The Great Escape (Dilbury Village #2)

by Charlotte Fallowfield

  ‘How the hell did you get engaged to Greg then, or lose your virginity?’ she uttered, sounding completely perplexed.

  ‘Because I liked them, I didn’t like them, like them,’ I stated emphatically.

  ‘There’s a double-like system in place? When did that come into play?’

  ‘Oh, you know what I mean. Look at you and Heath, you like him, I think in time you could even go on to date him, but you don’t like him enough for him to be “the one,”’ I suggested, as I reminded her of her friendship with the hot handyman who did her garden. ‘You’d be settling for Mr. “Ok for now”, instead of waiting for Mr. Perfect. And that’s what I did, though I didn’t realise it at the time. Subconsciously I think I did know, as I didn’t feel any stress or tension around Greg or the other guys I dated. Like it didn’t matter if they got to know the real me and decided they didn’t like me, it wouldn’t be any great loss. But with Mr. Perfect …’ I paused as I thought of my toned jogger, who I couldn’t stop dreaming about. Abbie snapped her fingers at me, bringing me out of my daydream. ‘With a guy that I feel an attraction that strong to, there’s a risk. It matters. You know?’

  ‘So you’re saying a few looks at a hot face and body jogging past for the last few days and you think you’ve found Mr. Perfect?’

  ‘You make me sound really shallow,’ I protested, stalling to gather my thoughts by finishing my drink with a noisy, and very unladylike, slurp. ‘But I just took one look at him and felt like I’d been winded. Then he caught my eye and smiled, and it was like someone had sucked all of the air out of my lungs. It was like I felt this connection to him, a total stranger. It scared me, so every time I see him coming up the beach now, I make myself not look.’ I bit my lower lip, waiting for her to tell me I was being ridiculous.

  ‘Ok, I sort of get that. I felt the same way the first time I saw Miller at Rachel’s wedding. But what I don’t get is you closing yourself off to the possibility of meeting someone who might be your happy ever after. By letting him think you’re not interested, you probably lose any chance of finding out if there’s something there. By letting him know, by maybe having a few drinks with him, the worst that can happen is you don’t get on and he walks away. No harm, no foul. You’re no worse off,’ she suggested. Logically.

  ‘But–’

  ‘No buts,’ she interrupted, ‘because there’s a chance that he could really like you too, Georgie. A chance that you could have a relationship, a chance that I might have to put on bridesmaid dress number thirteen for you. Isn’t that worth the risk?’

  ‘Of you being a spinster for the rest of your life? Hell no!’ Abbie was already at bridesmaid dress twelve and was convinced if she wore number thirteen, she’d never get married herself.

  ‘Take me out of the equation. There’s no way Pippa’s going to last a week in a convent, she’ll change her mind and be getting married before we know it, and she’ll put the curse on me. You said on the plane ride over here that you’d do anything to see a smile on my face again, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I replied, with a feeling I was going to regret that promise.

  ‘Well, I’m calling in that promise,’ she said firmly, confirming my fears. ‘I want you to smile back at him next time he jogs past, and to keep smiling every time he looks at you, and to say yes when he asks you to drinks or dinner, which I guarantee he’s going to do. No,’ she warned as I attempted to protest. ‘You promised, Georgie. This is what I want.’

  ‘You’re so mean to me, Abbie Carter,’ I pouted. I was equally terrified at the thought of actually making proper eye contact with him, let alone speaking, but it also made my heart flutter with delicious anticipation at the same time. I was about to argue with her, but then I realised this was the perfect chance to force Abbie to confront her fears at the same time. ‘I’ll only promise if you promise to open up to me before we get on that plane home. Deal?’

  I saw her face fall. I’d never force her to talk until she was ready, but that didn’t mean I was above a little gentle coaxing, or blackmail in this case, to help get her to that point.

  ‘Deal,’ she finally confirmed.

  Both of us blew out a deep breath as we realised we were going to be confronting our demons head on by the end of the week. Doing it with my best friend at my side would be so much less scary than doing it alone, though. I could do it, I could look at him and smile. It wasn’t like I was throwing myself at him and proposing marriage. I was just letting him know I was interested, in case he wanted to do anything about it. No big deal.

