All For Victory: A Romantic Comedy (The Dartmouth Diaries Book 3)

by Watts, Beverley

  I’m suddenly brought back to the present as the car stops, and I realize we’re not only back in Dartmouth, but Jason has parked the car opposite my flat. The silence seems almost alive as I look over at him, abruptly remembering his earlier request to see my etchings. My nerves are strung like taut wire.

  Will he think I want him to stay the night if I ask him up for coffee? Do I want him to stay the night? I raise my eyes to his as he stares at me enquiringly.

  After a couple of seconds, he sighs, giving a small quirk of his lips. ‘It’s late,’ he murmurs, clearly offering me a way out.

  I drop my eyes, wondering whether I should be playing it cool. Then, all at once I’m tired of playing the game.

  I don’t want a way out – it’s as simple as that. It’s time I let myself go and stopped agonizing over what’s going to happen tomorrow. Tomorrow isn’t here, it doesn’t exist yet. There’s only tonight.

  I raise my eyes back to his and say softly, formally, ‘I believe I have some very interesting etchings to show you Captain Buchannan. It would be a shame if you missed them due to the lateness of the hour.’

  I can vaguely see his eyes narrow in the darkness, and for a second, I think I’ve got it horribly wrong, that he really doesn’t want to come up with me. Then I discern that the crinkling in his eyes is due to his smile and I relax as he leans forward to kiss me on the lips.

  His mouth is soft and warm, tentative. Slowly he lifts his right hand, sliding it gently through my hair to the back of my head. I feel him tremble slightly and recognize he’s holding back.

  Then he withdraws a fraction - just enough to look at me, to silently ask the question, and I give a small involuntary gasp as I catch sight of his eyes in the shadows, hot and intent.

  With a small whimper, I lean into him and press my mouth back against his. He remains still for a second, then groans and pulls me half onto his lap, and with a small surge of triumph, I feel his mouth open hungrily against mine…

  I wake up slowly. I know it’s early because the morning sun is shining directly in my eyes - I obviously neglected to close the curtains last night. I briefly question how I could have forgotten, when it all comes flooding back.

  Turning my head, I stare in wonder at Jason’s tousled head lying next to me. He looks surprisingly young and almost vulnerable asleep.

  My mind flits back to last night. I can’t really remember how we got from the car to my flat, but I do recall that he wasn’t really interested in seeing anything except the parts of me that are generally hidden. I feel my face redden and self consciously close my eyes as I remember him tearing off my clothes – the antique lace never stood a chance - then his oh so capable fingers unrelentingly touching, stroking, rubbing, tasting every inch of me until I was squirming, gasping under his hands and mouth. Then finally the glorious feel of him, hard and velvety smooth taking me to a place where thoughts have no part and everything is pure, exquisite sensation.

  I’m brought suddenly, shockingly back to the present by a warm hand sliding down my body. My eyes fly open to see his silver eyes regarding me in sleepy appreciation.

  ‘Good morning.’ His voice is soft, warm honey as his hand continues to explore. Unable to help myself, I writhe under his expert fingers, gasping as he continues to watch me, his eyes heavy lidded with desire. But this time it’s my turn, and he catches his breath as I brush the tips of my fingers against the hard contours of his body, my hands dipping lower until they hold the hard smooth length of him, touching and stroking until with a low growl, he pushes me back into the bed and carries us both to oblivion.

  An hour later our bedroom intimacy is a distant memory. The embarrassing details of providing a towel, spare toothbrush and the whole “what does he like for breakfast” bit creates an uncomfortable awkwardness between us that I hadn’t bargained for. And of course, last night’s decision to stop agonizing over tomorrow because it doesn’t exist yet was made when I was pretty inebriated. And guess what? It bloody well exists now…

  Clumsily I hand him a coffee as he comes out of the shower. I should have so planned this better. I should have had freshly ground coffee instead of instant; fresh croissants instead of bread with dots of mould on it.

  Note to self: Always plan seductions well in advance.

  To my relief he seems perfectly happy with Gold Blend (I do only buy the good stuff), and declines any toast with the excuse that he has a breakfast meeting at eleven (on a Sunday?)

