Page 11 of His Best Mistake

“I’ll say,” said Stella with a sniff.

“I can only apologise.”

“You could also promise to pass on to her what I said because she ought to know the truth.”

He nodded. “I could do that.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Do you think she’ll believe you?”

“I’ll do my best.” And he would, because the sooner Cora realised what a bastard her ex was the sooner she’d get over him.

“Then I accept your apology. Would you like a glass of wine?”

“A truce?”

She gave him the slightest of smiles. “Possibly.”

“I’ll pour.”

*

Three hours later, Stella lay on her bed and stared up at the ceiling, her body hot and buzzing and her nerves at breaking point. The evening had been absolutely excruciating, an exercise in self-control and restraint like no other.

Convincing herself that it would be a piece of cake remaining calm and in control was all very well when Jack was halfway up a hill, quite another when he’d been standing right in front of her scowling down at her and looking all wild and windswept and irresistible as he admitted he’d been wrong and apologised. How she’d managed to refrain from acting on instinct and launching herself at him she had no idea.

Neither of them had mentioned the almost kiss, of course, and that should have been enough, but had it? No. Not for her at least. The more they didn’t talk about it the more she thought about it.

For a while they’d discussed the wine, trips to France, Scotland and elsewhere, and she’d been achingly aware of his large frame filling the chair, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his brooding expression as he gazed at the fire. When that conversation had dried up she’d removed herself to whip up a quick ham and cheese omelette. It had given her something safe to do with her hands, and she’d figured that since they had to eat at some point then that was as good a time as any.

Sure, the conversation over dinner, which had largely revolved around the not very exciting topic of the ingredients and the effort involved in going to get them given the remoteness of the cottage, hadn’t exactly been scintillating, but boring was good. Boring was safe.

Other than the state of Jack’s ribs – which he’d assured her were fine – she didn’t need to know anything about him. She already knew enough to turn the purely physical attraction into something a bit more: the loyalty he showed towards his sister by turning up here in the first place… The mile-wide protective streak he clearly had… The unexpected confession that he’d been wrong… These were qualities she very much appreciated in a man, so any more of that sort of thing and before she knew it she’d be imagining him sitting next to her in a candlelit restaurant, leaning in close and nuzzling

her neck as they clinked champagne flutes.

As it was the physical attraction was bad enough. She’d been strangely fixated on his hands while he’d been eating and when his knee had touched hers beneath the table she’d jumped. His proximity as he’d stood beside her drying up had done strange things to her equilibrium. At one particularly nerve-shattering point his fingers had brushed hers when she’d been handing him a plate and she’d very nearly dropped it.

It was a good thing she’d suggested an early night. The sooner this was all over the better. Nothing could ever happen between her and Jack anyway even if on the billion to one chance it did become likely.

Nevertheless, she thought, slipping beneath the duvet and switching off the light, the sounds of him moving around next door switching her senses to high alert, she got the sinking feeling it was going to be a very long night.

Chapter Four

At midnight, Jack was downstairs in the kitchen, pouring himself a large glass of whisky, wired and on edge and ready to hit something hard, very possibly the bottle. He hadn’t been able to sleep. He’d been too frustrated. About everything. In particular the woman upstairs he’d spent the last couple of hours failing to ignore.

He didn’t know why he’d bothered trying in the first place when he was so acutely aware of her. He’d heard her moving around in her room and his thoughts, already vaguely dancing around her as they had been pretty much the entire bloody afternoon, had suddenly been consumed with wondering what she was doing.

He’d imagined her peeling her clothes off and sliding between the covers and chose to believe that she wore nothing because hey, this was his fantasy and he could have her wearing – and doing – whatever he wanted.

Visions had cascaded into his head, then, of him joining her and what would happen after that, and his pulse had spiked and his blood had heated and within seconds a burst of scorchingly intense desire had made him as hard as stone. As a result, sleep had been an impossibility.

What the hell was it about her? he wondered, gritting his teeth and pressing his white-knuckled fists into the polished wooden worktop. He couldn’t understand it. Why was she, of all people, so irresistible? Yes, she was attractive, but she wasn’t the most beautiful woman he’d ever met. Given the reason he was here in the first place and the impossibility of any involvement that that would imply, she shouldn’t even be on his radar. Was it the temptation of forbidden fruit? The unexpectedness and unpredictability of the circumstances in which he found himself affecting his judgement? Simply the time of year? Or had he, in fact, contrary to what he’d believed, actually hit his head when he’d crashed the car?

Or was it that, for the first time in years, she’d shaken him out of the fog he’d been stumbling around in for so long and made him feel alive?

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