Chapter 12 #3
His expression was droll. “You say that like we don’t ever see each other.”
“It’s fine,” she said, tone insistent. “I just have to work—there’s no sense ruining your night for that. Have a good time.”
Except, he was on the edge of the booth, meaning without his moving, she remained effectively trapped, and for a long beat of time, Willow wondered if he wasn’t going to move.
But then, slowly, he unfurled his large body, and stood, his tongue briefly pressing the inside of his cheek, as though he was trying to hold back some words.
“I’ll just see Willow into a cab. Excuse me,” he said, without taking his eyes off Willow.
And his expression was, suddenly, thunderous.
In a way that sent shivers down Willow’s spine, and which she couldn’t understand.
His hand on the small of her back as they left the bar was firm. As they stepped outside, she pulled her coat on, taking a moment, only to find Francesco was staring at her with that same, angry look, and a sense that he was holding back from saying whatever was bothering him.
“Okay,” she said, not sure she wanted to press into whatever bruise it was. “Have a nice night.”
“Have a nice night?” he repeated, clearly incredulous. “That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re not doing your bit.”
“What?”
“We had a deal.”
She blinked at him, not understanding.
“You’re meant to be convincing them we’re in love.”
Her jaw parted.
“No, I’m playing your girlfriend. No one said anything about love.”
His eyes shifted away, like he was pushing down on some dark emotion, controlling his inner-most thoughts before he looked at her again, nostrils flaring in the same display of control.
“Would it have killed you to stay another half hour?”
Yes. “I would have thought you’d be glad I’m leaving. It gets you off the hook way sooner.”
“Off the hook?”
“From spending a night with me.”
His jaw tightened, like he was grinding his teeth. “I have no issue spending the night with you.”
Willow’s stomach rolled, because that was the last thing she wanted to hear. Talk about damning with faint praise. But what had she expected? A declaration of love?
Yes. At least, that’s what she’d desperately wanted.
“And we had a deal. This is what we do. I played the part for your family—,”
“And I played the part for yours, in Italy. We’re even.”
“So that’s what this is? You think I’m asking too much of you?”
“Why are you so mad at me?”
“Because you’re acting like I’m the last person you want to be around. You’re acting like this is torture—,”
It is. The words were on the tip of her tongue. She wanted to hurl them at him, along with the reason why it was torture. She wanted to admit how much he’d come to mean to her. How much she’d come to love him. To need him.
But it would be the death knell to their friendship, and she couldn’t handle that.
She shook her head quickly, to dispel those thoughts and words. “I’m just tired,” she said. “And I don’t want to fight with you.”
“Yeah, well, suddenly, I want to fight with you,” he snapped, and her heart zinged.
His emotions were unlike anything she’d ever seen from him.
Francesco was always in control, always almost unemotional, except for that week, when his father had died, and he’d showed her that his world had fallen apart.
“Why?” she asked, staring up at him, frowning in confusion. “We don’t fight.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” he said, but instead of fighting, he pulled her into his arms and held her there, just staring down at her.
“Fucking hell, Willow, what are you doing to me?” and before she could realise his intention, he was kissing her.
Not in a chaste way of greeting, either, but with his whole body, his whole mouth, all of himself, kissing her until she could hardly breathe, and her eyes filled with stars, and the world seemed to be spinning way too fast. Her only option was to cling to him, first to the lapels of his shirt and then, by wrapping her hands around his neck, holding him for dear life.
When he broke the kiss and stared down at her, she had no way of knowing what he was feeling. “This has to end,” he muttered. “You’re right. Leaving is the only way.”
And with no time to even process his words, much less respond, his hand had lifted, and one of London’s famous black cabs swooped in behind them. Francesco reached up and unfastened her hands, keeping them held in his.
“Let’s take some time, before we see each other again. This…doesn’t work.”
Her stomach seemed to roll and clench. She looked away quickly, her pulse washing in her ears, blotting out any other sound.
Then, Francesco was moving to the cab and opening the rear door.
Before Willow could slink into the backseat, he’d thrown a fifty pound note on the front passenger seat.
“The ride’s on me. See the lady gets home safely. ”
“Yes, sir,” the cabbie nodded, before pulling into traffic, leaving Willow in the back seat, totally at sixes and sevens, and devastated in a way she’d never in her life known before.