by Leah Ashton
God, that hurt.
So she didn’t want Hugh to feel sorry for her. She wanted him to want her.
And he did.
Right now he wanted to be with no one more than her. She believed that with every cell of her body: with every cell in her body that was now hot and liquid, thanks to the way his chest, belly and legs were pressed so close against hers. So what if he only wanted her right now and not for longer?
It didn’t matter—because she knew that right at this moment she didn’t need to worry about not being ‘enough’, or to worry if the man she was with was wondering if there was something—someone—more out there for him.
Right now Hugh wanted her. Just her. No one else.
It might not be about love or relationships or a future together, but it still felt good. Great. The best, even. It still felt like exactly what she needed. And, yeah, she definitely wanted Hugh more than anyone. She could barely think with him this close to her.
Her hands relaxed and shifted, one moving up to his hair. Her body softened against him. She loved how hard and solid every inch of him was. His hands, which had been at his sides, now moved. They slid across her hips to her back.
April stood on tiptoes to murmur against his lips. ‘You know, there’s something else I’ve always wanted to do in a pub,’ she said. ‘Kiss a hot—’
He silenced her with his mouth, kissing her thoroughly—with lips and tongue.
Yes, this was a proper kiss: sexy and playful, deep and soft and hard.
When her eyes slid shut April forgot about where they stood, forgot about the crowd, and she couldn’t hear the music or the blur of conversation around them. It was just her and Hugh—the hot stranger she’d always wanted to kiss in a bar.
Although after today he didn’t feel like a stranger. They’d had some big conversations. They’d shared each other’s pain. Surely that didn’t follow Hugh’s rules...
But beneath Hugh’s mouth, his teeth, his tongue, her ability for coherent analysis no longer existed. Instead she just got to feel—the strength of his shoulders, the heat of his mouth. And to react as she took her turn to lead their kiss, to explore his mouth and to lose herself in delicious sensation.
And then, just as Hugh’s hand slid beneath her shirt and jacket, the heat of his touch shocking against the cool skin of her waist, yet another person bumped into them.
Hugh dragged his mouth from hers to speak into her ear. ‘Can we get out of here?’
‘Please,’ she said.
And, holding Hugh’s hand, April navigated them through the sea of bodies and noisy conversations finally to spill out onto the cobblestones outside.
Hugh tugged her a few metres away from the doorway into the shadows of a neighbouring shopfront, the shop now closed in the evening darkness.
‘Still hate pubs?’ April asked, breathless as he backed her up against the wooden door.
‘Intensely,’ he said, his breath hot against her skin. ‘But I really like this.’
And then he kissed her again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘DO YOU THINK it’s a form of claustrophobia?’ April asked as they were driven through London in the back seat of a black cab.
‘The pub thing?’ Hugh said, relaxing into his seat.
Streetlights intermittently lit the car’s interior as they drove, painting April in light and shadow.
‘No,’ he continued. ‘If anything it would be ochlophobia, which is a fear of crowds. But “fear” is too strong a word. Intolerance of crowds is more accurate.’
He’d researched his dislike of bustling, enclosed spaces, much as he’d researched his mother’s hoarding. It hadn’t been much of a leap to realise that if his mother had an anxiety-related disorder then possibly he did too.
But the label wasn’t a comfortable fit. And certainly his issues were nowhere near as extreme as his mother’s.
Tonight, for instance.
He never would’ve walked into that bar if it had been busy when they’d arrived. And, truthfully, while he’d been aware of the small space filling and people growing rowdier, the longer he and April had talked, the less it had bothered him.
His focus has been on April. Solely on April.
Later, as the crowds had buffeted them both, the familiar cloak of tension had wrapped around him. He had definitely wanted out of that bar, as rapidly as possible. But then April had asked if he was okay. And then it had become about her again—about his clearly unwanted concern for her—and then, soon after, about his need to touch her.
When he’d kissed her he wouldn’t have cared if he’d been surrounded by a million people—he wouldn’t have noticed. He’d been entirely and completely focused on April and on kissing her.
Surely if he truly had a phobia he wouldn’t have been able to just forget about it like that? Just for a kiss?
In the rare times he’d found himself in a crowded space in the past fifteen years he certainly wouldn’t have expected a kiss to have distracted him from the way his throat would tighten and his heart would race. But a kiss had.
Or maybe it was April?
He didn’t let himself spend any time considering that.
‘It isn’t even crowds in general,’ Hugh said, talking to silence his brain. ‘I can go to the movies, to the theatre, without much problem. I generally go outside during intermissions, and I never wait around in the foyer before a show, but once I’m in my seat I’m fine, because it’s an ordered, organised crowd. Also, I generally have a date if I’m going somewhere like that, so I’m not expected to converse with random people. Something else I don’t enjoy. That’s why the café today was fine—there wasn’t a mass of people and I was there with you.’
