Chapter 12
Ivy
If I thought it was weird seeing an Alchemy client in the wild, it’s a hell of a lot weirder going for an awkward stroll with one of them.
I’m more exhausted than I realised, and I’d like to just plonk myself down on a bench by the canal and listen to some music while I chow down on the yummy chargrilled chicken wrap Bill made for me.
Now I’m walking when my feet are killing me, trying to take ladylike bites out of my wrap when I’m absolutely bloody famished, and enduring uncomfortable silence instead of Taylor Swift.
This was a terrible idea. I should have just instructed Gen to accept the money on my behalf.
I feel mortified enough about the certainty that I will accept it, even though I didn’t do much to earn it.
Baring my tits and giving his lovely dick a token tug doesn’t constitute sex, in my book.
And there was honestly no need for him to insist on meeting in person and even less need for me to agree to this shitshow.
The worst thing about the situation is that he’s unfairly, unreasonably gorgeous.
I’ve been conscious of that since he walked into the caff, and I’m even more conscious of it now that he’s strolling along beside me, all tall and hot and confident.
He’s shoved his fingers into his pockets, because jean pockets aren’t exactly known for being roomy.
I noticed when he was looking at the menu that he has one of those posh gold signet rings on his little finger. That’s probably his family crest on it.
Now I keep sneaking glances at him while we walk in the direction of the canal.
I dunno why. Probably because he’s so very enjoyable to look at and because I can’t quite believe I’m off for a lunchtime stroll with a real almost-duke.
It’s actually ridiculous. That nose of his looks even more aristocratic in profile.
It’s a properly noble nose, which is a stupid thing to say, because he is a nobleman.
And his eyelashes are very dark and thick—totally wasted on a bloke.
Unfortunately, we keep doing that thing where I glance over at him, and he glances at me at the same time, and we both quickly look away and pretend we weren’t staring.
Fucking brutal.
‘So, do you live in the area?’ he enquires stiffly as we walk. He sounds as if he’s forcing the small talk out.
I nod and hastily swallow my bite of food without chewing it enough. ‘Yeah.’ No way am I telling him just how close he’s been to my flat.
‘We’re in the area too. I mean, not quite around here, but that way.’ He jerks his thumb in an easterly direction. ‘We—ahh—have a place in Little Venice.’
‘Ohh.’ That makes a lot more sense. ‘Little Venice is gorgeous. I applied for a job at Clifton Nurseries once, but I didn’t get it.’ Clifton Nurseries is the prettiest garden centre in the world. It’s dead posh, and it’s like a secret paradise in the middle of London.
‘Oh! Are you green-fingered?’ His voice reeks of that kind of forced cheeriness that I find myself using with Dawn when she’s not mentally with us.
‘God, no. It was as a server in their café.’
‘Ahh, I see.’ He clears his throat. ‘Well, I’m sorry you didn’t get it. It’s a lovely place.’
By silent mutual agreement, we venture off the road and down the steps to the public garden by the canal. It’s the closest thing to a park in this neighbourhood.
‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to sit down?’ he asks as we pass an unoccupied bench, his face creased up with concern. He has dark circles under his eyes, and he definitely looks knackered under that playboy tan. ‘You must be tired.’
I’m done being polite at the expense of my poor body. ‘Actually, yeah, I’d love to.’ I sink down with a grateful sigh. ‘I just didn’t want to stay in the caff for my lunch hour, you know?’
‘Absolutely.’ He sits carefully down at the far end of the bench and twists his body to face me.
He grabs the back of the bench with one hand and I can’t help but notice he’s white-knuckling it as he searches for his words.
He clears his throat. ‘Look, Ivy.’ My name sounds weird coming from him, as if he’s really self-conscious about using it.
‘Ahh—firstly, thank you for agreeing to meet me and trusting me with your location. I wanted to swing by and apologise if I made you feel at all… disrespected, I suppose, the other night.’ His lovely green eyes are darting all over my face.
Outright panic is written all over his face.
Jeez, nervous much? I thought aristocrats were supposed to be socially, I dunno, lubricated.
‘It’s fine,’ I begin, but he shakes his head.
‘No. It’s not fine. You took me by surprise, you see.
’ He blows out a breathy laugh, even though it’s clear he’s not enjoying this at all.
