Chapter 18 #2
Then everything returns in pieces.
My bed.
AJ.
AJ in my bed.
AJ’s arm across my middle, his chest against my back, one bare leg tangled with mine as if we have done this a hundred times and not exactly once.
He kisses the back of my neck.
My body, traitor that it is, responds before my brain has finished coming online.
“Pippa,” he murmurs.
I make a sound that is not a word.
His mouth curves against my skin. I can feel it.
“We have to be at the station in an hour.”
That wakes me properly.
I turn my head, which is difficult because he is very close.
“What?”
“Station. An hour.”
I blink at him.
He looks annoyingly good for a man who has just woken up. Sleep-creased face, wrecked hair, eyes warm and amused and a little too fond for safety.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Six-ish.”
“Six-ish?”
“Six-oh-seven.”
“That is not ish.”
“I was softening the blow.”
I groan and roll onto my back.
Mistake.
He is right there, propped on one elbow, looking down at me with an expression that makes several parts of me forget we have jobs, responsibilities and uniforms that require functional limbs.
His gaze dips.
Not subtly.
I pull the sheet higher.
His mouth twitches.
“Professional,” I say.
“Trying.”
“Try harder.”
“I’d rather not.”
The room goes very still after that.
Not awkward.
Worse.
Aware.
He leans down and kisses me.
Slowly at first. Then not slowly enough. His hand slides to my waist under the sheet, and for five extremely foolish seconds, I let myself kiss him back as if clocks, call-outs and consequences are fictional concepts invented by people with poor imagination.
Then I put a hand on his chest and push.
Not hard.
Enough.
“Station,” I say.
“Yes.” He drops his forehead briefly to my shoulder. “Unfortunately. I need to head to the B&B and get changed first.”
His eyes search mine for a second, and I see the words gathering. Not a declaration. Not pressure. But something. Something careful. Something that would make this more than two adults, a morning after a night shift and a very good reason to change the subject.
So I change it first.
“You really do need to go.”
A flicker crosses his face.
There and gone.
Then he nods.
“Yes.”
He kisses my shoulder once more before he moves away.
I hate that he does that.
I hate more that I like it.
The room feels colder the moment he is out of the bed. He gathers his clothes from the floor with only moderate dignity, which is impressive given the state of them. His shirt is inside out. His belt has somehow made it near the wardrobe. One sock is by the door, the other under the chair.
I watch him locate everything because I am not above enjoying the aftermath of my own poor decision-making.
He pulls on his trousers, then pauses with his shirt in hand.
“What?” I ask.
He looks at the scratch marks on his chest.
Then at me.
I refuse to blush.
Absolutely refuse.
He smiles.
Slow.
Terrible.
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
“Just evidence.”
“Put your shirt on.”
“Yes, Watch Manager.”
It sounds differently now.
Everything sounds differently now.
He seems to realise it at the same time I do. The words hang there, half joke, half memory of his mouth against my ear and his hand on my hip and that low, dangerous certainty he had when he told me I was not in charge here.
My skin heats.
His eyes darken.
“No,” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.” He winks, and my ovaries stage a formal protest against the concept of employment.
AJ finishes dressing, then comes to sit on the edge of the bed beside me. He does not touch me immediately, which is somehow worse than if he had. He waits until I look at him.
“Are we all right?” he asks.
The question is simple.
It still makes my chest feel too small for my ribs.
“Yes.”
The answer comes quickly.
Too quickly, maybe.
But not falsely.
We are all right.
I am the problem.
Not him. Not this. Not exactly.
Just the sudden, impossible question of what all right means after a morning like this.
He nods slowly, as if he has heard both the answer and the things hiding badly behind it.
“I’ll see you at the station,” he says.
“Yes.”
He leans down and kisses me again.
Not like before.
Not like the hallway, or the bed, or any of the moments my body is already threatening to replay at inconvenient intervals for the rest of my life.
This kiss is brief.
Warm.
Almost ordinary.
That is what makes it dangerous.
Then he leaves.
I listen to him move through the flat. The floorboard in the hall creaks. The front door opens. Pauses.
Closes.
The silence after is enormous.
I lie there for approximately eight seconds.
Then I sit up.
Bad idea.
My whole body offers immediate feedback.
Apparently having sex after a night shift, with a man who has opinions about pace and control, is not an activity that encourages easy movement afterwards.
I swing my legs out of bed and sit on the edge of the mattress, staring at the clothes scattered across the floor, the dent in the pillow where his head was, the duvet twisted around my hips.
My flat looks the same.
I sit there for another moment, listening to the enormous silence he has left behind, then force myself up because lying in the wreckage of my own choices is not technically a morning routine.
In the bathroom, the mirror is unkind but not unfair. My hair is a disgrace, my eyes look too dark, and there is a faint mark near my collarbone that is going to require tactical clothing and a stern conversation about impulse control.
I turn the shower on and stand under it longer than I have time for, trying not to ask what any of this means. It could mean nothing. Two adults, too much adrenaline, too little sleep, and very good sex.
A moment.
A release.
A terrible idea with good hands and green eyes. Except he leaves after one more night, and that thought cuts through the steam sharper than it should.
He goes back to Carlisle, to the newsroom and deadlines and whatever future is waiting for him.
I stay here, Watch Manager Hart, Fellside station, reports and training and call-outs and Kev’s ongoing war against basic cutlery.
The problem is not that I think AJ will be cruel. Cruel would be easier.
The problem is that he was kind.
Careful.
Interested.
He kissed me awake because we had to get to the station, not because he wanted to escape before the morning became complicated.
And by the time I turn the shower off, cover the mark on my collarbone, and drink half a lukewarm cup of tea, I am professionally dressed, physically wrecked, and emotionally unqualified for the fact that I have to see him again in less than an hour.