  So why was my heart racing so fast?

  Chapter Three

  The Date

  One Week Later – Friday

  FOR A GIRL WHO didn’t want anyone to know how interested she was in a guy, I was way too invested in my appearance this morning. I’d put on some waterproof mascara and a slick of clear lip-gloss, then carefully eased out the humid frazzles from my long red hair with a deep conditioning treatment and swept it up into a high ponytail. I was in my electric blue bikini, which Abbie said made my blue eyes sparkle. I huffed out a deep breath as I thought of him. We’d gone from looking and smiling at each other, to nodding as a way of acknowledging each other, to finally saying “Hi” as he jogged past. Multiple times a day. Abbie was right, anyone with his physique didn’t need to jog half as much as he did on a daily basis. The thought that he might be doing it to see me made my tummy flutter with nerves and excitement.

  I was extra nervous today. We were flying home on Sunday evening, so we only had two nights left. For all I knew, he might already have gone home himself and I was making all of this effort for nothing. I was surprised at the pang of disappointment I felt at the thought of not seeing him again. Then I started to wonder if he really was interested, or if he was just being polite. He didn’t know we weren’t leaving until Sunday and he had no way of knowing how to contact me once we did go. Maybe I had just let Abbie blow this up into something it wasn’t, got my hopes up for nothing. I sighed and grabbed my beach towel and headed out of the villa, skirting our private pool to head down the steps and out of our gate onto the beach. Abbie was already stretched out sunbathing, covered in a black kaftan, which made me giggle.

  We’d spent Tuesday at a gorgeous lagoon, which had a waterpark, and Abbie had come away covered in bruises from her water escapades and an encounter with an over-amorous dolphin named Mahi, the only action she’d seen all holiday. She’d hardly been able to walk the last two days, and had been covering herself, and her now purple bruises, up in case people thought I’d been physically abusing her.

  ‘It wasn’t funny the first time you laughed at me wearing this to sunbathe, and it’s not getting any funnier,’ she grumbled as she sat surveying the beach, probably looking out for my jogger.

  ‘We should have just wrapped you in that burka blanket, like on the plane. At least people wouldn’t question why you aren’t in your bikini.’

  ‘They’d question why we came on a sunbathing holiday when I couldn’t even show anything but my eyes.’

  ‘True, but you do look out of place even wearing that. Everyone’s panting from the heat and wearing as little as possible, and you’re in that with a towel covering your lower legs,’ I observed as I slipped onto my bed next to her and adjusted my boobs, making them look as pert and attractive as possible in my top. ‘So, any sightings yet?’

  ‘No, but it’s not eleven a.m. yet. He’s regular as clockwork. I’m telling you, he’s in the Army or something, he’s very regimented.’

  ‘Explains the body,’ I nodded as my eyes darted up and down the beach, hoping he’d break his routine and appear any moment. Abbie threw off her towel and swung her bruised legs down as she swivelled to sit on the edge of the bed.

  ‘Ok, I’m fed up with being stuck in the “Hi” zone. If you want to take this a step further, you’re going to have to make a move,’ she said seriously. I shot her a terrified look. I didn’t “make moves.” It wasn’t polite for a lady to initiate
contact. The man had to do that. ‘Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s not ladylike. God forbid a man would think you fancied him. If it got out that you’d let it be known you were up for it, it would send cataclysmic shock waves through high society,’ she mocked, knowing my insecurities far too well.

  ‘It would, well my parents anyway,’ I stated firmly.

  ‘You’re twenty-eight years old, Georgie Basset,’ Abbie reminded me, then chopped two of her fingers at me repeatedly.

  ‘What’s that supposed to be?’

  ‘I’m cutting the invisible apron strings, see?’ she said, repeating the gesture. ‘You’re a grown woman who lives alone. You’re fully capable of making your own choices in a suitor and letting him know you’d be up for a date if he’s interested. When he jogs past today, you’re going to stand up and go and talk to him.’

  ‘And say what?’ I uttered in horror, my mouth going dry at the thought of even trying to speak.

  ‘Do I look like I have all of the answers? Which of us is on an “escaping her life and rubbish taste in men” holiday?’