‘So you need white space?’ April said.
He hadn’t thought of it quite like that before, but the analogy worked.
‘Like in your flat,’ she said. ‘That’s like one big ocean of white space.’
His lips quirked. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose it is.’
The antithesis of the home he grew up in.
The cab slowed to a stop outside an uninspiring town house with a collection of dead weeds in a planter box at the front window. They’d arrived at April’s place—a destination they’d chosen after having had a group of passing teenagers wolf-whistle as they’d been mid-kiss within that shop doorway and April had whispered, ‘I should go home.’
He still felt the stab of disappointment at those words. But she was right to slow things down—even if it was the last thing he wanted to do.
He asked the cab driver to wait as he escorted April to the door. A sensor light flicked on and then almost immediately fizzled out, leaving April to search around in her handbag for keys in almost pitch-darkness.
‘I hate this house,’ April said when she eventually slid the key into the lock. ‘Like, with a deep and abiding passionate hatred, you know?’
‘So you’re not going to invite me in?’ he asked with a smile.
‘No,’ April said. ‘Because I am certain two-day-old pizza remains on the coffee table and the fridge stinks like something died in it. And because I have a roommate—literally. And also because I’m trying to be sensible.’
But it seemed whenever Hugh was this close to April, being sensible just didn’t feel like an option. So he kissed her again.
She kissed him back in a way that confirmed what he already knew—that April didn’t want to be particularly sensible either.
‘Do you want to—?’ he began.
Come back to my place.
What was he doing?
‘Do I want to what?’ April asked. Her words were a husky whisper.
‘Nothing,’ he said firmly, stepping away. ‘Nothing.’
He never invited a woman back to his place. I
t was, as April had so accurately said, his white space. Unadulterated with clutter or complications. Any complications.
He was halfway back to the cab before he’d even realised he was retreating.
‘Hugh?’
‘Bye, April,’ he said, knowing he should say more, but unable to work out what.
He didn’t give her a chance to respond and slid into the back seat of the cab, then watched her step into the townhouse, turn on the light and close the front door behind her.
Hugh knew he’d just reacted poorly. That he was being weird. But then, that was what he did. It was who he was.
He didn’t have unexpected, amorphous day-long dates with women who worked for him. All of today had been exceedingly weird for him. It just hadn’t felt weird at the time. At all, really—even now.
Being with April had felt natural. Inviting her to his place—almost—had felt natural, too.
But as the cab whisked him home he felt more comfortable with his decision with every passing mile. He’d been right to halt his rebellious tongue and his rebellious libido.
This thing with April was definitely breaking some of his rules. But not the important ones: No sleepovers at his house. No relationships.
Those rules were non-negotiable.
And those rules would never be broken.
* * *
April: I have some news.
Mila: Yes?
Ivy wasn’t online, but April messaged both her sisters so Ivy could comment later if she wanted. She needed their advice.
It was Sunday morning, her roommate was once again sleeping in and this wasn’t a conversation she wanted to have in the kitchen, with her other housemates listening in. So instant messaging it was.
She snuggled under her doona and typed out a brief summary of the past forty-eight hours. It seemed completely impossible that it had been less than two days since Hugh had kissed her—it felt like for ever ago.
She closed her eyes as the memory of his lips at the sensitive skin beneath her ear made her shiver.
April: So what do you think?
She’d just described the way Hugh had practically run from her front doorstep after she’d been certain he intended to invite her back to his place.
Mila: I think he was just following your lead. You slowed things down, so he did too.
Mila’s interpretation seemed logical, but April wasn’t so sure.
April: I didn’t want to slow things down. But it seemed the right thing to do.
Honestly, until those teenagers had whistled at them, slowing things down had been the absolute last thing on her mind.
Mila: Why?
April: Because I don’t know anything about dating. Isn’t there some protocol about what number date you sleep with someone on?
Ivy: No.
April grinned as her sister announced her appearance. Ivy’s now husband had started as a one-night stand.
Ivy: But seriously. Do whatever feels right for you. This guy has made it clear that he doesn’t want commitment, so you don’t owe him anything. Do what you want, when you want. Date numbers are meaningless.
April: But the way he just left made me feel like he was having second thoughts.
Mila: Maybe he is.
April: Ouch!
Mila: Just ask him if you’re not sure. What do you have to lose?
April: My job, I guess.
But she didn’t really think so. Hugh wouldn’t fire her—he’d just make sure their paths didn’t cross.
Ivy posted a serious of furious emoticons.
April grinned.
April: No, don’t worry. I’m one hundred per cent sure he wouldn’t fire me.
Ivy: Good. I didn’t think your taste in men was that bad.
April: It’s not bad, just limited.
To two guys—one she’d married. She felt utterly clueless.
Mila: Exactly! So just ask him if he wants to help you expand your experience or not. Then you’ll know.