  He looks undeniably delicious wearing just his white dress shirt and black slacks, his hair damp and dishevelled from the shower. At least his car’s parked outside so he won’t have to do the walk of shame.

  So instead of agonizing about tomorrow, I’m agonizing about now. Or more precisely, exactly what to say now. The silence is slowly moving from awkward to downright embarrassing. I have no idea what he’s thinking – his face is completely inscrutable.

  Does he think I bring men back to my flat regularly? I want to laugh. I’ve had my current bed nearly four years and he’s the first person to have slept in it besides me and Tory, and he’s definitely the only person to have actually shared it with me.

  I think back to the warm passionate man of last night. No resemblance at all to the solemn stranger in front of me. How stupid am I? Did I honestly believe he might want something more from me than a quick bonk? Come on! My experience of Jason Buchannan up to now has clearly told me he’s not interested in a serious relationship. How could I have forgotten that so quickly?

  I open my mouth, intending to briskly send him on his way before spending the rest of the day wallowing in self pity.

  ‘Would you like to meet for a drink before the Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday?’ I stare at him in open mouthed surprise. It’s the last thing I expect him to say.

  ‘I could meet you here in town, then we could cross over to Kingswear on the passenger ferry and have a drink at the Ship before walking up to Noah’s house. That’s if you don’t mind a bit of a hike of course. I just thought it might give us an appetite.’

  His voice is actually a little uncertain, almost nervous, and I suddenly wonder again just how much of the real Jason is hidden behind his unreadable face.

  ‘I’d love to,’ I stammer at length, before continuing more confidently, ‘And the walk back will burn off the calories.’ I smile hesitantly at him, and after a second he grins back, his stony expression finally cracking.

  ‘I think it might be better if we get a taxi back,’ he responds drily, ‘We don’t want to overdo it - I might end up carrying you.’

  I give an inelegant snort. ‘I’ll have you know I once completed the Commando Challenge. A mere two mile stroll is nothing to me.’

  And just like that, the ice is broken. He puts his empty coffee cup onto the draining board and steps forward, bending his head to kiss me softly. ‘Thanks for last night. It… you, were amazing.’

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ I manage to murmur, resisting the urge to ask him to take me back to bed.

  He stares intently at me for a second, and my heart starts to thud. I know he can tell exactly what I am thinking. But all he does is stroke over my lips with his thumb before turning away to grab his jacket.

  ‘Shall we meet over at the boat float?’ he asks, shrugging his arms into the sleeves.

  ‘Sounds good,’ I mutter a little huskily – that thumb stroke was ridiculously the most erotic thing he’d done.

  ‘Dinner’s at eight, so shall we say about five thirty? That will give us time to get over to the other side and have a leisurely drink without having to sprint round the headland.’

  I simply nod happily, and he steps forward again to give me one last kiss. Then he’s gone, and contrary to my earlier intention, I decide that a big fried breakfast at Alf’s is the order of the day.

  I give Freddy a quick call to see if he fancies meeting me to stock up on some coronary fodder, and, to my surprise, he agrees with very unFreddy like enthusiasm. Not usually a morning person,
he actually sounds disgustingly perky, and I’m guessing my aunt’s editor may have something to do with his early morning change of personality.

  I’m eager to find out more, and hopefully talking about himself (Freddy’s favourite pastime) will stop him from ferreting out my business, (his second favourite pastime). After a brief internal debate, I give Tory a quick text on the off chance that she and Noah might like to join us.

  As I pull on my coat, I consider whether to give Aunt Flo a call, then decide it’s a bit too early for the kind of interrogation I have in mind. She’s probably still in bed, especially as Neil stopped over.

  She thinks I don’t know about their relationship, but I’ve been aware of it for years. I’ve never thought about it before, but my aunt is actually quite good at keeping her cards very close to her chest.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be quite so surprised about any potential skeletons in her cupboard…

  Chapter Thirteen

  Café Al Fresco, or Alf’s as it’s more commonly known to the locals, serves in my opinion, the best breakfast in Dartmouth. Situated in an old building with low ceilings papered in newspapers going back years, the interior can best be described as rustic.