‘That’s a major understatement. I did not see you coming, and it was truly a lovely surprise, but however, um, tempted, and enchanted, I was by you, I couldn’t allow myself to act on it for the reasons I outlined. ’
The only words I heard there were tempted and enchanted. Clearly they teach men like him to charm everyone with a pulse from infancy, but I’m pretty sure no man will ever declare themselves enchanted by me for the rest of my life, so I’ll take it.
He leaps up from the bench, shoving his hands in his pockets, and begins to pace back and forth in front of me, the manic shaking of his head making that sexy hair swing in front of his eyes.
I sit there like a goon and watch him as if he’s the ball at Wimbledon. His face has gone properly beetroot.
‘Goodness, this is difficult. Ahem, I’m so sorry—I wasn’t comfortable with exploiting you on any level, you see, but I was far too taken aback to deal with it in what I would consider an elegant manner, and for that I’m truly sorry.’
His delivery is beyond halting. I’d say it’s brutal. Bless him, he’s making this excruciating for both of us.
‘Honestly, it’s okay. These things happen.’
I’m making it sound like I get rejected by hot dukes in full period dress on a regular basis.
FFS. For something to do, I stuff my wrap straight into my mouth.
Maybe if I’m eating, it’ll make him feel less self-conscious.
I’m not sure whether he even requires input from me or simply wants to get this weird, choked little speech out.
He stops right in front of me and surveys me just as I’m trying to chomp through a particularly large piece of chicken. Gnashers closed around the wrap, I peer up at him. I literally could not look less ‘enchanting’ right now.
‘It’s very much not okay,’ he says, still peering down at me, ‘and I’ve been thinking constantly over the past week as to how to make it right. That is—I’ve been thinking about you—’
I finally saw the chicken piece off with my teeth and gape up at him as I chew.
He gazes back down at me for a moment, his face full of emotions that my masticating on poultry should absolutely not elicit, before spinning on his heel and turning away.
When he reaches the end of the bench he turns back, but he won’t meet my eye.
‘Obviously, that’s as inappropriate as it is inconvenient,’ he snaps in a harsher voice than he’s used so far, ‘so I should cut to the chase and let you enjoy your lunch break. Here goes: I understand that you were promised some… financial… recompense, for… “entertaining” me.’ He shoots me a brief look that’s scorching and judgmental in equal measure but could still melt the knickers off me if I wasn’t so pissed off at his clear deep reluctance to have felt any sort of attraction whatsoever.
This pompous prick could give Mr Darcy a run for his money.
I’m at a disadvantage, given that I’m still chewing furiously, but I raise my eyebrows to show him I take issue with him deciding to make me feel about a foot high yet again.
Clearly, it’s ineffective, because he presses on, staring with keen interest at the gravel beneath his feet.
‘I’m afraid I only found out that you were out of pocket a few days ago—my blasted brother, he—In any case, I absolutely don’t see why you should be left short because I failed to uphold my end of…
whatever that was.’ With an exasperated sigh, he pulls a wallet out of his jeans and extricates a cheque.
Dear God, do people still use actual cheques these days?
He’s holding it under my nose, impatiently, it seems. ‘Just take it. Please.’
Reluctantly, I remove one hand from my hefty wrap and take it off him. It’s a Coutts cheque, made out for five thousand pounds. I blow out a breath, because accepting a cheque for that much money in the cold, harsh light of day feels extra icky.
It’s totally different when you’ve hooked up with a guy in some sultry corner of Alchemy, and he’s just come, and he’s looking at you like you’re the answer to all his problems, and he insists on stuffing a wad of cash into your hand.
Because that’s a spontaneous tip from a grateful patron, and this is an outright payment for sex. Or not.
I’m not sure which is shittier—being paid for sex or being paid for sex you didn’t actually have.
I look up at him. He glances down the pathway and then back at me, as if he’s expecting to be arrested at any moment for soliciting. Not that anyone would think I’m an on-call hooker, looking like this.
‘It’s too much,’ I say weakly, because no matter how badly I want to run down to NatWest and cash this baby, I can’t in good conscience accept this.
I’m on the London Living Wage at the caff, which means that I earn just under fourteen pounds an hour, plus non-existent tips.
I’m not good enough at maths to do the division, but five grand is a lot of hours.
It’s also two months’ rent.