Page 61 of One Bed

He tipped his head to the side. ‘Something shines deep within you, Bea, a light that makes people look twice. Then again.’

She placed her hand on her throat. ‘Oh. That’s a lovely thing to say.’

He held back his smile and lifted his bottle to her in a small toast. She wasn’t comfortable with compliments, and he wondered why.

Bea shuffled from foot to foot in her heels. He knew she’d love to kick them off and go barefoot, and wondered why she didn’t. ‘I’ve lost my train of thought … what were we talking about?’

‘Your godmother,’ he helpfully replied, enjoying her adorable confusion.

Bea frowned. ‘Right,her. She’s an interfering old hag. Do you remember her telling us that the couch from the cottage had woodworm and she had to burn it?’

Vaguely.

‘Well, it’s not a pile of ashes, it’s sitting in Jack’s warehouse!’ Bea resumed her pacing. She winced slightly with every step. ‘Woodworm was just an excuse to get it out of the cottage so that we’d be forced to share the bed.’

A decision he thoroughly approved of. He patted the bench next to him. ‘Come and sit down.’

‘She’s got no right to interfere in my life,’ Bea muttered. ‘I can sort myself out, I don’t need her to do it for me.’

There it was, the essence of what was bugging her. He suspected it was also linked to Golly pushing her to find a new agent, to step out from behind her pseudonym. He’d started reading the first book in her series yesterday, and caught her watching him, the side of her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. She obviously wanted to know what he thought but couldn’t ask him. As far as he could tell, and he wasn’t an expert, the book was fabulous. Fast, funny and, most importantly, she didn’t talk down to young readers. He’d expected to be bored, but found himself entertained.

He really wanted to know why she hid behind her pseudonym, why she was so desperate to stay anonymous. They were good books, and she should take pride in them.

And yes, he was conscious of the irony of wanting to get to know her motivations and backstory, while not giving away any of his own. In fact, he’d told her more than he’d told any woman, ever, about his past, home life and family.

But that was all she was going to get from him. He wondered if she, or anyone, would understand that he couldn’t, physically, form the words to explain the cause of his reticence. As a teenager, a psychologist suggested he had a very mild form of alexithymia, or, in normal people’s terms, difficulty experiencing, identifying and expressing emotions. He’d researched the condition and discovered it was often caused by traumatic situations, and he reckoned his mom’s insane prying, his parents’ death and his guilt over the fleeting relief he experienced on hearing they were dead might’ve pushed him into a slight dose of alexithymia-tinged PTSD.

At the core of it, keeping his emotions locked away was a hard habit to break.

He looked up at her, saw her wince again and decided enough was enough. ‘Bea-baby, take a load off.’

Bea sat down next to him, rolling the beer bottle between her hands. ‘Drink your beer,’ he told her, bending down to pick up her foot.

‘What are you doing?’ she demanded, frowning.

He turned to face her, her foot in his hand. ‘Shift back.’

When she did, he looked at her shoe, trying to ignore the soft, fragrant skin under his hands, and found the tiny buckle above her heel. His big fingers couldn’t pull it apart, so he pulled the strap down and eased off her shoe, dropping it to the grass.

His fingers dug into a pressure point on her instep and she groaned, in part agony, part ecstasy. Her eyes brightened with that sexy combo of lust and need, and his cock hardened at the pleasure-pain expression on her face.

Yeah, he’d never needed a bed more.

‘So good,’ Bea murmured.

She’d used the same phrase last night, her voice thick with want. God, he craved her. More than he needed to keep breathing. This woman tied him up in knots, and he needed to loosen one or two. Making love to her was the only option. In a day or two, these weird feelings would fade, and perspective would stroll back in. If it didn’t, he was in deep shit.

‘I presume you gave Golly a mouthful for her attempt at matchmaking?’ he asked, pushing those uncomfortable thoughts away.

Her eyes flew open, and irritation flashed. ‘I told her we were old enough to sort ourselves out,’ she told him. She swung her other leg onto his lap, silently requesting that he rub her other foot as well. Because her dress was so short, he caught a flash of her panties. He thought they were red, or a deep pink. He sighed. He loved women’s lingerie, loved taking it off even more…

‘I know I am, but she thinks you need help. Why?’

Bea scrunched up her nose, something she did when she was thinking. Golly did it too. ‘Ah. That might be because I haven’t dated much lately. She’s worried I’m a dried-up, born-again virgin.’

He looked at her, unable to resist pressing her foot against his hard cock. He needed to do something about it before it split his pants. An exaggeration, maybe, but he was straining-his-underwear hard. ‘You are definitely not dried up, Bea-baby.’

She swallowed, her eyes turning darker, obviously remembering his mouth on her, the way she came on his tongue and then on his fingers. ‘But she’s right, sort of. I haven’t dated much, or at all, since my split with my ex.’

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