Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
It may be the middle of summer and the country may have been basking in the midst of a heatwave for the last two weeks, but as we step outside, it’s clear normal service has resumed and the sky is full of grey clouds and the air thick with drizzle.
The type of drizzle that will have my hair in a ball of frizz in a matter of minutes.
Everyone else in my family seems to have come prepared for the weather, pulling out raincoats and cagoules from their rucksacks and sheltering under waterproof hoods.
“Shit,” I mumble under my breath.
“What’s wrong?” Horatio asks, digging around in his own rucksack – a rucksack that looks suspiciously high tech and expensive.
“I didn’t bring a coat.” I fold my arms over my white Nirvana T-shirt. A white Nirvana T-shirt which is going to turn see-through in a matter of minutes and leave me looking like a contestant in a wet T-shirt contest.
“Have mine,” he says, thrusting his coat in my direction.
“Oh no, I’m not going to take your coat from you.” I shake my head.
He leans closer and whispers in my ear, “It’s what a boyfriend would do. You have to take it. Otherwise, you’re breaking my cover.”
I peer up at him suspiciously, not convinced by his argument at all. He shakes the coat at me.
“You’re going to get soaked,” I say. “And you’re not hardy like us Brits. You’ll end up with a snivel and then flu and then pneumonia. And then I will be responsible for your untimely demise.”
“Once again, wasn’t born in California. Come from Chicago. Do you know how cold our winters are there?”
We glare at each other, neither one of us willing to back down. But then I catch pervy cousin Jack peering towards me, and I decide I really don’t want him to see my bra.
I slide my arms into the coat as Horatio holds it up for me, then zip it up and yank up the hood. It’s far too big for me. I’m absolutely drowning in it. My hands are lost in the sleeves and the hem reaches right down to my knees.
I peer up at him, unimpressed. “I look ridiculous.”
“You look really cute,” he says. “I like you in my clothes.”
I roll my eyes and then the sleeves, and as soon as my hand is poking out, he’s grabbed it in his, and we set off in a line. My mum and Uncle Harold leading the charge.
If it wasn’t so misty, drizzly, and wet, I think I’d actually enjoy this hike – something I would never admit to my mum.
The countryside out here is beautiful, a deep emerald green you rarely see in the hustle and bustle of London, even out on the Heath, which has turned gradually yellow under the frazzling heat of the last two weeks.
Strands of flowers wind up the trunks of trees and through the hedgerows, and the meadows we pass are dotted with them too, the fields high with uncut wheat.
My mother marches us up and down hills, through fields, under trees and over stiles. Despite the trainers, my legs are starting to tire, although Mr Hottie beside me seems just as bright as when we began. Must be all those gym workouts.
Soon we’re lagging at the back of the group, along with Tiggie, who’s definitely not enjoying this wet walk, and Prim, whose legs are tired from her morning run.
“I could be doing so much more glamorous things right now,” Tiggie moans. “Or, you know, I could just be in the spa already, bubbling away in the hot tub.”
I groan. That does sound nice. I’d give anything to put my feet in bubbling warm water right now.
“What glamorous things?” Prim asks. The lenses of her glasses are speckled with water and slightly fogged. I can no longer see her eyes.
“Oh, numerous things,” Tiggie exaggerates.
“I was invited to the opening of a new gallery down in Chelsea this morning. And I also had an invitation for brunch with the girls. Oh, that reminds me.” She grabs both mine and Prim’s hands.
“Delilah got a new flat. She’s invited us to go check it out this Wednesday – all of us. You have to come.”
“Sounds fun,” I say. Delilah is one of the few of Tiggie’s friends I can actually stand. “I’ll come.”
Prim snorts. “No, you can’t.”
“Why not?” I say, slightly outraged.
“It’s Horatio’s birthday, silly.” She laughs, and I almost stop dead in my tracks.
Horatio and I both glance at each other, startled.
“Oh yes, I forgot.”
“What are you doing for your birthday?” Tiggie asks Horatio. “I’m assuming Molly hasn’t planned anything then.”
“I’m going to the Nightjar, the bar right off the Thames,” Horatio says.
“Oh my goodness, I love that bar,” Tiggie exclaims. “We’re so coming too.”
“What about Delilah and her flat?” I say, slightly panicked.
While the fake dating is officially meant to last until I’ve brewed that antidote, I wasn’t expecting to have to put on any more performances after this weekend.
This one is proving tricky enough. And while I’ve escaped detection so far, I’ll be pushing my luck letting my sisters (particularly Prim) hang out with us for any more amount of time than is strictly necessary.
