Leave Me Breathless

by Jodi Ellen Malpas

  “Alex wanted to give it to you,” Ryan says, completely unperturbed as he joins me, assessing it himself. “I found it dumped in the bushes down the road. Alex and I fixed it up for you.”

  I just stare at him, and for reasons I’ll probably never know—or maybe I do—I become tearful. I quickly look away from Ryan when he diverts his attention from my bicycle, swallowing down my emotion. It’s sparkling like new. Actually, it wasn’t this sparkly when I bought it from a secondhand shop. It’s positively gleaming.

  “What did you do?” I ask, circling it, taking in the transformation. New wheels, with fancy little colorful beads on the spindles, a complete paint job in a vibrant, fire-engine red, a new padded floral seat cover, rainbow tassels hanging from the handlebars.

  “We Hannah’d it,” he says simply, and I dart my eyes to his. He shrugs. “Alex’s words, not mine.”

  The emotion I managed to beat down comes steaming back to the surface. They Hannah’d it. They made it pretty and bright and colorful. They injected life into my worn-out bicycle.

  “Hey, why the tears?” Ryan asks, moving in as I cover my face to hide the rivers running down my cheeks. “Shit, don’t you like it?” He takes me in a cuddle, trapping my arms between our chests. “If not, that’s cool. I’ll buy you a new one, but can you pretend to like this one? Alex has been so excited to show you it.”

  “No, I love it.” I shake some sense into myself, forcing our bodies apart and taking another peek at my born-again bike. Now I notice the new basket, too, which is extra deep. There are even lights on the front and back, and I see my name on the cross frame.

  “And this is to transport your arty stuff to wherever you want to paint.” Ryan pulls forward a mini trailer and hooks it to the back.

  Oh my God. He’s thought of everything. “No one’s ever done anything so nice for me.” I look at Ryan, now unbothered about the state of my face and him seeing it. I want him to know how much this means to me, and it means the absolute world. This simple, thoughtful thing. Ryan didn’t just go and buy me a new bike. He knew how much I loved this one, so he repaired it. He and Alex spent hours doing this.

  “Not even last night?” Ryan says, and I laugh, nudging him in the side with my shoulder. He wraps an arm around me and pulls me in. “I’m glad you love it.”

  “I more than love it. Can I take it with me?”

  “Afraid not.” He kisses my head and walks me back to the cabin. “Alex wants all the glory. And she’s still got to fix your new bell on.”

  I look back, smiling at my fancy new bike. “So I should look surprised?”

  “Yes, very surprised.” He motions to the bedroom. “Surely your new bike deserves some kind of reward.”

  How can I refuse? Not that I would, bike or no bike. I swivel on my bare feet and sashay into his room. “Will Chunky Monkey be joining us?”

  “No, you’re all mine.” He stalks after me and tackles me down to the bed. “And I, Hannah Bright, am all yours.” And he kisses me.

  * * *

  As Ryan pulls up outside my store, he cranes his neck, leaning forward in his seat to look up at my shop front. His position gives me the perfect view of his stretched throat. He’s in black running shorts and a T-shirt, his hair still damp from our shower, and his scruff a bit scruffier from a missed shave. Because we ran out of time. I grin to myself as I admire him. His voice is rough. His hands large. His jaw sharp. His voice deep. So unassuming and gentle.

  I don’t realize I’m more or less gawking at him until he turns toward me in his seat. I blink and take the handle of the door. “Thank you for bringing me home.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And thank you for making my bike pretty.”

  “Welcome.”

  “And for last night.”

  “Welcome again.”

  “And—”

  “Hannah.” He laughs lightly. “I get it. You’re thankful.” Rolling his eyes, he hands me his mobile phone. “Put your number in.”

  I grin as I do, calling myself so I have his, too, before handing it back to him. He jumps out and rounds the truck, collecting me by my hand. I stare down at our woven fingers as he leads me to the door, just so overcome by the rightness of his touch. How he handles me. It’s sometimes rough, but I don’t ever feel angry vibes. I don’t lose my breath with fear. I lose it with something else. For the first time in my life, I like the feel of a man’s hands on me. Ryan’s hands.

