Chapter 17 #2
“It is. I wouldn’t have expected you to recognise the tune as he wasn’t singing to the troops in World War Two.”
“I do happen to like more modern music. It was just a bit of a surprise because I wouldn’t have classed ‘Candy Shop’ as a lullaby.”
“I’ll have you know that there are guaranteed restorative properties in my humming, and I can make anything sound good,” I say crossly.
He chuckles, and I keep humming, snuggling my cold feet under his, and eventually a sweet, contented silence falls. His breathing lengthens, and as if on cue, the bed depresses gently.
Reuben stiffens. “Is that dog on the bed?” he mumbles.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say airily. “It’s not good to think so hard about things.”
“Just hearing you say that makes me feel like I’m balancing over a live mine wearing a tutu.”
I snort. “Bernard says you’d look very fetching in a tutu.”
“Did he say that while he was stretching out on my very expensive mattress?”
“Possession is nine tenths of the law,” I say knowledgeably, and he laughs.
I can tell the moment he falls asleep. His arm slackens, and his breathing slows, but I carry on stroking his arm and humming.
I would do it for eternity if he needed it.
I don’t know whether that makes me the stupidest man on earth, but I can’t summon the energy to care while I’m lying in the warm shelter of his body.
My thoughts drift, focusing on nothing in particular, and I’m just starting to drop off when he makes a small, distressed noise. “Ssh,” I soothe, stroking a gentle hand down his arm again. His hand moves and grabs at mine.
I glance back at him. He’s sleeping again, his face peaceful, his hand in mine. I examine it, the long fingers, the rough calluses. Before I can think twice, I raise it and drop a kiss on his fingers. Warmth floods through me. “I love you,” I whisper.
I suck in a sharp breath as icy panic flashes through my veins. What the fuck? I check his face again and slump with relief when I see he’s still fast asleep.
I wiggle my hand out of his grip and rest it carefully on the sheets. I’m sweating now, and my breathing is coming hard.
He had a bad dream, and you feel sorry for him. That’s why you said it.
I repeat this a few times and gradually start to relax. Then I glance at him again, and the illusion collapses like a bubble in the breeze.
“Oh fuck,” I whisper. “You stupid twat, Xavier.”
I am in love with him. Of course I am and always have been. I’ve done everything possible, and worse, to convince myself it’s hate I feel for Reuben, and look where that’s got me.
Yes, fresh feelings are surfacing now, as warm as spring sunshine, because he rescued me and has devoted all his time and energy to caring for me the past couple weeks.
But that doesn’t explain the years I spent obsessing over him, pretending all our hate-fucking was about proving how I’m cold and never gave a fuck.
What a joke. The inferno we created every time we met, fell into bed, and fucked was the opposite of chilly detachment.
Passion and love fed my need to punish him, just like passion and love made me fall for the grumpy, hot-as-sun man I met when I was nineteen.
The fact he’d been kind, funny, and clever ensured my needy heart was done for.
Those feelings don’t just go away. Not for me when it comes to Reuben Langley, anyway.
Fucking hell. I’m doomed.
I wake in increments, savouring the warmth of the sheets and the smell of fabric softener.
Without opening my eyes, I stretch, hearing my joints give a satisfying crack.
Then I remember last night and sit bolt upright, looking to the other side of the bed.
It’s empty, and I wonder if it had all been a dream.
Then I see the dent in the pillow. It was real.
My late-night revelation returns, and I grimace. “Not thinking about that,” I say briskly.
I throw the covers back and jump out of bed. The cottage seems very quiet, and I pause, listening carefully. A husky laugh sounds, and I race to the window, stubbing my toe as I go.
“Shit,” I mutter, hobbling and then lifting the curtain.
I blink at the bright sunlight and then spy Reuben.
He’s standing at the bottom of the garden, silhouetted against the twinkling expanse of the Sound.
He’s wearing old jeans and a grey jumper and playing tug of war with Bernard over a piece of rope.
I can’t help my smile. The dog is so far removed from the wary little scrap we’d seen that first day.
Now his coat is clean, his eyes clearer, and each day he gets a teeny bit more confident.
He’s looking trustfully up at Reuben, and I don’t blame him.
I think I’ve looked that way myself a few times.
That thought would have been a niggling torture a few years ago, but today it seems strangely okay. Reuben laughs again, and I suddenly need to be down there. I throw on a pair of jogging bottoms and an old fun-run T-shirt that has holes in it.
