Page 18 of Strawberry Moon
We stare at each other for a long few seconds, and I notice we’ve drawn closer. “You’re not getting ready,” he says in a low, hoarse voice that makes my balls tingle.
“I’m not terribly obedient.”
He rolls his eyes, fighting a smile. “That’s not exactly news.”
“Maybe I’m waiting for a kiss,” I say daringly, and bite my lip. Was that too much?
His eyes widen, and there’s an unmistakable heat in them that makes my heart pound. He comes closer and my breathing picks up when I feel his warmth. His scent weaves around me like magic, and I suppress a groan as he bends close. He brushes his nose against my cheek, his breath hot on my skin. I shudder and my eyes drift closed as he fills my senses. He drops a kiss on my cheek, and I open my eyes to see him stepping back.
“That’sit?” I say, outraged.
He starts to laugh. “You should be more precise with your wording.”
“I knew you were tricky,” I say gloomily as I turn back into the room.
He laughs. “I’m going to get dressed and then feed my mum’s dinner to the dogs. As far as you know, we ate it.”
“Tricky,” I say again.
He takes his clothes and leaves the room. I head towards the bathroom but pause when I see the book on the bed. It’s lying there looking innocent, as if it really is just a dry historical book instead of being the catalyst for chaos.
“This is working,” I breathe and pat it. “Welldone, Fiona and Jared.”
A little voice at the back of my mind perks up, asking if what I just did was manipulative. I shove my conscience back behind a big mental door and put a few padlocks on it to keep the fucker quiet.
I pushmy plate away with a sigh. “That tiramisu was lovely.”
Harry smiles. “I wasn’t sure if you’d fit it in.”
I wink at him. “If you need to fit something big in a tiny space then I’m your man.”
He chokes on the drink he’s sipping, and I laugh at him. Then I stretch out my hand towards him. I’m gratified by how speedily he takes it, and the way his fingers fold over mine as if keeping treasure safe.
“It’s been a wonderful evening,” I say softly.
He brought me to an Italian restaurant in a little village near his family home. It’s small and cosy with candles flickering in glass bowls and music playing low. The clientele is mainly couples—understandable, as the atmosphere is definitely geared towards romance.
We’d talked and laughed all the way through the meal, our heads close together. The surprising thing to me is how easy it is. My first dates with other men have always been marked by nerves, fumbling conversations, and clumsiness. None of that has happened tonight. Oh, I’ve had butterflies every time he’s touched my hand or leant closer or laughed, but they’re the good kind of butterflies, and we haven’t stopped talking all night.
He's an intriguing mix of wisdom and snark, but the latter is softened by his innate kindness. It shows in the way he spoke to the staff and the way he dealt with a mistake on our order. He never loses his temper, and his sweet smile is the reward if you’re the same. At the same time, he seems to enjoy my sharp nature.
I’ve always tried hard to be worthy of him, but it’s occurred to me tonight that maybe I don’t have to try so hard. Maybe, just maybe, he likes me for my personality rather than in spite of it.
He signals for the bill, and after paying it, he smiles at me. “Fancy a walk?”
I nod, and saying our thanks, we head out. The village is very pretty with flowers everywhere and a little church with asteeple that seems to lean drunkenly. The high street is empty at this time of the night, and we wander along, peering into shop windows. At some point, his hand finds mine. I glance over at him to find he’s gazing ahead, but there’s a smile on his lips.
I squeeze his hand and edge closer. “If this was an episode ofMidsomer Murders, you’d probably have drunk poison whisky by now and I’d have been bludgeoned to death with an ornate candlestick.”
He snorts. “Why is it always a candlestick? Whatever happened to a good old-fashioned stick?”
“You have no imagination. You couldneverbe a writer on that show.”
“I’m sure it can’t be that difficult to drum up those ridiculous murders.”
“You might think that, but in the episode I watched yesterday, a girl was run over by a car and then injected with liquid nicotine.”
He laughs, and I savour the sound. “Wouldn’t just one of those methods have done the trick?”
