“Why not?” she asked, challenging him.
“Because you’re used to better. I can’t give you what Alex can give you.”
“What can you give me?” she said, still challenging.
“Love,” he replied, meeting that challenge dead on. “I can give you love.”
“Which is riches enough for me,” she said, her eyes misting again, but this time for all the right reasons.
“So, I get my dream girl as well as my dream job?”
“It seems we come as a package,” she replied. Then, not wanting to speak any longer, only wanting to feel his lips on hers, those full and sensuous lips that sent shivers racing up and down her spine, like Formula 1 motor cars, she reached up to kiss him. Drawing her close, he duly obliged.
After a while, desire taking over, she pulled away and whispered, “Let’s go upstairs.”
Joseph raised an eyebrow. “I thought you’d never ask…again, that is.”
Layla swiped at him playfully, and they left the kitchen and climbed the narrow staircase, him first, she holding onto the back of his shirt. In the bedroom, his hands, his mouth were all over her, but she was more than a match for his passion. Just as she was losing herself, he stopped.
“Are you mine this time?” he asked, still nervous, still unsure. “Really mine?”
“Yes,” she murmured, and there was no “maybe” about it.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
AFTER HAVING SPENT AN IDYLLIC CHRISTMAS together and this time the most perfect start to the year, Layla and Joseph started packing for the move. They had managed to find a studio flat within walking distance of the heart of Florence, in a bustling side street. Although the flat looked rustic from the pictures on the Internet, it was also beautiful with white-washed walls, lofty ceilings, a half-decent kitchenette, and an antique looking bed with a gilt-framed padded headboard. She imagined long hot nights spent on that bed, the two of them lying in a humid tangle.
Shivering with delight, she turned her mind to the task at hand: readying the cottage for Lenny’s imminent return. She was going to miss this place. She had grown to love it, but it was time to move on and not alone this time, either—hopefully never alone again. She would leave it sparkling to within an inch of its life and write a big thank-you letter to Lenny, placing fresh-cut flowers everywhere, welcoming him home, as he had once done for her.
She took a few moments from polishing and dusting to look at Gull Rock from the kitchen window. She would miss that sight too—a comforting sight, a familiar sight, the memory of which she could take with her wherever she went. But she wouldn’t just have memories. Hannah had painted her a small picture of it as a Christmas present. “So you never forget us,” she had said—as if.
And that was going to be hard, leaving Hannah, Jim, Mick, and the gang behind, a wrench Joseph faced, too.
She had dreaded breaking the news to Penny that she was leaving again. Straight away Penny had cried, “But what about the baby, your godchild?” Layla had promised to return for a week or two as soon as her godchild was born, and at regular intervals afterward, and that had calmed her. After that, Penny had been as excited as Layla was about the move abroad.
Her mother, too, had been over the moon. “We’ll be even closer,” she had said. Layla hoped so, on both counts.
Meanwhile, Joseph was renting out his cottage during their absence, the money more than covering his mortgage payments. A young man from Bromwich was moving in, having just gotten a job as a chef in Trecastle’s one and only hotel on the headland. He had never been to Cornwall before. Apparently, his interview had been done entirely via Skype. Layla hoped he would find it as special as she did.
“Hey, babe, you done yet?”
It was Joseph, the word babe sexy from his mouth, not offensive like it has been with Alex.
“Nearly,” she replied, shaking her bottom tantalizingly at him in French parlor maid fashion as she made a show of dusting the worktops.
“Do that again and this place will stay dirty forever,” he said, a big grin lighting up his face.
She threw a duster at him and enlisted his help, and after another hour or so they were done.
They stood together, admiring their efforts. The whole place did indeed shine as she intended. “I’m happy, but I’m sad too. Do you know what I mean?”
“I know exactly what you mean,” he replied. “But it’s not the end. We’ll come back one day.”
And in that instant she knew they would. They could be gone for years, not only to Italy, but to Spain, too. Further afield even, maybe as far as Australia, despite those eight-legged arachnids he far from adored being prolific there. He would rescue furniture from the point of extinction; she would work on her novels. The premise for her first one, based on three women and the tangled love lives they weaved strangely enough, had already been received enthusiastically by Rachel Aitkins.
But wherever they roamed, whatever they ended up doing, Trecastle would always be home. Not Brighton, not Italy, not anywhere else in the world, but here, a simple little village on the North Cornish coast, washed sometimes gently, sometimes violently, by the mighty Atlantic Ocean. And sprinkled, courtesy of the smoke fairies, liberally with magic.
Acknowledgments
Trecastle, I have to thank you. I also have to reveal your true identity: it’s Tintagel, a tiny village on Cornwall’s north coast, steeped in history and full of magic. You won’t find the beach described in this book here though, but don’t worry, it’s only two miles up the road, in Trebarwith Strand. Push the two together and you’ve got perfection. Visit them for yourself one day—the magic will stay with you forever.
About the Author
One of those rare creatures—a true Brightonian—Shani was born and bred in the sunny seaside town of Brighton on the UK’s south-coast. One of the first literary conundrums she had to deal with was her own name: Shani can be pronounced in a variety of ways, but in this instance, it’s Shay-nee not Shar-ney or Shan-ni, although she does indeed know a Shanni—just to confuse matters further! Hobbies include reading, writing, eating, and drinking—all four of which keep her busy enough. After graduating from Sussex University with a degree in English and American Literature, Shani landed a job at a well-known holiday company. Although employed as a Brochure Production Executive, she promptly reinvented herself as a copywriter, a new position they were happy (if a tad bewildered) to concede to. At twenty-four, Shani became a freelance copywriter and has been one ever since, in between writing novels, that is. Contemporary romance The Runaway Year is her first book and set between Brighton and North Cornwall, the latter a home-from-home for Shani, her husband, and three lovely kids. She also has a penchant for Glastonbury, another magical place, and don’t even get her started on Scotland—we’d be here all day!
Table of Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Acknowledgments
About the Author
The Runaway Year Page 27