  ‘You don’t have rubbish taste in men at all. Miller is perfect for you. Maybe you should take a leaf out of your own book and go and talk to him, instead of waiting for him to make the first move, again,’ I huffed, totally exasperated with her. She still hadn’t told me how she was feeling about what had happened between them. I mimed a pair of snipping scissors back at her. ‘Cutting your avoidance strings.’

  ‘I’ll give you avoidance strings,’ she exclaimed, attacking my fingers with hers. I giggled as we finger scissored and battled each other, then took a sharp gasp as I saw him coming into view, jogging in slow motion, the light breeze ruffling his hair and the sun forming a halo behind his head.

  ‘Wow,’ I sighed dreamily, quickly reaching up to make sure my hair hadn’t expanded into an afro already with the heat.

  ‘See, told you,’ Abbie added as she flicked a glance at her watch. ‘Spot on eleven a.m. Come on, stand up, don’t sit there like a lump of lard,’ she ordered as she quickly lay back and repositioned her towel.

  ‘Lump of lard?! Thanks very much,’ I complained, looking down to check out my body. I was in pretty good shape. I had a slight swell to my tummy I’d rather wasn’t there, and was totally unfit despite being slim, but I’d never had hang-ups about my body. My verbal skills with a hot guy were a whole other issue.

  ‘Still sitting and he’s getting closer,’ she warned, waiting a beat and then adding, ‘and closer still.’

  ‘My brain isn’t communicating with my legs yet,’ I uttered in a panic.

  ‘Communicate faster, or he’ll pass you with another “Hi” and it will be twenty minutes before he does the return trip. Twenty more minutes of you getting worked up about speaking to him, and me getting worked up about neither of you actually speaking more than one word to each other!’

  She was right, I knew she was right. He was approaching fast and already looking my way with a dazzling smile on his face, all thoughts of checking his watch every few strides forgotten. He might be flying home today, this could be the second to last time I was ever going to see him. That thought alone powered me up into an unflattering stance, legs spread either side of the sun lounger. Abbie giggled in the background as I hastily tried to clamber over it and strike a more sexy and alluring pose. He slowed down, his hands dropping to his slim hips, fingers angled to draw attention to his ridiculously defined Apollo’s V and that … mountaineering expedition that would have made even Scott of the Antarctic reconsider his career choice.

  ‘Go on, sweetie,’ Abbie urged under her breath.

  ‘Hi there,’ I called, then stalled as I tried to think of something else to say. Anything that wasn’t “You’re so hot” while I drooled like a psychiatric patient. I cursed myself as I struck out and remained silent. Well that was progress. A whole extra word tacked onto “Hi.”

  ‘Hi there,’ came his deep gravelly voice as he broke away from the lapping water’s edge and slowly walked towards me. I gulped as he got closer and slowly lifted up his mirrored shades. It was like a bolt of lightning struck me straight in the chest, and I struggled to keep my balance as I was hit with the deep azure blue of his eyes. Like he wasn’t already a weakness of mine, he had to top off that perfected package with my favourite of eye colours. I licked my dry lower lip, desperately trying to think of something to say as he approached and stretched out his hand. ‘Weston, Weston Argent.’

  ‘Gorgeous,’ I replied, putting my hand in his. I felt faint as he wrapped his fingers tightly around my hand, which quivered from the sensation that sparked all of my nerve endings. Oh shit. Had I just said gorgeous out loud? ‘Georgie, I mean my name is Georgie, not gorgeous. It’s a bit presumptuous of me to call myself gorgeous, isn’t it? And I wasn’t saying it about you, no. No, no, no. Not that you’re not gorgeous. I mean you are, obviously, but … oh God, I’m rambling. I’m rambling, aren’t I?’ I uttered, my cheeks flaming.

  ‘For the record, I think you are,’ he stated, still holding my hand, which was doing nothing to calm my racing pulse. He was so close I could smell him, a deep, sensual musk with a light, zingy fragrance of lime.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not usually a rambler. Verbal or walking. They have a rambling group in our village back home, they take in all the sights of Dilbury and the Welsh hills, but it’s full of old fogies. I actually think you need to be old to qualify to join them. They probably have some sort of “can you get over this stile with a Zimmer frame in more than ten minutes” test and they don’t let you join if you can do it quicker. So, as I was saying … they’re old ramblers. And I’m … not.’ What was I waffling on about? His hypnotic eyes, even bluer than the clear ocean behind him, were all I could focus on.

