Chapter Twelve
‘Take me home, Goddesses!’ River calls to the sky, lifting his arms wide as if offering himself up.
Another outrageous rumble of thunder – the loudest I’ve ever heard – calls out as if in answer.
I’ve never seen anything like it! Gosh. I think this is it.
Somehow, it’s working. My God. Am … am I magic?
Can I do magic? River spins around in the rain like a man who’s just been given a reprieve from a life sentence.
‘Here I am! Take me back to Bedlam! I’m ready!
’ I can’t help but start to laugh as he starts to kick at the fast-forming puddles like a wild-west Gene Kelly. ‘Take me home!’
River’s eyes meet mine. He sees me laughing at him and starts to laugh too.
We shake our heads, full of shared relief and incredulity at what we’re witnessing.
I start to spin in the rain too and then, to my surprise, his expression abruptly shifts, gaze travelling up and down my body, olive-green eyes suddenly glinting like a shark, if a shark had really pretty eyes.
I peer down at myself to see that Mrs Casablancas’ kaftan is now fully soaked through with rainwater and fully clinging to the not insignificant curves of my body.
My whole deal is pretty much available for the viewing. And River is very openly viewing.
‘Plot twist,’ he murmurs as if surprised, eyebrows furrowing, tongue swiping his lower lip like he’s hungry and I am lunch.
And right there, in that facial expression, I see the River Oakley I wrote – the obnoxious, arrogant womaniser with the face of an angel; the cowboy who broke the hearts of endless good women all across Burnet County without a second thought.
‘Shame I couldn’t stick around for a little longer,’ he calls out over the downpour, blinking away the glittering droplets of rain that look like dew on his eyelashes. ‘We might have had fun, you and I.’
I am not the only one drenched through. The Shakespeare T-shirt clings to the planes of River’s chest and I find myself wondering what the skin beneath would taste like mingled with rain.
Which is unusual because while I enjoy sex as much as anyone, I’ve never particularly considered myself a horny person.
And especially not since Henry leaving put my self-confidence in the bin.
I actually had to re-watch the Fleabag and Priest scene online just to double check the fire did still ignite given the right stimulus.
It did ignite. Just like it’s igniting now.
And then, because this all feels like a fever dream, and because I’m a romance writer in the middle of a raging storm, standing in front of an unbelievably gorgeous wet cowboy who is about to disappear for ever.
Because I’m tired and weary and want to feel better than I do for just a moment.
Because he’s looking at me like it would be welcome.
And because after a lifetime of good guys, I’m more than a little curious about this bad one, even if he is a figment of my imagination.
For all of those reasons I step forward onto my tiptoes, grab the collar of River’s drenched T-shirt and pull him towards me.
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It’s a pleased sort of surprised though.
I’m about to do a very unlike me thing and boldly press my lips right on his when he shifts his head backwards, perusing my face like I’m a curiosity to him.
‘Hi there,’ he murmurs eventually, voice a low, intimate growl.
‘Um, hello,’ I reply, my heart starting to thud with the anticipation of what’s about to happen.
And then, eyes fastened on mine the whole time, River starts to unhurriedly dance his fingers down my back, stopping when his hands are very definitely on my bottom.
He squeezes playfully, pulling me closer towards him, a slow half-smile on his face.
My breath catches in my throat. His hardness feels certain and delicious.
I press myself against him and … sigh. I actually sigh.
I see.
My whole body suddenly starts to throb in a way that feels deeply unfamiliar and very interesting indeed.
I can barely move a muscle as, there on the rooftop, in the middle of the most insane day I’ve ever experienced, River Oakley glances greedily at my lips and tilts his head slowly towards mine.
I linger on his arrogant mouth, his unkempt golden stubble, before allowing my eyes to drift closed.
My shoulders start to soften as I feel those lips, that stubble, the apple pie and whisky scent of him on … my cheek?
Wait.
He is kissing me on the cheek?
My eyes fly open in surprise. I take a step back.
River is fully grinning at me now. It transforms his face.
From surly and intimidating, to bright and warm and fun.
I notice, then, a tiny gap in between his front two teeth.