Ivy: Good euphemism. And good plan. You don’t want to waste time on a guy who isn’t interested.
Ivy was right. On her bad days, April already felt she’d wasted almost half her life with Evan.
April: But what if he says no?
She paused before she sent the message.
She already knew what her sisters would say: they’d reassure that he wouldn’t, or tell her that if he did it was his loss, not hers, or that if he did he was an idiot...blah-blah-blah.
Which would be lovely of them, but it wouldn’t make a difference, would it?
Of course not.
If Hugh rejected her, then it was going to hurt. There was no sugar-coating that.
She deleted the words, thanked her sisters for their advice and then they chatted awhile longer.
Later, she responded to some comments on the latest post to her Instagram account—one of those blonde images from months ago.
For the first time she felt a little uncomfortable doing so. Until now her double life hadn’t been impacting anyone: her family and those close to her knew exactly where she was and what she was doing. She’d felt a little guilty hiding such a big move from her followers, but she’d justified it with her confidence that they would understand when she eventually made her grand reveal. As for her suppliers and sponsors—well, she was ensuring that she was showcasing their products just as she would if she was living her life as April Molyneux, so there was no issue there.
So it was just Hugh that was making her feel this way.
You don’t owe him anything.
Mila’s remembered words helped April dismiss her concerns. She was over-complicating a situation that was supposed to be uncomplicated. Nothing had changed since she’d made her decision at the breakfast café.
There was no need to tell him.
* * *
On Monday, April decided to be very civilised—and, she imagined, very British—by inviting Hugh for a cup of tea. She sent him a text message practically the moment she arrived at the house:
April: Cup of tea? I’m just boiling the kettle.
Hugh’s response was to simply walk in the front door a couple of minutes later.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Morning,’ said April. She’d made—she hoped—a subtle effort in her appearance. She was still dressed for work, in jeans, a button-down shirt and sneakers, but she’d made a more concerted effort with her hair and make-up. Her ponytail was sleek, her make-up natural but polished.
Her intent had been to give herself a boost of confidence.
In reality it made everything feel like a very big deal. After a whole Sunday convincing herself it was anything but.
‘I’m sorry about how I left,’ Hugh said from across the marble countertop.
April nodded, then held out a small box full of teabags she’d found in one of the cupboards, so Hugh could select the type he wanted. April was more of a coffee girl, and she dumped a generous teaspoon of coffee granules into her Dockers mug as she waited for Hugh to elaborate.
‘I panicked, I think,’ he said.
April’s gaze leapt to his. She didn’t think that Hugh was a man who often admitted to panic—of any kind.
‘Saturday was...unusual for me. You told me in the bar that you weren’t following my rules, but the thing was I wasn’t either. And I didn’t like that. I don’t like it, really.’ He swallowed. His hands were shoved into the pockets of his jeans. ‘So I’m sorry I didn’t call or text yesterday. I was still panicking.’
She nodded. ‘Okay.’
‘The thing is, I decided on my cab ride home on Saturday that I needed to slow things down—put some space between us. By last night I’d decided that the best possible thing to do was to end this.
Immediately.’
April’s stomach dropped, leaving her empty inside. It turned out she hadn’t been prepared for this possibility. Not at all.
The kettle was bubbling loudly now, steam billowing from its spout. Suddenly, though, Hugh had skirted the counter and was standing right beside her.
‘But that would’ve been idiotic,’ he said.
April continued to study the teabags, not ready to risk Hugh seeing what she could guess would be revealed in her eyes.
‘And besides, I realised it was impossible the moment I received your text. I’d been kidding myself. I don’t want to end this.’
‘Okay,’ April said again.
She did meet his gaze now, and tried to work out what he was thinking. What exactly did he mean?
His expression wasn’t quite unreadable. But equally it told her little. Not like when they’d walked along the Thames. Or even at other little moments scattered throughout that Saturday as she’d told him more about her relationship with Evan, or just before they’d kissed in the centre of that crowded bar.
‘Same deal, though? No relationship?’
Deliberately she’d phrased her question lightly. As if that was what she wanted, too.
Wasn’t it?
‘Of course,’ Hugh said.
Then, before she could attempt to read anything more into his gaze or his words, he kissed her.
Softly at first, and then harder, until he lifted her off her feet to sit her on the bench. Then the kiss was something else altogether...it had intent. It was a promise of so much more.
But, wrenching her mouth away from his, April said breathlessly, ‘I have to work, Hugh.’
And when he might have told her that it didn’t matter, that he was her boss, he seemed to realise he shouldn’t say any of that, and that it was critically important to her that he didn’t.
She was supposed to be working. And for a woman who’d never worked a proper day in her life until recently, it was probably strange that she found that so important. But she did. Working for a living wasn’t just some rich girl’s fancy to April—it was real...it was her life.