  ‘I meant the gorgeous part,’ he smiled as he finally released my hand, then lifted his and ran it through his thick hair. We stood looking at each other still, blue eyes locked, lips parted as we both caught our breath. He thought I was gorgeous? I wonder if he knew I thought the same about him. Then again, what woman wouldn’t? He must know how attractive he is. My eyes started to wander over his chest and abs, and I heard a discreet cough from Abbie.

  ‘Jogging?’ It was the first and most obvious thing that came to my mind as I snapped my eyes back up to his face.

  ‘What about it?’ he asked, frowning as if that had been the last thing he was expecting me to say.

  ‘That was a “jogging?” As in “you’re out jogging?”, rather than a “jogging, what’s that all about?”’ I stuttered.

  ‘I don’t jog, I run,’ he replied, a strange look crossing his beautiful face.

  ‘Same thing, isn’t it?’

  ‘Actually no, it’s not.’ He bit down on his lower lip at the same time as I did on mine. How had I got so off track?

  ‘Well, what’s the difference?’

  ‘You … want me to explain … the difference between jogging … and running?’ he asked hesitantly, looking at me like I was stupid. Which right now I was. This was exactly why I didn’t talk to hot men.

  ‘Well … I know it’s faster than a jog, which is faster than a ramble, or say a walk, but I’m not really sure where a sprint would come in on that sliding scale of speed. Is that faster than a run? And walks, jogs, rambles, runs, and sprints would all be speed relative, wouldn’t they? I mean, if you’re old with really short legs, you wouldn’t go as fast, unless you’re the hotel porter. He’s the exception to the rule as he goes like shit off a shovel!’

  Damn it, this was getting seriously awkward. How did we get from lightly flirting to discussing the ins and outs of various types of speed on foot? I flicked a glance over at Abbie, who was trying not to giggle. She rolled her eyes at me and shook her head. I looked back at him and saw he’d taken a step back from me, both hands planted firmly on his hips and a strange look on his face. The same look had been on Dai Owens face when he’d fled from me. At an unmistakable sprint.

  ‘Are you staying here? If you are, I wo
uldn’t recommend the mashed potatoes, they’re like lumpy school mash. If you flicked them at the wall, they’d probably stick like that awful woodchip wallpaper from the seventies,’ I added, desperately trying to find another topic.

  ‘Lumpy … mash,’ he repeated, taking another step back and looking longingly up the beach, like he was trying to plot his fastest escape route and wishing he was anywhere but here, his illusions of me shattered completely.

  ‘Hard carrots too, and don’t get me started on what they do to their peas.’ Oh my God, what was I saying? I shot a pleading look at Abbie, who was nearly doubled up with silent laughter. I was dying here. And scared as I was, I didn’t want him to walk, jog, run, or use any other method of travel by foot that we hadn’t yet discussed to get away from me. I flicked my eyes back to his and he lifted his hand, coughed, and glanced away again, before shuffling his feet and looking down at them. I bit my lip and dug my toes in the hot powdery sand, the suddenly awkward atmosphere smothering us like a heavy sea fog rolling in. ‘They do nice fries though,’ I finally added, desperately trying to fill in the silence.

  ‘Nice … fries? Ok, well I’ll bear that in mind if I ever eat here.’

  I nodded and swallowed a lump in my throat, both of us looking anywhere but at each other.

  ‘Why don’t you?’ Abbie suggested. ‘I’m not feeling very well and Georgie is going to be eating on her own tonight. You could take her to dinner instead and see what you think?’

  ‘I … I … don’t think I can, I’m afraid. It’s my last night here and I really need to pack,’ Weston replied, flashing me a guilty look. My stomach sank like a stone. I’d put him off me, with all that bloody waffling about speed and under or overcooked vegetables. The prospect of packing his tiny and ridiculously tight underwear was more appealing than having dinner with me.