  The atmosphere is wonderfully relaxed and you can get anything from a full English breakfast to cinnamon toast.

  Like nearly everything in Dartmouth town centre, it’s only a couple of hundred yards away from my flat, and it’s our favourite place to go when it’s too early to go to The Cherub…

  Walking past the narrow Elizabethan shops along Lower Street, I shiver and tuck my hands into my coat pockets. The weather’s unusually cold. Snow is not something we see often in our neck of the woods – the south west of England is more likely to drown than freeze – but glancing up into the iron grey sky, I reflect how lovely it would be if it actually snowed on Tory’s wedding day.

  Proper snow - not the grey mushy stuff that we usually get. The College would look amazing. A real life Hogwarts.

  Still, snow or not, I’m relieved when I eventually push open the door to the steamy warmth of Alf’s. Blowing on my freezing hands, I pause for a few seconds to let my eyes become accustomed to the gloom.

  The place is packed, so I squeeze my way to a spare couple of chairs at the end of a large table. The rest are occupied by a family consisting of two adults, four children and three dogs.

  The smallest child is obviously only a couple of years old. She (I think it’s a she – the only clue under all the tomato ketchup is a pink bib) is sitting in a high chair with pieces of cut up sausage on the tray in front of her.

  Obviously sausage is not her favourite part of a pig as she’s busy throwing each piece onto the floor while shouting, ‘Bacon,’ at the top of her voice.

  Fortunately the dogs don’t appear to have the same aversion to sausage, and all three are poised ready and waiting to catch each discarded piece as it lands.

  There’s also a second child in another high chair carefully squeezing scrambled egg through greasy fingers. I have no idea what sex this one is as the bib is covered in baked beans.

  Grimacing slightly, I debate whether to join the queue at the counter to grab a coffee while I’m waiting for Freddy, but decide that squeezing my way past the family is probably best done only once. Running the gauntlet past sausage wielding and scrambled egg squeezing infants is not to be taken lightly.

  Luckily I’m spared from having to refuse a half eaten piece of sausage held out to me by the bacon lover as Freddy suddenly pops up at my shoulder.

  He looks over at the child with a shudder, then glances around desperately in the hope that another table might suddenly become free. By the look on his face I think he’s prepared to commit grievous bodily harm to get one.

  No such luck however, and after a quick frown, he sits gingerly on the other empty seat right next to the sausage lobber, only to be slobbered over by two of the dogs.

  ‘Pepper likes you,’ says the woman with a fond smile towards the larger of the two dogs who is busy trying to climb onto Freddy’s knee. I smother a laugh as I watch Freddy trying to push his new best friend down while avoiding a piece of sausage being stuffed up his nose.

  In the end, he hastily grabs the offending piece of meat out of the little girl’s fingers and throws it under the table muttering, ‘Fetch Fido.’

  Mercifully the dog disappears to sniff out the booty, leaving Freddy fastidiously wiping his hands on a scrap of tissue dug out of his pocket.

  ‘Have you got any sanitizer?’ he mutters, following it with a small whimper as he notices bean juice on his jeans. Taking pity on him, I suggest we swap seats, even offering to undertake the assault course to the counter while he recovers from his ordeal. I really don’t think Freddy’s cut out to be a father.

  He nods his head as I get up, and after giving me his order, plonks himself down on my seat with a small weak smile of apology towards the parents. Both smile back at him cheerily, obviously having developed thick skins regarding their less than salubrious offspring.

  ‘My name’s Mary. Why are you wearing a blouse?’ pipes up one of the older two children, pointing a grubby finger dangerously close to Freddy’s best Dolce and Gabbana shirt.

  Cringing, I beat a hasty retreat. To be fair, the kid has a point. Freddy does look like he’s wearing something out of My Fair Lady.

  It takes me nearly fifteen minutes to reach the front of the queue, and all that time I can feel Freddy’s eyes boring into the back of my head. Every time I glance over, he glares at me in between fending off grubby fingers and drooling dogs. My mobile phone keeps pinging and the texts are getting increasingly fraught.

