by Leah Ashton
She slid off the counter and walked Hugh to the front door. She stood on tiptoes and kissed him softly, sliding her hand along his jaw. His sexy stubble was back, and she loved the way it rasped beneath her fingertips.
‘See you later,’ she said.
And she knew she would.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE REST OF the week was torture.
Delicious torture, but torture nonetheless.
Despite Hugh’s best efforts, April was determined to be the most diligent of workers. He thought he understood—possibly—why she felt that way. While the fact that he was technically her boss was mostly irrelevant to him, April clearly felt differently. Which was admirable, really, but also...frustrating.
By Monday afternoon April had quite a collection of things in the ‘Hugh’ box, having hit a bit of a mother lode of potentially sentimental items in the corner of the almost completed first bedroom.
Most of it was school stuff: finger paintings, honour certificates, ribbons from school athletics competitions. Plus yet more photos—these in battered albums, and mostly of his mother as a child.
The finger paintings went to recycling, and the ribbons to the bin. One certificate in particular he kept—he remembered how, aged about eight, he’d run his thumb over the embossed gold sticker in the bottom right-hand corner with pride. The rest he chucked. He kept his mother’s photo albums.
‘Penmanship Award?’ April asked, dropping down to kneel beside him.
She’d cleared about ninety per cent of the boxes in the bedroom, so she’d been able to open the heavy curtains. Light streamed into the room, reflecting off hundreds of dust motes floating merrily in midair.
‘It was a fiercely contested award,’ Hugh explained with mock seriousness. ‘But in the end I won with my elegant Qs.’
‘Wow!’ April said. She was so close their shoulders bumped. She met his gaze, mischief twinkling in her eyes. ‘I’ve always rather admired your Qs myself.’
‘Really?’ Hugh asked.
He leant closer, so their foreheads just touched. Her grin was contagious, and he found himself smiling at her like a loon.
‘Yeah...’ April breathed.
A beat before he kissed her, Hugh whispered, ‘When have you seen my Qs?’
‘Oh,’ April said, ‘I have a remarkable imagination.’
Hugh’s eyes slid shut. ‘Trust me,’ he said, his words rough, ‘I do too.’
Minutes later, with her lips plump from his kisses and her shirt just slightly askew, April slid from Hugh’s lap and stood.
‘Looks like the “Hugh” box is sorted for the day,’ she said.
‘So I’m dismissed?’ he said.
She shrugged, but smiled. ‘Something like that. See you tomorrow.’
* * *
On Tuesday he brought lunch.
They sat on the staircase, brown paper bags torn open on their laps to catch the crumbs from crusty rolls laden with cheese, smoked meats and marinated vegetables.
‘Tell me about where you live in Australia,’ he asked.
And so April spoke of growing up beside a river with black swans, of camping in the Pilbara and swimming in the rock pools at Karijini. She spoke of where she lived now: in a house where she could walk to the beach—a beach with white sand that stretched for kilometres, dotted with surfers and swimmers and the occasional distant freighter.
‘So why come here?’ he asked.
Today it was raining, with a dreary steady mist.
‘Because,’ she said as she wiped her fingers with a paper napkin, ‘London was far away. From Evan and my life. And it was different. I imagined a place busy where Perth was slow; and cool where Perth was hot. Perth is isolated geographically—here the world is barely hours away. I needed a change, and I needed it to be dramatic.’
She neatly rolled up her paper bag, being sure that the crumbs remained contained.
‘Although,’ she continued, ‘I imagined walking into my dream job—which, of course, didn’t happen.’
‘Why not?’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Because generally environmental consulting firms want experience, not just a thirty-something with a degree from a decade ago.’
‘Why didn’t you use your degree?’ Hugh asked, confused. ‘If that was your dream job?’
‘Because...’ she began, then paused. She started folding her rolled-up paper bag into itself, her gaze focused on her task. ‘Because I travelled a lot,’ she said quickly. ‘And maybe it wasn’t my dream job, after all.’
She stood up and offered her hand for Hugh’s paper bag. He handed it to her, and followed her into the kitchen, where she shook the crumbs out into the bin before adding the paper bags to the recycling.
‘You okay?’ he asked.
She nodded, and then his phone vibrated in his jeans pocket: a reminder he’d set for a meeting he needed to attend.
‘I need to go,’ he said, and then kissed her, briefly but firmly, on the lips.
‘Bye, Hugh,’ she said.
* * *
On Wednesday Hugh took her to the British Museum.
Initially she’d said no.
‘Consider it a team building day,’ Hugh said, firmly. ‘It’s a sanctioned work event, okay?’
She wanted to argue. After all, she’d been playing the professional card hard—and consistently—all week.
‘It’s great there on a weekday,’ Hugh said. ‘Not too busy. And it’s such a big place that even school groups and tourists don’t make it feel crowded.’
Crowds didn’t bother her. It was still a no...
‘I liked playing tour guide the other day. Let me do it again.’