  When we reach the door, he motions to the lock, and I quickly slip my hand into the pocket of my dress to retrieve my keys. But they’re not there. I pause, thinking. I remember slipping them in my pocket on the way to the store last night. So where…

  Oh no. I look up at him, my eyes full of apologies. I’ve already waylaid him this morning, not that it’s my fault, of course. He was the one who couldn’t keep his hands off me. Now he’s going to have to drive all the way back to his cabin so I can find my keys.

  I see the thought click in his mind, and he closes his eyes. But he smiles. “Where are they?”

  “They were in my pocket.” I could kick myself. I seriously need to get myself a handbag. But I don’t like handbags. Any accessories, in fact. To me, they symbolize restraint. Control. They symbolize apologies.

  “Were?” Ryan questions.

  “Well, they were until you came over all caveman and threw me over your shoulder last night. Now…” I shrug.

  “So basically, they could be anywhere in the woods?” he says, looking up at the windows of my apartment. Basically, yes. Which means they’re probably gone forever.

  “Is there a locksmith nearby?” I ask in vain, knowing it’s a stupid question.

  “Yeah.”

  “There is?” My high-pitched voice is a little surprised, a lot relieved.

  He takes hold of the drainpipe to the right of my door and gives it a little tug. “Me.” His feet leave the ground, and he hauls himself up the pipe a good three feet, taking the metal with both hands. And I watch in utter astonishment, and maybe awe, as he shimmies up the drainpipe, his trainers wedged into the wall, his arms at full length as he leans back. This explains Alex’s fondness for climbing things. It also brings on an onslaught of mental images. They’re of Ryan. Armed. Stalking the enemy. My suspicions are only increasing the more I get to know him. He was definitely a spy or something equally thrilling. He might not ever admit it to me—he’s probably had to sign a secrecy act or something—but I know. I just…know.

  “What are you doing?” I call up to him.

  He stops and looks down at me, letting go with one hand and pointing up to my bedroom window. “It’s open.”

  I frown and follow his pointed hand. It is? How could I be so silly? “But I…” I fade off and refocus on Ryan. “Just be careful.”

  He smiles, and the vision is nothing short of gorgeous. His smiles are wicked, in the best possible way, his eyes sparkly each time. “You worried about me?”

  I snort. “Not likely,” I reply, taking hold of the pipe like I might be of some kind of assistance. “Because you were a spy in MI5, right?”

  The sparkle in his eyes grows. “If you say so.”

  He’s off again, moving far too nimbly and efficiently for a guy of his build, pulling himself up with his big arms with ease. And from here, I have the perfect view of his backside. And his thick thighs. And his…I shake myself out of my untimely ogling session. “I do say so,” I whisper to myself.

  He reaches across to the window. Oh, bloody hell. I wince, squinting, as he virtually flings himself across and catches the edge. My breath hitches in my throat. “Be careful!” I yell as he dangles from the ledge.

  He looks down at me. He’s still smiling, the lunatic. On a cheeky wink, he does some crazy acrobatic move, his legs coming up the bricks, his hand grasping the top of the window. He’s literally hanging off the side of my shop, has performed some serious gymnastic-type moves to get there, and the man hasn’t even broken out in a sweat. He’s a living br
eathing James Bond. I release the drainpipe I’m still clinging to and step back, watching as he throws his legs through the window, his body following smoothly behind. “I bet he landed on his feet, too,” I say to myself just as his head pops out.

  He’s grinning, and it’s wolfish, his head cocking to the side. “Your bedroom?”

  I scowl at him. “Yesssss,” I say on a drawn-out warning. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  “Like what? Rummaging through your knicker drawer?” He waggles an eyebrow, and I laugh out loud. But mainly because if he’s hoping to find anything resembling sexy underwear, he will be sorely disappointed. Plain, simple, white cotton all the way for me. These days, anyway.

  “Come open the door,” I order as sternly as I can through my laughter. He’s gone quickly, though the aftermath of his playfulness remains with me as I smile all the way to the doorstep and take a seat. What an enlightening morning it’s been.