  Just as I reach the counter, it goes off once more and I glance down at the text before giving our order. YOU’RE PAYING, it says in capital letters. I know better than to argue…

  A few minutes later I’m fighting my way back to the table with our drinks, just our table companions are preparing to leave. ‘Talk about bloody timing,’ mutters Freddy as I set his drink down.

  It takes the family another ten minutes to gather everything together, and as they leave with kids and dogs in tow, the table looks like a scene out of world war three.

  ‘Bloody hell, have you guys been eating with your fingers?’ Tory’s amazed voice sounds at our elbows a couple of minutes later.

  ‘Not us, it was Dartmouth’s answer to The Brady Bunch. You just missed them,’ I answer, squeezing forward so she can get past my seat. ‘It’s good job too, I think it might have put you off kids for life. Where’s Dotty?’

  I look around, only to spot the little dog vacuuming up the leftovers under the table. Tory bends down to give me a quick hug, then looks over at Freddy, frowning at his uncharacteristic silence. I actually think he could do with something a bit stronger than coffee.

  ‘I think they took a liking to Freddy,’ I offer with a grin.

  ‘Oh, nice,’ Tory murmurs sitting down, ‘That doesn’t happen very often.’ Freddy refuses to rise to the bait – another sign that he’s shell shocked. ‘What’s that on your shirt,’ she asks, pointing to what looks like a large lump of egg yolk decorating his top button. Freddy glances down and gives a small moan before jumping up hastily. With a quick glare at me, he turns and hurries up the narrow winding stairs to the toilet.

  ‘Watch your head on that low beam…’ I call, just as I hear a resounding crack, followed by several unrepeatable profanities.

  ‘Ouch, that must have hurt,’ Tory says with a wince. She waves over at Noah who’s queuing. His disguise of the day is to sport a pair of horn rimmed glasses that look as though they’ve come from a charity shop.

  To be fair, they probably have. One of Noah’s favourite hobbies is rummaging for what he calls his props. I hate to break it to him, but I think that most of Dartmouth’s residents aren’t really fooled. They just like to humour him. After all, it’s not every town that can boast a world famous actor as one of their own.

  Ten minutes later, Freddy reappears sporting a
large wet patch on the front of his shirt, and a shiny red lump on his forehead. To put it bluntly, he’s not a happy bunny. The only thing that stops him from flouncing out of the café is the arrival of our breakfasts.

  I smile gratefully at the waitress as she clears away the discarded plates, but Freddy simply tosses his head and stiffly begins tucking into his bacon and eggs.

  I look over at Tory and pull a face - he’s such a prima donna sometimes. She winks at me just as Noah arrives back at the table.

  ‘Wow, you been in a fight with a rampaging water hose buddy?’ Noah asks as he sits down.

  Tory kicks him under the table and I stifle a giggle. Freddy simply gives a long suffering sigh and continues to eat without answering.

  We decide to ignore him. Freddy’s best left to come out of a sulk on his own – although that can take anything from seven minutes to seven years…

  ‘I wanted to ask you a favour,’ Tory turns to me and tries to pinch a piece of my bacon. I slap her hand away. ‘You have no manners,’ I retort, giving her a crispy bit speared on my fork. ‘What kind of favour?’

  ‘I was wondering if you’d look after Dotty for a couple of nights.’ She glances over at Noah with a smile before continuing, ‘Noah wants to take me to London tomorrow. He’s been asked to switch on the Christmas lights in Oxford Street this year.’

  ‘They asked me months ago,’ Noah interrupts with a slight grimace, ‘But with everything that’s happened since, I totally forgot about it. My agent Matt called me in a panic this morning.’

  ‘Of course I’ll look after her for you. Sounds like fun,’ I say a trifle enviously.

  Tory immediately picks up on my wistful tone, adding hastily, ‘If you’d like to come along, I can always ask dad to have her.’ I can see Freddy in the corner of my eye, trying very hard not to look interested as I shake my head reluctantly.