Oh.
That got her—his reference to their day together...a day she knew he’d both enjoyed and felt uncomfortable about.
Those damn rules. Yet he wanted to do it again.
‘Okay,’ she said.
On the way, as they sat in the back of another black cab, she wondered—yet again—what exactly she was doing.
She was fully aware that her determined professionalism was something of a cover. Yes, it was important to her to complete the job she’d been hired to do, and to actually earn the money that Hugh was paying her. She wasn’t going to slack off just because she got to kiss her boss during her tea breaks. Tempting as that was. But also her professionalism was giving her time.
After work she had only a few hours before her job at the supermarket started—and, as their truncated dinner had proved, that wasn’t enough time to do much.
It certainly wasn’t enough time to do anything more than kiss Hugh. Well, technically it was, but it seemed by unspoken agreement that both she and Hugh were waiting until the weekend before taking things further. When they would have all the time in the world.
The tension this delay was creating was near unbearable. Every touch and every kiss was so weighted with promise that the weekend felt eons away—an impossible goal.
But waiting was good, too. It gave April time to think. To process what was happening.
To process who she was now.
When she’d decided to move to London she’d wanted to discover who she was without Evan. She hadn’t worked that out yet, but she did know that she didn’t ever want her identity so tied up with a man again.
Not that that was what was happening with Hugh. This thing with Hugh would never be more than what it was—which was fleeting. A fling. And even if it wasn’t—even if Hugh had wanted more—April knew she couldn’t lose herself in ‘Hugh and April’ the way she had in ‘Evan and April’.
Not that it was Evan’s fault that had happened. It had been a product of youth and inexperience and an utter lack of independence—and maybe confusing independence with wealth.
She was different now. As April Spencer she’d proved to herself that she could live alone, and survive without her family’s money. Without Evan.
But the way she was around Hugh...that pull she felt towards him...that intensity of attraction and the way it overwhelmed her when he touched her, when he kissed her...
She needed to adjust to this sensation, and she needed time to acknowledge it for what it was: hormones and chemical attraction. Nothing more.
And definitely nothing that she would or could lose herself within.
She would not allow it.
The cab came to a stop beneath a London plane tree, sparse with leaves in gold and yellow. As Hugh paid the driver April slid out onto the footpath. She stood beside the fence that surrounded the museum—an impressive, elaborate cast-iron barrier—through which she could see tourists milling in the museum forecourt. A brisk breeze fluttered the leaves above her, and April hugged her coat tight around herself.
Then Hugh was in front of her, looking both enthusiastic and just slightly concerned, as if he wasn’t sure he’d made the right decision to bring her here.
But April smiled. ‘Lead on, tour guide!’ she said with a grin.
Hugh smiled right back—with his mouth and with his eyes.
Damn, he was gorgeous.
She definitely hadn’t got used to that.
Side by side they entered the forecourt, and as April’s gaze was drawn to the mammoth Greek-style columns and the triangular pediment above, she shoved everything else from her mind.
This thing with Hugh—each day with Hugh—was not complicated. It was about fun and attraction. Only. She had nothing to worry about.
In that spirit, she grabbed his hand as they were halfway up the steps to the museum’s entrance. He stopped, and on tiptoes she kissed him.
‘This is fun,’ she said. Because it was, and because it was a useful reminder. ‘Thank you.’
He grinned and tugged her up the remaining steps.
Yes. Fun and nothing more.
* * *
It ended up being rather a long lunchbreak.
After they’d wandered through artefacts from the Iron Age, and then lingered amongst the Ancient Egyptians, Hugh now stood alone in the Great Court—the centre of the museum—which had a soaring glass roof constructed of thousands of abutted steel triangles. April had darted into the gift shop for postcards for her mother and sisters.
Hugh’s phone vibrated in his back pocket, but a quick glance had him sliding it back into his jeans. It was just work, and for once he wasn’t making it his priority.
With April no longer by his side it was easier for his brain to prod him with a familiar question: Why had he brought April here?
But his answer was simple. Just as April had said on the museum steps: because it was fun. There was no need to overthink it.
He’d wanted to get April out of that dusty, cluttered house and into the London that he loved. He’d been to this museum a hundred times—he loved it here. Even as a teenager he’d come. He’d been attracted to its scope and its space, and to the way people spoke in low voices. Plus, of course, all the exhibitions. It was such a simple pleasure to lose a day discovering relics from a different time and place.
‘Can we get a selfie?’ April asked, appearing again by his side.
Her bag was slung over her shoulder, and she was digging about within the tan leather for—he assumed—her phone. She retrieved it with a triumphant grin, and he watched as she opened the camera app.
‘No,’ he said.
‘Pardon me?’ she asked, her gaze flying to his.
But before he could respond her phone clattered to the floor, finishing near his left foot.
‘Dammit,’ she said, and crouched to reach it.
