Page 39 of Strawberry Moon
“It was longer than a giraffe’s neck, Harry.”
“I still got you, didn’t I?”
“I’m glad you did.”
“Still?” I can’t help my question. I’m surer of him and less conscious about the age gap between us now, but sometimes a tiny amount of uncertainty rears its head. Especially as I approach forty.
He reaches across and grabs my hand, his long thin fingers clutching mine. “Always,” he says fervently. “You’re everything to me.”
The simple declaration makes my eyes feel hot, and I cough and clear my throat. “And you to me.” I raise my glass. “Here’s to cohabitation, my love.”
“That sounds much saucier than just living together. I like it.” He clinks his glass to mine. “I can’t believe we’ve finally done it.”
He moved in with me this weekend. I have a two-storey flat above the bookshop. It’s an old Victorian building, so the ceilings are high and the windows tall. At the moment, the flat is a study in neutral colours, but I’m betting within a month, or maybe even sooner, Clem will start adding colour. He’s done thesame to me, so he’s welcome to the flat. It already feels more like home with him in it, the rooms echoing with his laughter and dramatic proclamations.
I’ve been in love with him since I met him, but that love has deepened and matured now I understand his depthless kindness and loyalty and see the flashes of vulnerability that he hides under his sassy exterior. He’s mine in a fundamental way that no man has ever been, and I’m his. It’s as simple and profound as that.
He stands up. “I’m just nipping to the loo.” He comes around the table and bends to whisper in my ear, “And then I think you should take me home and fuck me into that new andveryexpensive mattress we bought.”
I cough and reposition my napkin. “We might have to wait a minute or two now. Thanks very much, Fifi.”
He snorts and sets off through the room. Following him with my gaze, I absently admire the shape of his arse in those tight jeans of his. Then I focus on the author—Frida McBain. She’d been sharing a meal with someone, but they’ve apparently left for the moment, as the chair across from her is now empty.
I bite my lip, and before I can second-guess myself, I get up and walk over to her table. “Excuse me,” I say as I near, and she looks up at me. She has long, dark hair touched with grey, her face is lined, and her eyes are a pretty pale blue. They twinkle in a way that instantly sets me at ease.
“Hello. Can I help you?”
“I hope so.” I check that the coast is clear and then lean a little closer. “You wrote a book calledTorridly Yours.”
Her eyes narrow for a second as she thinks, and then she snaps her fingers. “Jared and Fiona?”
“That’s the one. Well, first I’d like to thank you for writing it. My boyfriend used the story as inspiration to get me.”
She grins. “Nowthatsounds like a story.”
“Fiona was his template for how to get your man. Put it this way—I got off lightly with the tropes from that novel. After I did some research on common Mills and Boon romance themes, I was eternally thankful you hadn’t written kidnap or a coma into the book.”
She breaks into giggles. “I’ve never had one of my books used as a manual before,” she says.
“I’m very lucky he did so, considering I now know what machinations he’s capable of on his own. TheGame of Throneswriters would dismiss him as too over-the-top.” She laughs and I smile at her. “He’s going to ask for your autograph soon.”
“How do you know?”
“Oh, I know him very well, and I wonder if you could do me a huge favour?”
She studies me for a long second and then smiles. It’s tinged with a naughty edge. “Okay. Tell me.”
I lean closer and tell her, and her whole face softens.
Clem
I look for Harry as I come back from the loo and frown when I see our table is empty. Then I hear a familiar laugh, one that never fails to make me smile and feel all gooey. I look over and blink when I find him standing talking to Frida McBain. She’s smiling up at him, her face set in a warm expression. It’s familiar because it’s how my family—and everyone else who knows him—always looks at Harry. Somehow, he never notices.
I pick up speed, and he glances my way as I come near. “Here he is. I was just telling Frida about how you conspired to get me, Fifi.”
I gape at him. “Oh my god, I can’tbelieveyou told her that.”
Frida stirs. “I can’t blame you. It’s the tropes, Clem. They contain powerful magic.”
