Page 59 of Prodigal Son

When she turned to him, she saw that Chef had joined him, the two of them incredibly out of place in her cream on cream on blue toile bedroom, in their boots and leather and denim.

“Everything would be better,” she said, crisply, “if you great louts weren’t in my boudoir before I’ve even had a chance to slip into my robe.”

Shallie blushed.

Chef looked mildly chagrined.

“Right, miss. We’ll just be out here.”

“Go ahead and ring my brother,” she called after them. “If I have to be up this early doing his work, he can damn well be up, too.”

~*~

Axelle woke with a blinding headache and the sinking sense that she’d done something she shouldn’t the night before. She opened her eyes to a blinding shaft of sunlight, shut them again, and rolled over with a groan. When she dared peek again, she found that she was in the guest room that she’d been given all to herself, and that she still wore last night’s clothes. A wiggle of her feet proved that someone had taken her boots off.

That had probably been Albie.

Her only memories of last night, blurred and dark at the edges, centered around him, and the way his smiles had grown wider and less reluctant the longer they drank.

She remembered the heat and weight of his hand at her waist. The grain of stubble along his jaw, viewed from up close – had she kissed him? Or just leaned in close, swaying, unsteady on her feet. Close enough to smell the leather-cologne-wood shavings tang on his skin…to wonder what it would taste like.

She ran her tongue along her teeth and tasted only the foulness of morning breath, and the regret of having let herself get sloppy.

Her phone rang – ohGod, the headache – and it was Raven.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she greeted, bright, cheerful, and definitely not hungover.

“Ugh,” Axelle responded.

Raven laughed. “Overindulged, I see.”

“Ugh.”

Her tone became worse than teasing. “In more ways than one?”

“No.”

“Goodness. Well, it’s time to rise and shine, I’m afraid. I’ve got a meeting and I need my assistant.”

“A meeting where?”

“Chop-chop. Be ready by noon.” The call cut off.

Axelle scowled at her phone screen until it went black, and then was forced to look at her own haggard reflection.

A reflection that looked even worse in the bathroom mirror when she finally shuffled her way in.

She climbed into the shower and resolved not to look at herself too closely the rest of the day. A plan that lasted right up until she set foot in the pub and spotted Albie having a late breakfast at a table over against the wall.

She paused, hand on the bannister, and asked herself why her gaze had gone right to him, straightaway.

The pub was almost empty, only a tired prospect behind the bar, playing with his phone, and a few other members having coffee and scones scattered around the wide, low-ceilinged room. He could have stood out because he was only one of a handful. Or because he was the only one sitting with a straight back, alert and well-groomed as he paged through an actual newspaper and ate eggs with the queen’s own manners.

But the truth was wrapped up in those hazy sense-memories from last night.

She hadn’t had a crush on anyone in a very long time. It was damned inconvenient, and most unwelcome. She contented herself with the fact that it didn’t count: it was just physical. She didn’t know him, definitely didn’t like his club or what it stood for, and it didn’t matter what he’d told her, or how upstanding heseemed –her attraction was rooted in the cut of his jaw, and the no-nonsense set of his brows, and it was something she could shrug off like an ill-fitting jacket when the time came to do so.

Her first instinct was to join him. But she checked that, hanging back. And then she checkedthat. She was embarrassed, sure, but avoiding him would show that she cared what he thought, that she was even ashamed, that being near him stirred up some sort ofemotion.

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