  Ryan. Even his name makes me smile. He’s so easy to be around, and I never expected to feel like that after…

  I let my thoughts stop there.

  “Hey.” He appears behind me, and I look up, unable to keep my smile at bay. I take his offered hand, and he helps me to my feet. “Do you have spare keys?” he asks. “If not, I can arrange for a locksmith to come from Grange.”

  “I have spare keys,” I assure him, unexpectedly liking the sound of him taking charge like that. I go to him and reach up, kissing him lightly on the lips. “See you later?”

  “You absolutely will.” He returns my kiss, though it’s only chaste, probably because we both know what will happen if tongues are introduced. Then he leaves, and I wrap my arms around myself, as if to contain the warmth radiating through me. Wandering to the window, I lean on the frame and look out onto the street. This incredible feeling of lightness and serenity is lifting me higher than I thought possible.

  I hate the tiny part of my brain for screaming at me that what goes up must come down.

  I see Ryan break into a jog before I lose sight of him, and, reluctantly backing away, I go to check that all the windows are locked, trying to recall when I opened the one in my bedroom. I didn’t…did I?

  Chapter Eighteen

  RYAN

  By the time I’ve finished my run around the town and I’m back at my truck, I feel like I could do it all over again, ten times over. I’m light on my feet. Constantly smiling on the inside.

  As I pull the driver’s door open, I peek across to Hannah’s store. She’s sitting on a stool, a paintbrush wedged between her teeth as she stares at a blank canvas. The urge to go in there and give her the inspiration she’s looking for nearly gets the better of me. But…

  Don’t crowd her too much. Give her space. Especially when she’s locked and loaded with paints. But what if she doesn’t want space? What if I make her day by going in there and smothering her?

  What if I don’t?

  I bully myself into my truck and pull off quickly before I can argue with myself anymore. I can see her later.

  As I drive up the high street, I spot Molly on a stepladder reaching up a lamppost. For a moment, I wonder what the hell she’s doing. Then I register the small army of children on the playing field, and I remember…

  “The town fete,” I mutter under my breath, my mood taking a nosedive. I think of Alex, of every year she’s been paraded around the stage like a show pig in drag. I should put my foot down and end that madness. She’s ten, for crying out loud. Enough is enough.

  I nod to myself as I take the turn up to the Hampton Estate, my attention diverted from the upcoming annual fete when I see a Rolls-Royce idling outside the main house. I know that car. I slow to a stop as Darcy’s husband, Casper, marches out of the house, dragging a suitcase across the even gravel. He’s leaving tracks in his wake that are sure to send Lady Hampton into meltdown. Darcy’s mother will have the groundsman out here with a click of her fingers to rake everything back into perfect place.

  As I get out of my truck, Casper clocks me, and I raise my hand in a civilized hello. He nods sharply, as brusque as ever with me, and carries on his way, hauling his case into the trunk of his car without waiting for one of the household staff to help. He looks like he’s in a hurry. Then I hear her. The delightful mother of my child.

  “Casper!” Darcy flies out of the house, looking as frantic as she sounds. “Casper, wait!” She’s in a satin robe that’s wafting behind her as she scuttles along in the most ridiculous slippers I’ve ever seen, though they’re perfectly Darcy. They’re fucking heeled, with baby-pink pompoms on the toes and a huge sparkling diamantés nestled in the fluffy bobbles. I sigh in disbelief, though I don’t know why. This is Darcy Hampton, after all. The woman has been staggering me with her stiff upper lip and bejeweled body for too many years.

  She doesn’t notice me and my big truck as she hobbles precariously across the gravel in those ankle-breakers, wailing like a banshee. “Casper, you can’t go!”

  “I’m leaving, Darcy,” he grunts as he slams his trunk shut and makes his way to the driver’s door. I don’t know how, it’s really quite a miracle, but Darcy makes it in time to stop Casper closing the door. “Darcy, get out of my way!”

  “No, I won’t let you leave. I can’t be without you, Casper. What will people say? I’ll be a laughingstock!”

  I shake my head in disappointment. A laughingstock. I take the tips of my fingers to my temples and rub firmly, listening to her squawk on about the family name, the scandal, the embarrassment she’ll have to face.