But Hugh had already done the same, and now held the phone in his hand. In its fall, the phone had somehow navigated itself to April’s photo gallery, and the screen was full of colourful thumbnails: April’s hands, shoes that looked vaguely familiar, even a photo of the dinner she’d had with him last week.
‘When did you take that?’ he asked, pointing at the picture of her meal.
They were both sitting on their heels. April had her hand outstretched for her phone.
‘Can I have my phone back, please?’ she asked, and her tone was quite sharp.
Hugh met her gaze as he handed it back. ‘Of course,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ she said, her eyes darting to her phone, her fingers tapping on its screen.
He’d only had her phone a few seconds, and it was hardly as if he’d been scrolling through its contents. He’d simply looked at what it was displaying—nothing more. But April seemed uncomfortable, her shoulders hunched and defensive.
‘Are you okay?’ he asked.
But she ignored him. ‘I took it when you went to the bathroom,’ she said, answering his original question.
Now she looked up at him and smiled, and the moment of awkwardness passed.
‘I wouldn’t have picked you as one of those people who takes photos of their food,’ he said.
‘One of those people?’ she teased. ‘Who are those?’
He shrugged. ‘You know—the people who feel compelled to document every tedious moment of their existence.’
‘Well,’ she said, ‘sorry to disappoint you, but sometimes I do take photos of my food. Or of my shoes, my outfit, or the view, or whatever I’m doing. Like now.’ She grinned, waving her phone. ‘So I guess I am one of those. Can we take that selfie?’
‘Hmm...’ he said.
She moved closer, bumping his upper arm with her shoulder. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘They’re just photos. They aren’t hurting anybody. Why do you care if I or anyone else likes taking photos?’
‘I don’t,’ he said.
‘You just disapprove?’
He looked down at her. She was smiling up at him, her face upturned, her hair scraped back neatly from her lovely cheeks.
‘No,’ he said. ‘I just don’t get it. Why bother?’
Now it was April’s turn to shrug. ‘Why not? It’s just sharing happy moments with other people, I guess. Or unhappy moments, I suppose.’
A shadow crossed her face—so quickly that he decided he’d imagined it.
‘So it’s not a narcissistic obsession with self or a compulsive need to elicit praise and garner acceptance from others?’ he asked, but he was teasing her now.
‘Nope,’ April said with a smile. ‘It’s just sharing a whole heap of photos.’
Sharing.
An echo from their first dinner together seemed to reverberate between them:
I don’t feel any urge to share my life with anyone.
‘Hugh,’ April said, seriously now, ‘I want to take a photo of us together. But just for me. I’m not going to post it on social media anywhere. I’m not going to share it with anyone.’
His instinct was still to ask why and to continue to resist. He’d never taken a selfie in his life, and had never intended to.
But he already had his answer. April wanted it for herself.
It was a happy moment she wanted to document.
‘Okay,’ he said.
He’d surprised her, but then she smiled brilliantly and wrapped one arm around him quickly, holding the phone aloft, as if she was concerned he’d change his mind.
‘Smile!’ she said, and he did as he was told, looking at the image of April and himself reflected back in the phone’s screen.
She took a handful of photos, and then held her phone in front of them both as she scrolled through them. One was the clear winner—they both wore broad smiles, their heads were tilted towards each other, just to
uching. The sun that poured through the glass roof lit their skin with a golden glow, and behind them the staircase that wrapped its way around the circular reading room at the centre of the Great Court served as an identifier for where they were.
‘Perfect,’ April said.
‘Can you send me a copy?’ Hugh said, although he’d had absolutely no intention of asking.
April blinked and smiled, looking as surprised as he felt. ‘Of course,’ she said.
Hugh cleared his throat. ‘We’d better go,’ he said.
April nodded, and together they left the museum.
* * *
On Thursday Hugh didn’t come up to the main house.
He sent her a text, just before lunch, explaining that he had back-to-back meetings—something about bug fixes and an upcoming software release.
Not that the details mattered. The key point was that she wasn’t going to see him that day.
April set her phone back in place, returned it to the radio station she liked to listen to and got back to her boxes. She was in a new room now—Hugh’s mother’s, she suspected, but she hadn’t asked.
Why doesn’t he want to see me today?
April shook her head to banish such a pointless question. He needed to work—that was all. There’d been no expectation that they were to meet each day.
Far from it.
Later that night, after she’d got home from the supermarket, April approved Carly’s planned schedule of posts for the following week. Carly had also noted how low they were on blonde-haired April Molyneux photos, and had asked, gently, if April had made any plans for once they’d run out.
No.
But she knew she needed to.
She was now more than halfway through cleaning out Hugh’s house and her credit card debt was nearly paid off. Decisions definitely loomed: What job next? And where? London? Perth? Somewhere else entirely?
And what would she do? Because, as she’d told Hugh, she now knew her heart wasn’t in what she’d thought would be a magnificent environmental consulting career.
And what about Hugh?
Again April shook her head, frustrated with herself.
There was no What about Hugh?