It’s annoyingly charming on a face so otherwise faultless.
Hmm, those teeth were not in the description I wrote of River Oakley. They absolutely should have been.
I adjust my raindrop-covered glasses and push away the unexpected disappointment swirling my belly at the lack of a real kiss.
It must show on my face because River shrugs a shoulder and throws me a wink. ‘Some girls just ain’t ready to be kissed like that, Gertie.’
I blink, momentarily affronted. And then I can’t help but laugh out loud. Oh my God. The audacity. Though, I have to say, as a writer I can’t help but appreciate a humdinger of a line when I hear one.
Gosh, those poor good women of Burnet County. Their poor hearts. They had no chance. This man knows exactly what he’s doing.
‘That sounds a lot like something a romantic hero might say,’ I shout over the deluge, making a mental note of it and tucking it away for a future book.
‘Romantic hero? I don’t think so,’ River calls back disdainfully. ‘My mother always said romance is a game for fools. And I happen to think she was bang on the money.’
‘Oh, but you’re missing out!’
He scoffs. ‘I got everything I need in my life.’ Glancing up at the rapidly moving clouds above us, he tips his hat in my direction once more. ‘Now, for the second time, I must bid you goodnight.’
I shake my head and chuckle. ‘Goodbye then, River Oakley!’ I hold my hand up in a soggy farewell as the rain continues to hammer down on the roof, the thunder reverberating around us like we’re smack bang in the middle of the boom.
‘This was so weird! Good luck with it all! And hey, maybe you could try to be a little nicer to—’
I cut myself off because, all at once, the rain stops, just as abruptly as it started. The thunder too. Like someone flicked an off switch on the storm. The pair of us look up open-mouthed as the clouds rapidly clear, revealing a moon that lights the inky sky to a calm dusky blue.
‘Wait,’ I mutter. ‘What …? I thought that was …’
‘No, no, no,’ River groans, bouncing on his heels a little. ‘Take me home, Goddesses …’ he repeats, only it doesn’t quite have the same energy as before. ‘Please?’ he tries. ‘Universe?’
But nothing happens. He doesn’t disappear into a puff of smoke, or a flash of light. It’s a total anti-climax. Without the apocalyptic drama of the rain and the lightning, he’s just a man on a London roof terrace asking a bunch of unknown goddesses to take him home.
‘Um … I … I think maybe that was just a summer storm …’
My cheeks start to redden. How embarrassing. I only let him feel me up because I genuinely thought he was going to disappear. And now … awkward. So awkward. Like when the nightclub is closing and the big lights come on and you have to reckon with the choices you made in the dark.
River’s smile has dropped, mouth a sullen line once more. ‘It didn’t work? That wasn’t it? Fuck.’
‘I never would have, you know, tried to … if I didn’t think you were about to disappear.’ My voice is coming out prim, I don’t seem able to stop it. ‘It’s very, very unlike me. As you’re aware, I’m in love with another man. Henry Irving. Deeply in love, in fact. Totally committed.’
‘Calm down, Gertie.’ River lifts his chin. ‘You ain’t exactly my type.’
I bristle, despite myself. ‘You might want to inform your ass-grabbing hands of that.’
He doesn’t reply, but his eyes glint with amusement. A rush of pure indignance surges through me.
My nostrils flare. ‘You … you’re … you’re very arrogant!’
River presses his ass-grabbing hands to his face and says in an overtly emotionless voice, ‘Very arrogant? Say it ain’t so.’
My eyes widen. ‘Oh my God. You’re terrible.’
He sticks out his bottom lip pityingly. ‘Cute. That the best you got?’
I huff. The truth is that yes, unfortunately, it is the best I got. At least until I wake up in the middle of the night, two months from now, and think of a perfectly scathing response.
I take a deep steadying breath and force my tone into something bright and platonic. ‘We’ll speak no more of it. Let’s just go back down to the flat and figure out what to do next over a nice cup of—’
‘So help me God if you offer me another cup of hot tea right now, Gertie.’
I clamp my mouth shut and nod. Fair. I, too, get the feeling it’s going to take more than a nice cup of tea to figure this mess out.