  “Casper, be reasonable.” She grips his arm with her perfectly manicured fingers. “I’ll try harder. Spend less.”

  “I’ve met someone else, Darcy,” Casper grates, and I snap my head up, shocked. He’s leaving her for another woman? “I’m in love with her.”

  I wince on Darcy’s behalf.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she says, her desperation growing. “We’ll figure it out. There has to be a way.” She reaches in to cuddle him, but he pushes her away. “Casper, please. Don’t do this to me. I can’t face the humiliation.”

  “Get away, woman!” he yells, shoving her aggressively. Darcy staggers back, those heels doing her no favors to help keep her upright, and she falls to her posh arse with a surprised cry, her palms hitting the gravel with a slap.

  What the hell? I run across the driveway in a blind rage, my blood boiling, and yank Casper out of his fine car, thrusting him up against it by the scruff of his fine shirt. “Seriously?” I growl. “Where do you get off, you string of piss?” His eyes are wide and alarmed, his head rearing back.

  “She wouldn’t give up. She wouldn’t let me leave.”

  “I don’t care if she held a fucking gun to your head. You do not raise your hand to a woman, do you fucking hear me?”

  He nods, looking away, and though I’m fucking raging, I can see through my anger that he’s ashamed. Good. I release him with a shove and turn to Darcy. She’s staring up at me, a messy tangle of glamour splayed on the gravel driveway. Yes, I despise the woman, constantly mentally threaten to strangle her, but it’s all in jest. Kind of.

  I offer her my hand, and her lip wobbles as she takes it, letting me help her up. “Okay?” I ask, and she quickly releases me, setting about fixing her hair and robe. I take no pleasure from her mortification, though why she’s mortified is up for debate. Because I’ve witnessed this little domestic, or because I’ve seen Darcy with a strand of hair out of place?

  “Fine,” she spits in that lovely Darcy way before stomping off across the gravel and quickly disappearing into the house.

  “Ryan, I’ve never laid a finger on her before,” Casper says, setting about fixing himself, too. “I snapped. The frustration. The stress.”

  “The circumstances have nothing to do with me. I couldn’t give a flying fuck. Just don’t ever touch her like that again.” I head back to my truck, but something catches my attention out of the corner of my eye. “Alex?” I call, stepping closer to the pillar outside
the canopied driveway as she ducks back behind it. I sigh and pace over, my trainers crunching across the gravel, and round the tall stone column. “You’d make a crap spy.” Clearly she hasn’t inherited my stealth moves. I steer her by the shoulders back to my truck. “How much of that did you catch?” I ask, opening the passenger door and motioning for her to get inside. I bend and brace my hands on the edge of her seat, leaning in.

  She pouts as she pulls off the black patent-leather ballet pumps and tosses them into the footwell. “All of it.”

  Shit. “Sorry you had to see that.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” She shrugs. “Shit happens.”

  I don’t admonish her, not this time, just tug the band from her ponytail and toss the ruffled scrunchie thing on the dashboard. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Nah.”

  I give her one last long look before I shut the door, then head around to the driver’s side. This conversation isn’t over by a long shot, but I’ll give her some breathing room for now. I start the engine and pull away as Alex rummages around on the floor for some suitable footwear. She finds some beaten-up old red Converses and wrestles them onto her feet.

  “How’s Hannah?” she asks.

  I look across to her, my expression wary. “Fine.”

  “That’s what adults say when they’re not fine. Mum’s always fine.” She waves her arm back, indicating the mess we just left behind. “Clearly, she’s not fine.”

  I can’t argue with that. “Hannah’s good,” I tell her instead. Very good. That’s as much as she’s getting. I take the bottle of water from the holder between us and twist off the cap with my teeth. I spit it off in Alex’s direction, smiling when she catches it.

  “How good?”

  I swallow and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. How did we get onto Hannah, anyway? “I thought we were going to talk about your mother and Casper.”

  “No, you were going to talk about my mother and Casper. I want to talk about Hannah.” She helps herself to the water in my hand and swigs. “So talk.”