Page 58 of Heart of The Night

She picked up a brochure, her expression sharp. ‘Notting Hill?’

Keeping my face neutral, I replied, ‘Entirely because of you, of course.’

She chuckled. ‘I knew it,’ she said, but I could tell from her tone that she was joking. ‘Honestly, though, having you closer would be wonderful. Don’t get me wrong, I adore this place,’ she gestured around the flat, ‘but you being a short walk away? That’d be a dream.’

I was momentarily stunned. It would be a dream for her? That sentiment exceeded all my expectations.

‘Really?’ I asked, unable to mask my surprise.

‘Absolutely.’

As I processed her words, I couldn’t help but wonder: was she hinting at a long-term commitment between us? It seemed she was confessing she saw a future together. She had to be.

Emotion swelled within me, and without a word, I closed her laptop and set it on the coffee table. Slipping my arms beneath her knees and back, I effortlessly lifted her to me. Her laughter rang out, an infectious sound. Grinning, I carried her into my bedroom, eager to show her the depth of my agreement with her vision of our future.

Dropping her on the bed, I moved to join her. But she playfully dodged, her giggles continuous, avoiding every kiss I tried to land.

‘William, stop! I need to brush my teeth first, especially after all that curry. My breath…’

‘I don’t care about that,’ I said, trying again to land a kiss.

‘I do!’ She pushed me away, hands firm against my chest. The genuine plea in her eyes held me still.

With an exaggerated groan, I relented, collapsing sideways. ‘Fine. Make it quick.’

She darted into the en-suite, the room soon filling with the sound of water pouring from the tap. In the background, I could discern the faint clinking of her moving objects around, likely seeking out her toothpaste and brush. Moments later, the rhythmic, methodical scrubbing sounds of her brushing echoed, punctuated every so often by a tiny splash.

Lying back, I gazed up at the ceiling, illuminated by the dimmed bedroom light. The sheer ordinariness of the moment lulled me into a deep appreciation. This was the domestic bliss I longed for, where the weight of the world disappeared in her presence.

But amidst the peace, an unsettling thought intruded: what if our time was running out? If Francesca’s baby turned out to be mine, these moments with Cara, so dear to me, might have an expiration. The gravity of that potential countdown pressed heavily on my heart.

I gulped, trying to chase the distressing notion away. Not tonight, I mentally urged myself. I just wanted this evening to remain untarnished. I wanted to remain ensconced in our shared bubble of happiness, remembering the moments that brought us to this point.

My mind drifted to the night we first met. While Cara was undeniably a stunningly beautiful woman, it wasn’t primarily her looks that had ensnared me that night. Rather, it was her sharp wit and the audacity with which she had spoken to me that left an indelible mark; the way she challenged and provoked me sealed my fate.

Within those fleeting moments, as she insulted my very existence, my path became irrevocably set. I was either going to have her, or I was going to die trying. Never had I wanted someone as intensely. The rest of that night’s conversation had quickly transformed what was initially a mere desire into an unyielding need that went far beyond just physical attraction.

Though it took me a few weeks to realise that I was in love with her, the ensuing clarity was profound. It was her – Cara – and none other. Only she had the power to evoke such fervent passion, to illuminate the deepest recesses of my heart. Had she slipped from my grasp, other women might have offered brief distractions throughout my life. Yet, I was certain that, until my last day, Cara would be the final thought before sleep claimed me and the first upon waking.

This truth solidified the morning after we first met – when she abandoned me, leaving only a void and memories in her wake. I had clung to a thin thread of hope, imagining that she might change her mind and find her way back to my door. And in the interim of that hope, each day for a week, her phantom seemed to linger with me – in the lift, her essence filled the air, and at night, the memory of her touch rippled over my skin.

My hope endured until that unexpected day she stepped into my office, only to be shattered when she expressed a wish to act as if our intimacy had been nothing more than a passing tryst. It dawned on me then that she had never intended our paths to cross again. Fate, not her longing, had reunited us, and that stung. The insinuation was clear: she hadn’t been as deeply moved. To her, I had been just another man, a brief diversion. But to me, she was the exception, the unparalleled.

In the wake of that, part of me had yearned to purge her memory, to find peace. But the idea of erasing the sensations, our conversations, the electric charge between us – it was unthinkable. The price of forgetting was too steep. Even if it meant a lifetime of longing, I would cherish the memories of her: the feel of her skin, the maze of her mind, and the undeniable pull of our connection.

Within the span of just one night, I had become irretrievably ensnared, wholly consumed by feelings for her – and yet, I was unaware of her true name. The eventual revelation served as a profound jolt, prompting me to face a staggering truth: I had surrendered my heart, irrevocably and deeply, to a woman whose identity had been a mystery to me.

But then, was that entirely accurate? After all, what’s in a name? It doesn’t paint the full picture of her character the way the delicate dance of her fingers might, or the subtle curl of her lips. It doesn’t hint at the intricate labyrinths of her thoughts the way her laughter or choice of words might. It’s merely a title, a label. What I had come to cherish was the essence of her, far beyond the simple confines of a name.

Cara emerged then, her clothes discarded. The sight of her naked form, bathed in the dim light, made my chest flutter. Entranced, I stared for a moment. I couldn’t help it.

‘Come here,’ I finally beckoned, reaching out. Her smile was radiant as she moved toward me, each step deliberate, her grace evident by the gentle sway of her hips. As she took my hand, I swiftly pulled her onto the bed, positioning myself above her. I lowered my head, gazing deeply into her eyes. There, within the sapphire blue, a halo of gold encircled her pupils, reminiscent of distant stars twinkling in the evening sky.

I hoped she could discern the fervour in my eyes – the depth of my feelings, my yearning for her to be absolutely mine. If I had my way, she would not be a fleeting passion but a lasting commitment.

I loathed that our connection was whispered in hushed tones like a clandestine affair. I longed to proudly speak of her, to announce to the world how deeply I felt about her, to mark her as mine in every sense. Indeed, I ached to declare my love, to repeat it endlessly until the words became as familiar to her as her own heartbeat. Each moment I kept silent, the weight of my unspoken words was a torment.

Looking into her eyes, it seemed glaringly clear what I should do: confess. Yet I hesitated. There was, of course, the fear that she might not feel the same way. But overshadowing everything was the unresolved matter of Francesca. It was she who stilled my tongue.

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