I don’t bother to brush my hair before dashing down the stairs.
After being here for a couple of weeks, it’s settled in that nobody will be judging or analysing every aspect of my appearance.
I can be myself here. And, although it’s taken more like years than weeks, I know now that I am seen by Reuben in all ways, and I matter.
In the base of my brain, I’ve always known that.
It was just easier for a long while to forget that fact.
I kick my feet into Reuben’s old Nikes and let myself out of the back door. The two outside look up at the click, and Bernard gives a short bark and bounds towards me.
“Ouch!” I groan as he just avoids cracking his skull into my bollocks.
“I need those in good working order, baby,” I croon, leaning over him and giving him a fuss.
He throws himself to the ground enthusiastically, and I rub his belly.
“Who is the prettiest baby on all of Mull?” I croon.
“You are the canine equivalent of lemon drizzle cake.”
“And just as messy,” Reuben calls. “If you’re looking for those shoes that arrived in the orange box yesterday, you should probably examine the pieces under the sofa.”
I look up. “Orange box?” He nods, and my lip twitches. “Do you mean the Hermès master sneakers?”
He bites his lip like he’s trying not to laugh. “Is that what they were?”
“Don’t pretend not to know. Even you can recognise a Hermès box.”
“What do you mean, even me?”
I gesture at what he’s wearing. “You have to admit you’re not exactly designer in your choices.”
“And yet ironically, you still appear to have stolen most of my wardrobe.” He shakes his head. “I’ve never had so many parcels delivered to my house. It’s insane.”
“I’m an excessively beautiful and fashionable person, and designers need me photographed in their shit. It’s a curse, I tell you.”
“Not quite the curses mentioned in fairy stories. And the boxes are festooned with more ribbons than a show pony. We must have had fifty boxes arrive at the cottage since you came to stay.”
“Came to stay or was kidnapped?” I correct him, unable to stop the amusement in my voice.
“We’ve had more parcels than if Santa were delivering.”
“It’s a good job that Pip rerouted my mail from the agency.”
“Oh, yes. It’s absolutely spiffing.”
“I cannot help that Hermès, Dior, Gucci, and—” I snap my fingers. “Line, please.”
“YSL,” he says obediently.
“—and YSL are so enamoured of my body that they wish to adorn it.”
He shakes his head. “And it’s all free,” he marvels.
“Yep. I even got a Hermès travel bag for free the other week.”
He blinks. “And is that a good thing?”
“It is if you don’t fancy dropping fifty grand.”
He blanches. “What? On a bag?”
“Yep, and you usually have to beg to acquire one. They don’t let just anyone buy them.”
“You have to be vetted to give them fifty grand?” I nod. “Get the fuck out of here.” He shakes his head. “The fashion world is fucked up.”
“From your lips to Anna Wintour’s ears.”
“Who is she?”
“I am not even bothering with you anymore.”
He laughs, and I take the opportunity to examine his face.
He looks a little more rested. The lines at the corners of his eyes have disappeared today, and his face is clear of that awful grey look.
There are still signs of trouble—a weight that never quite seems to lift from his broad shoulders.
It’s been there for so long it almost seems a part of him.
I think I understand now that the weight doesn’t have to do with me.
He’d give me anything—the shirt off his back, all his money—but he won’t ever give me the full weight of his conscience.
He would view that as dishonourable and selfish.
I view it as sad, because he still doesn’t see me as an equal—someone who can help bear his burdens.
I love you, I think despairingly. And it’s so fucking dreadful.
“You okay?” His eyes have grown concerned.
“Fine,” I squeak. “Absolutely fine.”
“I wanted to thank you,” he says.
“Why?” I ask blankly.
“For last night.”
“Why would you thank me for that?”
He straightens his shoulders, rising to his full height. “You were very kind.”
“Oh, please don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret is safe with me.” He hesitates. “Would it be okay if I hugged you?”
I make an exaggerated grumpy noise to make him smile. After his mouth curves obligingly, I raise my arms. “If you must.”
I hold my breath as he wraps his arms around me and then relax into his body.
He gives a gusty sigh and rests his head on mine, and we stand for a few seconds.
My hand is on his chest, and I can feel something through his jumper.
There’s a slight lump there as if something is hanging on it, and I trace it with my fingers. What is it?