Page 110 of Tears of Ink

I snicker. “See, this is what I’m talking about; there is nothing easy about me despite what people think.” It’s a crass joke and it doesn’t make him laugh.

His hand reaches for mine and he sits up, pulling me along with him. Between his brows a deep line mars his beautiful face. “What you told me in Brighton, about Aiden and your father…”

“Don’t make me regret sharing, I hate pity.”

“You’d rather be angry and constantly run?”

“Me, run? You’re the one who ran from his home the other day.”

He palms a hand through his hair. “Nothing is simple with you.”

“Sorry I’m not as pliable as you’d like.”

He shakes his head and gives a rueful laugh. “Pliable? You are the exact opposite. It’s why I’m crazy about you. Why I’ve been unable to focus for days. Why I can’t stop thinking about that bastard hurting you, and your father letting you down.”

What did he just say? He doesn’t give me a chance to process.

“It’s why I want you to speak to the authorities about what happened to you.”

And now what did he say?

I shake my head. “If my own father doesn’t believe me, I won’t hold my breath on the police.”

“But I believe you. Al does, Abi does, and Dan.” Eli’s eyes darken a little at the mention of Dan.

“Don’t you like Dan?” I watch him closely.

“Yeah, sure. He seems a stand up guy.”

“See, your mouth’s saying the words, but your face isn’t agreeing.”

He groans and falls back on the mattress and I can’t help but greedily absorb the naked sight of him. “You can’t blame me for being jealous of the guy you’ve spent your whole life with.”

His words floor me. We aren’t supposed to be jealous, because this is nothing. It’s just a summer fling until we walk away.

We stare at one another long and hard and we both know. This isn’t nothing.

There’s a good chance it could be everything.

With a flash of a smile he leans up and kisses me swiftly on the lips. “Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Have you been eating properly?”

Ah—Jennings and Elaine—it all makes sense. “Did you ask Elaine to feed me up?”

His fingers grab for my ribs and he laughs as I squeal. “You are very skinny, you need fattening up.”

“Better feed me then,” I say, but I don’t mean with food.

A broad smile lights his face. “Come.”

His little Kensington mews house is something close to wonderful. Open plan and all echoes of black, white, and grey. It’s sleek and masculine without being testosterone fuelled. It’s also impeccably clean—not a pizza box in sight. And nothing like Bowsley.

Stood in the kitchen and lounge area, I turn and take it all in.

“You like?” he asks, rummaging around at the kitchen island. He’s pulling open cupboards and peering inside. Dressed in only a pair of grey joggers which are hanging low on his hips, he’s looking probably finer than he ever has. I think the joggers and bare chest win over the suit—just.