Chapter 4
Chapter Four
R uben couldn’t believe his fucking luck.
Even the knowledge that Hans was loitering along this street somewhere, dogging their every step, wasn’t enough to wipe the smile from his face.
He was walking into town with Cherry Neita.
Cherry Neita. This morning, he hadn’t even known that name.
Now it held as much significance to him as Jan Amos Komensky’s.
Although, he’d never wanted to fuck the father of modern education senseless. So maybe not quite the same.
She strutted beside him, her hips twitching within the confines of that tight, knee-length skirt—not that he could see much of it, thanks to the coat she wore. Bloody January weather.
But his imagination was filling in the gaps just fine.
“Are you sure you want to walk?” he asked. “It’s cold. ”
She gave him an odd look. “The town centre’s just around the corner.”
True enough; he could hear the busy traffic already. But he didn’t want her to walk a metre if it wasn’t necessary. Ruben cast a worried glance down at her high heels. “Don’t your feet hurt?”
“No,” she smiled. Not enough for the dimples, but enough to make him feel slightly dizzy. “They aren’t that high.”
He raised his brows, sceptical.
“They aren’t ,” she insisted with a laugh. “I’m just tall.”
“How tall?”
“Five-eleven. How tall are you?”
At home, most women knew his exact height.
It was part of his supposed eligibility, and one of the only positives about him.
But here in England, no-one gave a fuck about the royal family of a tiny Scandinavian island—which was why he came here so often.
No-one knew him until he knew them. That was how it should be.
“I’m six-four,” he said. “I like that you’re tall.”
“Oh, well if you like it, I can rest easy.”
He looked over to find her pursing her lips, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Feel free to laugh at me,” he grinned back. “I know I’m arrogant.”
She chuckled. “As long as you know.”
“What I meant,” he said, “is that I like talking to people who are at eye level.” They turned into the town centre, right onto the little high street. “Where do you want to eat, by the way?”
She shrugged. “I don’t really mind. Somewhere with cake.”
“You like cake?”
“I love cake. Plus, it’s my birthday.” The word ended quietly, her voice fading away, as if she wanted to snatch it back. Her eyes flew to his, and he had the distinct impression that she hadn’t meant to tell him that.
Well. Too late now.
“Your birthday,” he repeated slowly, coming to a stop. He caught her hand in his, swinging her around to face him. Every time he touched her, something inside him snapped to attention—as if, now they’d made physical contact, the party could really begin.
Right. Because women always went from hand-holding to the bedroom in a matter of minutes.
She looked up at him—but not up up. She really was tall, and he really did like it. A lot.
“We should do something to celebrate,” he said.
She shook her head. Her hair bounced around her face. He had the strongest urge to sink his hand into the curls, but she’d probably slap him for it. Definitely, in fact.
“I don’t celebrate,” she said, her voice low.
“Ever?”
“Not birthdays.”
“Why not? ”
She shrugged. “ Well done, you continued to exist? It’s ridiculous. Birthdays are for children. I am not a child.”
“But you want birthday cake,” he murmured.
Did she notice the fact that he was pulling her closer?
He didn’t think so. She came as if floating, half-dreaming, and now he imagined that he could feel the heat of her body, even through both their coats.
There was barely a breath between them. He could kiss her.
Did she notice? Or was she as mindless right now as he was?
“I always want cake,” she replied, her voice absent. “Everyone wants cake.” But her eyes were focused firmly on his lips. Maybe he should kiss her.
A bus barrelled past, its engine thundering and its heavy wheels splashing through the puddles left by last night’s rain. In an instant, Cherry went from half-hypnotised to razor-sharp, twisting away from the road until she stood firmly behind him.
Ruben blinked, disarmed. “What are you—?”
“A bus splashed me once,” she said. “ Ruined my stockings. Anyway, shall we go? I’ve only got an hour, you know.”
His heart fell. She no longer sounded hypnotised. But on the bright side, he now knew that she wore stockings rather than tights.
That was valuable information.
“You know,” he said, “I’m sure Tabary wouldn’t mind if I kept you out a little longer. It’s not like you have a class schedule, right?”
She rolled her eyes. “Are you serious? Chris is all about punctuality. I’d have to be the Queen of bloody England to get away with that.”
Ruben felt his lips twitch. “Fair enough.” He turned his attention to the high street, scanning the rows of shops and cafes before them. “That place looks good.”