“Oh, I can go another day. She won’t mind,” Tiggie says. “It’s not every day your sister’s boyfriend turns …”
“Thirty-three,” Horatio says.
“Exactly,” Tiggie claps her hands. “I can’t wait.”
Her newfound enthusiasm seems to speed up her pace. Soon she’s marching ahead, Prim trailing after her, and leaving me and Horatio at the back of the group.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “She does that.”
“Does what?”
“Invites herself to things all the time.”
“I don’t mind the three of you coming. I’d like you there.”
“Yes,” I say, “but we’d have to continue the charade of the fake dating.”
He shrugs. “Honestly, Molly, that’s no hardship.”
He squeezes my hand, which sets tingles skidding all through my body, and I seem to lose the ability to coordinate my feet, tripping over them and landing with a hard thud on the ground, which has everyone in front of us spinning around to find me sprawled in the mud and pain soaring through my ankle.
“Ouch!” I exclaim.
Immediately my mum is marching down the line to see what the commotion is all about.
“What’s wrong?” she asks, surveying me with displeasure.
“I’ve hurt my ankle,” I say, clutching it in both hands.
“Can you stand?”
Horatio offers me his hand and pulls me up onto my good foot. I lower the right one gingerly to the ground, but as soon as I try to bear any weight on it, more of that pain shoots through my leg.
“Nope,” I say. “Nope. Nope. Nope.”
“George!” my mum shouts. “First aid kit, please!”
My dad comes hurrying down the line, with a green medical bag clutched to his chest. He hands it to my mother, who rummages through it, pulling out a roll of bandages and then a jar of her home-brewed anti-inflammatory lotion.
“Not to worry,” she explains as she unscrews the lid, “we’ll have you fixed up in no time.”
However, the confidence on her face wanes as she glances down into the jar.
“It’s empty,” she says, a flush immediately claiming her cheeks. This is not like my mum. She’s usually super organised and super prepared. Failing to stock up the ointment is a major failure.
“It’s okay,” I say. “We can wrap it in the bandage and I’ll hobble along.” I grit my teeth at the idea. We’ve been walking for an hour. It’s an hour back to the hotel. An hour hobbling along when the pain already has tears bubbling in my eyes.
“I’ll tell you what,” Horatio says, stepping forward and taking command of the situation, “you continue your walk. I’ll take Molly back.”
“I think it’s going to take two of you,” I admit.
“No, it won’t,” he says, and before I know what he’s doing, he’s scooped me up into both his arms.
I make a little squeak, and I swear every female relative I have swoons slightly at the sight.
“You can’t carry me all the way back. We’ve been walking for an hour.”
“You don’t weigh a thing,” Horatio says, which I see out of the corner of my eye has my mother frowning. “I lift much heavier weights at the gym.”
“Right,” I say. “It’s still a long way.”
“Better get going then,” he says. “We’ll see you all later.”
And before anyone else can argue with him, he spins around and starts walking us back the way we came.
When we’re out of earshot of the others, he says, “I think there’s a shortcut.”
“So you were just showing off, offering to carry me on an over-an-hour hike to impress my relatives.”
“Of course. Isn’t that what I’m here for this weekend?”
“I suppose so,” I confess, trying not to notice how comfortable it feels in his arms and pressed against his muscular chest. A chest which is visible because I’m wearing his coat and he’s wearing nothing but a T-shirt; a wet T-shirt that’s clinging to his body and ensuring every single muscle he possesses is outlined as clear as day.
The shortcut definitely reduces our walking time by half, but that still leaves Mr Hottie carrying me across the countryside in the drizzling rain for half an hour.
And without any complaint or any moaning.
For a man who used to complain and moan whenever I left a pair of shoes in the communal corridor, or forgot to separate my recycling, this is strange behaviour indeed. It has to be the love potion, right?
How could he have gone from finding me excruciatingly annoying to literally acting like my very own action hero? Although, last night in the bar, he said he liked me as soon as we met. Though that was acting, right? Part of the fake dating.
It’s all so confusing. My head starts to hurt as much as my ankle.
In fact, that’s a little bit of a lie. My ankle is feeling a lot better. It’s no longer throbbing and the pain is no longer soaring through my leg. I could admit this to Mr Hottie, save him the trouble of carrying me and let me hobble the remaining distance.
But honestly… isn’t this every woman’s fantasy?
Haven’t I been dreaming of this since hormones hit me like a bus at puberty?
And won’t I be storing it away in my little bank of naughty fantasies?
Yeah, this is way too good an opportunity to dismiss.
Even if the poor man is going to have sore arms by the time we make it back to the hotel.