. But she might.”
“No. She’s not that kind of snob.” Not like my father, he didn’t add.
She had paused, then said haltingly, not looking at him, “But can you really see… I mean… I can’t imagine I’m getting invited for Christmas dinner.”
“I doubt I will either.”
“You’re his son. Of course you will.”
“But I won’t go without you.”
“Don’t… You know… There were all sorts of things I almost said to him. But if I said them, I knew I couldn’t take them back. I made myself remember he’s your dad. He’s going to be in your life. And that’s…important. Even if I can’t stand him, even if I can’t pretend to myself I’ll be able to like him, I’ll find a way to be around him. I’ll fake it. Whatever. And maybe he can learn to pretend to put up with me…”
“Hey, hey.” He pulled her tight against him. “I’ll never ask you to do that. You’ll never have to see him again if you don’t want to. I don’t want to.”
“But you’re his son. Roscoe… I don’t have a dad. Neither do my brothers, not really. I don’t want to make you choose that.”
“You’re not. He… He broke it. Whatever our relationship was. Father. Boss. Mentor. He ended up being none of those things.”
She touched his cheek. “You might feel differently one day.”
“Maybe. But you won’t suffer for it. I promise you that.”
Now, the excitement in her voice drew his eyes back to her face. Her hand was gripping the phone tight, her eyes alight. “Yes,” she was saying, fighting back a grin. “Yes, that’s fantastic. Thank you so much.”
She hung up, still grinning. “I got it!”
He smiled. “Of course you did.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“I can.”
They looked at each other for a moment, both smiling like loons.
“God, I love you,” he said.
Her smile grew even wider. “I love you, too.”
She cupped his face in her hands, kissed his forehead, then his cheeks in turn. “You’re beautiful,” she told him seriously. And even after everything, he found himself blushing.
He laughed it off, laughed because he was happy and so was she. And then he kissed her, slow and scorching under the Mediterranean sun, all around them foreign birds singing in foreign trees, and not a care in his head but the girl.