Chapter 18
Isabelle
I sit in my chair at the bar. James has been the considerate gentleman I know he is. He’s looked after me this evening, and the conversation has flowed well. I almost forgot about last Saturday night. We finish our meal, and a bottle of prosecco he ordered from the bar arrives freshly chilled.
“I figured we should celebrate a weekend without any major disasters.” He smirks, looking pointedly at my ankle.
“I’ll be fine by morning,” I laugh, swatting his arm. I want to leave my hand there on his warm forearm for a little longer, just to feel his body heat.
“Isabelle, can I ask you something?” James asks tentatively, his eyes looking away momentarily.
“Sure,” I respond, hesitating, wondering what could get him looking so nervous.
Yes, Miss
“What’s happening between you and Daniel, you seem to have spent more time with him lately?
” he says, looking down at his glass. He seems unsure about himself, but I can't figure out why.
He hasn't expressed any obvious interest in me.
He has for Belle at the club, but not me.
Not Isabelle, except for a few sneaky—or not so sneaky— glances at my cleavage and ass.
“James…” I trail off, unsure how to answer. Daniel has been very courteous and charming, but I'm no idiot. I can see he is a walking red flag, and I wouldn't touch him with a bargepole.
“I’m sorry, Iz,” he says, calling me by a shortened name for the second time today, something that just feels natural. The sound of it settles my soul deep inside.
“What's up, James? Talk to me,” I press. There's something clearly bothering him. His eyes seem clouded, and his shoulders are hunched, closing his body off to mine. I reach across and place my hand on his forearm again, lingering longer this time to savour the feel of his skin against mine.
He sits back, breaking the contact. Too much for him then, I guess. I can't figure him out. One minute, he seems keen. The next, he pulls away. He gets out of his chair, his t-shirt pulling across his chest, framing his broad shoulders. What he does next has me wriggling in my seat.
Alexandra Ravensbrook
He drops to his knees, his gaze settling upon mine. Taking my sprained ankle in his hands, he asks, “Do you mind?” He nods his head at my ankle.
“No… Not at all…” My voice is a strained whisper.
Strong, warm fingers encircle my ankle completely as his thumb starts to rub my inner ankle. My whole body melts with the contact. With just the touch of his fingertips, he possesses me entirely.
“How does it feel now? I'm used to working out a few injuries. Our rugby team coach was a physio.” he says, his voice soft and gravelly, his eyes roaming down my thighs and calves.
I can barely talk, my stomach tight and my heart pounding, his thumb working up slowly from my ankle to my calf, massaging in circles. “Good,” I manage to breathe out softly.
I grip the armrests of the chair, watching his face as his eyes darken with desire, his breaths coming faster.
His fingers grip my ankle tighter, his thumb roaming further up my calf.
He leans in, and his soft, warm breath plays over my skin.
I decide now would be a good time to see how he responds to praise after all he’d said at the club.
“You look good down on your knees, James. It suits you.” His hands freeze, but I can see his chest rise and fall quicker. He looks up at me. I feel his grip tighten, and he
Yes, Miss
shifts on his knees to adjust himself, his arousal evident in his dilated pupils and flushed cheeks.
My own breathing quickens, my core warming with tension and arousal. The things I could do with him there at my feet. Our gazes lock, and the whole atmosphere seems to crackle with tension. James licks his lips slowly and bites the bottom one.
“Excuse me, Sir. Madame,” the waiter interrupts, clearing his throat and shattering the moment between us. “The bill for your student’s meals needs signing.”
James rears back suddenly, the tension splitting like a lightning bolt has struck.
“Thank you. I'll come to the bar to settle up.” James falls back on his heels, his hands quickly loosening from my ankle, and he rises to stand, but his desire is noticeable by the bulge in his pants. He clears his throat and walks to the bar.
Holy shit! What the actual fuck just happened?
That was definitely a moment. I am not deluding myself here.
James—Mr. Wentworth—actually had a hard-on for me.
My inner schoolgirl screams, whilst the adult me crosses her arms, and I chide myself for playing stupid games.
Of course, he would only express interest for Belle; he doesn't work with her.
James was clearly being the rational one and avoiding any kind of workplace relationship.
But he can’t deny the bulge I just saw.
Alexandra Ravensbrook
The following morning, after a shocking night’s sleep filled with thoughts of James tied up on his knees and begging to please me, I limp down to the reception area, bags in hand, and gather the students together.
We’re due to leave on our day trip around London shortly, but there is still no sight of James.
I take my phone from my bag and dial his number.
Engaged. I roll my eyes and huff out a sigh, shoving my phone back into my bag.
“Has anyone seen Mr. Wentworth?” I ask the group. A low murmur and some tired-looking shrugs come back in reply. They all seem suitably enthused for the day ahead.
“Did I hear my name being called?”
James, calm and collected as usual, strides in from the restaurant area, looking like he’s walked off a movie set.
His hair is tousled, and a loose strand hangs over his eyes.
His navy blue shirt, tucked into his black trousers, fits close to his body, showcasing his broad shoulders and strong arms. The two open buttons at the top give him a more casual look, and the rolled-up sleeves exposing his forearms are like catnip for me.
What is it about that? Clearly I’m not the only one to notice, as Georgia whispers her appreciation to her friend, followed by a giggle.
Christ, was I that obvious at that age?
Yes, Miss
His eyes meet mine, and he lets a smile play across his full, soft lips.
“Miss Matthews, a word, please?” Oh God, please let this not be about last night, a reprimand for unprofessional behaviour.
I keep fucking up left, right, and centre lately.
He guides me to a seat and sits next to me, pulling papers from his bag.
His freshly showered scent and signature citrus and amber fragrance fill the air around him, drawing me in.
“I've made some changes to our itinerary in view of your injury.
I've been on the phone all morning and have managed to get the day trips cancelled, and the coach will take us to the theatre to use our backup tickets.
I've also spoken to the stage manager, and as they have no show this evening, they've agreed to give the group a tour and talk about the practicalities of putting a show together.”
I sit here astounded. Gobsmacked.
“You did all that this morning?” I ask, watching his hands rifle through the papers, putting them in order. His scribbles and highlighted strips scattered over the pages.
“Yes, I was up quite early. I couldn't really sleep...” His voice trails off, his hands still on the papers. He lets out a tired sigh and says, “Isabelle, I'm sorry if I crossed a line last night. It was entirely unprofessional.”
I interrupt him, placing my hand on his forearm, his muscles twitching beneath my fingertips.
Alexandra Ravensbrook
“James, I'm sorry too. It wasn't all you. Clearly the prosecco was at fault,” I joke, trying to reassure him. He turns to look at me, his deep brown eyes darkening, looking right into my soul, and I feel locked there, unable to turn away.
“Iz,” he sighs. “You’re an amazing woman, and any man would be foolish to walk away, but we can't do anything here.” He waves his free hand between us.
“Firstly, we’re colleagues, and that can make things really awkward at work.
But you’re also my ex-student, and that in itself can cause a lot of damaging rumours and allegations.
But mostly, Isabelle, I’m far too old for you.
” His voice gentles, and his gaze drops to my lips.
His face stills like he is miles away, thinking.
“I’d be no good for you. You deserve a man who can— Shit, I don’t even know why I'm prattling on like this.” His voice cracks with emotion he doesn’t need to verbalise.
“James, shh.” I try to settle him. “Let's not talk about this now.
It's not the time nor the place, and the students are starting to look annoyed.” I stand, smoothing my clothes, and pick up my bag, trying to maintain some semblance of professionalism and attempt a graceful exit, limping away to the front doors whilst my mind whirrs with everything he just said.
Yes, Miss