“Copper?” She blessed him with a smile. “You have great taste. Let’s go.”
Cherry was no stranger to flirting.
In fact, she counted it as a hobby. At least 60% of her daily social interaction consisted of flirting, and sometimes she even went wild and followed it up with dates and sex and… well, that was it, really. But the point was, when it came to flirting, Cherry was something of an expert.
Or she’d thought she was. But for the past thirty minutes, all she’d done was choke down her sandwich and avoid eye contact and try not to wring her hands. It was all very embarrassing.
Ruben sat across the table, looking irritatingly gorgeous and infuriatingly confident. He hadn’t mentioned her sudden silence. He hadn’t really tried to lure her out of it, either. There was a gleam in his eye that said he knew exactly what had her so quiet.
She believed that gleam. He seemed the kind of man who knew things. A capable kind of man, the sort with a hard-won and well-earned confidence that sent shivers down her spine and dangerous thoughts through her head. Which was why she suddenly couldn’t flirt—or even speak .
Cherry sent shivers. Cherry inspired thoughts. Cherry drove people wild. Cherry did not forget herself in a public street over the curve of a man’s lips or the incongruous length of his eyelashes.
Yes, it was all incredibly embarrassing. She might be infatuated.
She patted at her lips with a napkin, then rifled through her handbag, which she’d stashed on the seat next to her.
At the time, she’d thought it best that he couldn’t sit beside her.
But now he was sitting in front of her, and she’d spent the whole meal trying not to drool over his hands. His hands , for Christ’s sake!
She pulled out a tube of lipstick and a compact mirror—but he reached across the table, catching her wrist. It was the lightest touch of skin against skin, hardly a restraint, but it released a torrent of dark images in Cherry’s mind. He could restrain her, if he wanted to. If she asked him to.
God, she was ridiculous.
“What?” she clipped out.
“Cake,” he said simply. And despite herself, she softened. He’d remembered the cake.
Of course he did , her inner voice snapped. It sounded suspiciously like her mother. Don’t give him points for basic recollection.
He plucked a dessert menu from the centre of the table and handed it to her with a flourish.
It was odd—everything he did seemed so natural, so easy, yet he was constantly and completely charming.
In Cherry’s experience, charm took work.
Perhaps he was especially good at faking it.
The thought should have made her wary, but instead, she began to think of him as a kindred spirit.
A kindred spirit with deliciously broad shoulders and a beautiful smile. And very big hands.
“What would you like?” he asked.
“Um…” She studied the menu, as if she hadn’t come here a thousand times. It was a touch upmarket for a weekday lunch, but his cufflinks were mother of pearl. There was no point taking him to bloody Greggs.
“Can’t choose?”
“I might be struggling,” she admitted, allowing herself a small smile. And then, before she could think better of it, Cherry slid the menu into the centre of the table and leant forward. “What do you think?”
He looked delighted. As if he’d been waiting for just this moment—for her to make a move, to come to him. Which she hadn’t, she told herself firmly. She just wanted some advice. Cake was a serious business.
But clearly, Ruben didn’t receive that message.
He leant forward too, until their heads were perilously close, and he gave her another of those beautiful smiles.
Fine lines fanned out from the corners of his brown eyes, and his scent—clean and fresh, like linen, with a hint of something spicy—enveloped her.
Moving towards him had been a very bad idea. But she couldn’t take it back now. It would be rude. And she was rather enjoying the proximity .
“The obvious choice is chocolate,” he said. “But then, you strike me as a woman with individual tastes.” His gaze caught hers and held.
Beneath the table, Cherry crossed her legs, clenched her thighs. The heel of her shoe slipped free, dangling from her toes…
And then it disappeared, falling off completely. No—it had been nudged .
“Did you just knock off my shoe?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “Don’t know what you mean. Oh, look; they have Cherry Bakewell.”
“Very funny,” she muttered, her stockinged foot gliding tentatively over the floor beneath the table. Where on earth was that shoe?
Instead of her patent leather heel, she came across… another foot. Also shoeless. But much bigger than hers.
Cherry’s eyes flew to Ruben’s. His gaze was steady as ever. “You don’t like Cherry Bakewell?” he asked.
“Of course I do,” she huffed. “Bakewell’s only up the road. My parents took us there every summer.”