I do love him. But this has been super-fast and super-intense, and I need time to think. To see if the glow fades after we’re apart for a while. And so does he. We’ve approached this relationship the same way we approach our cooking—we made it up as we went along, and now, like a gorgeous joint of roasted meat, we need time to let it rest before we carve it apart and examine it.
Unsurprisingly, I suppose, given our record, we make love again, and then once more in the early hours, as the rising sun melts like butter across the bed. But the moment can’t continue forever. Eventually, we doze, and then finally it’s time to call it a day.
Harrison takes me to the airport. I’m going to London to start with, and then I’ll be heading to Paris, Germany, and Italy, making stops along the way as I see fit. I’m excited, but it’s only when it’s time for me to head to the departure lounge that I realize this could be it.
He wraps me in his arms. “Keep in touch. You can send me photos and I’ll keep an eye on your blog. One day we’ll meet up and talk about all the adventures we’ve had.”
“Until Valhalla?” I say.
His lips won’t form a smile. I can see that he realizes I don’t believe we’ll see each other again. “Until Valhalla.”
My heart is pounding so hard I think I might be sick, but I’m determined not to cry. “Thank you,” I whisper as he takes my face in his hands. “I’ve had such a wonderful time.”
“Me too.” He looks suddenly upset. “Thank you for helping me through the past few weeks.”
“I’m glad I could be there for you.”
“I’m going to miss you.” His voice is hoarse with emotion.
“Me too.” Suddenly, I can’t stand it any longer. I kiss him hard, wrap my arms around his neck and hug him tightly, and then I turn and walk away. I don’t look back. If I do, I might never leave, and that wasn’t part of the plan.
Chapter Twenty-One
Harrison
The moment Gabriella disappears around the corner, I know I’ve made a mistake.
I stand there for at least five minutes, fighting the urge to run after her, leap over the barriers, and risk being shot in order to reach her and beg her not to go.
After five minutes, I walk over to a chair by the window, and sit. Sliding down, I rest my head on the back, look up at the ceiling, and close my eyes.
We both knew it would end like this. Gaby has been fighting her feelings the same way I have. There was no point in either of us saying we didn’t want it to end, though, because our feet are walking down different paths now. We both have things we want to do, and it wouldn’t be fair for either of us to ask the other to give up their plans. The pain I’m feeling is fleeting, like ripping off a plaster. Of course I’m going to miss her. We’ve been practically inseparable for nearly three weeks, so I’m going to notice that she’s not around. But I’ll get over it. In a few weeks’ time, once I’m on the road, I’ll look back at the time I spent with her fondly, but I’ll be far too busy to dwell on what’s done and dusted.
I get to my feet, glance out at the planes waiting on the tarmac, and head for the exit.
*
It’s all bullshit, of course. It doesn’t get easier. It just gets harder. I miss her more and more with every minute that passes.
I make it until day three before Colette tells me, with a fair amount of impatience after spotting my grumpy face, “For fuck’s sake, Harry. I’ve never seen you so miserable. Look, I’m not supposed to tell you, but I’ve had twenty emails from her saying how much she misses you. She’s trying to let you go, but she can’t, any more than you can her. Send her an email or a text or call her, will you? You’ll make her day.”
My heart leaps onto the floor and does a tap dance. She’s missing me? She wants me to contact her?
“Might do,” I say nonchalantly, then walk out of the building and down to our local coffee shop where I order a latte and sit and stare at my phone. After a few minutes of sipping the foamy hot coffee, I give in and send her a text.
How are you? Hope all is well in London. Missing you. H x
I press send, and wait for a twinge of dismay, a conviction of shit, shouldn’t have done that. It doesn’t come. Instead, I feel a wave of hope, along with a frisson of anticipation. It’s late evening in London—she might have gone to bed already, so I might not hear back until tomorrow. If I hear back at all. Maybe Colette was wrong. Maybe she doesn’t—
My phone buzzes on the table.
Harry! My face breaks into a smile—I can almost hear her saying it. OMG I miss you so much! Lovely to hear from you. London’s so cool—I wish you were here!
And so it begins.
*
Late that evening, I FaceTime her, and we talk for an hour. She tells me everything that’s happened since the moment she left the airport. She’s excited and oh, so beautiful, her face glowing with enthusiasm—at least, I think it’s enthusiasm. But as we go to say goodbye, I can’t help but speak the truth.
“Love you.”
Her mouth opens, and then she gives me the most gorgeous smile. “I love you too.”
We hang up, but I glow inside for at least another hour.
*
After this, we’re constantly in contact. We text during the day, send emails with photos, and FaceTime in the morning and evening. We don’t make each other promises, and we don’t really talk about the future. Even though we both say the three little words all the time, we don’t press each other to explore what that means. I’ve never felt so free and yet so secure in a relationship before.
I love this woman!
What the hell am I going to do about it?
Still unsure, a week later I leave the city to embark on my own adventure, and for the next month, my feet barely touch the ground. I fly to Japan, Hong Kong, Singapore, Sydney, and finally to London, although by then Gaby’s left England and is somewhere in France. I work hard, and my days are mostly filled with meeting clients and holding presentations. It’s exhausting, but I love every minute.
But I don’t forget Gabriella. In fact, we continue to keep in touch as often as we can.
I wait for the passion between us to start fading, because that’s what has happened before with other women.
And I wait, and I wait.
Six weeks after Gabriella walked away from me in the airport, I finally realize the truth.
*
A few days later, I’m sitting in front of the Trevi Fountain in Rome when my gaze falls on her.
My heart lifts, but I don’t get up. Instead, I watch her for a moment. Her hair’s grown longer, and she’s braided it in a thick plait that hangs down her back. She’s wearing jeans and a big black jacket, and she’s carrying a rucksack. She’s staying at a hotel not far from here, and she told me she was going to visit the fountain after she’d had lunch.
She slows as she reaches it, and lifts her sunglasses onto the top of her head as she looks at the beautiful Baroque stonework.
And then her gaze falls on me.
She blinks a few times. I push myself to my feet and walk forward a few steps. Her jaw drops, and I watch her inhale deeply. I’m ninety-nine percent sure she’ll be pleased to see me, but of course there’s always a small part of yourself that tries to tell you it’s all a big mistake, and I wait for dismay to spill onto her face.
It doesn’t.
Instead, she runs up to me, throws her arms around my neck, and buries her face in my shoulder.
“Mmm.” I wrap my arms around her, and we stand like that for at least five minutes, just drinking in the delight of being together again.
Finally, she pulls back. Her face is wet, and her bottom lip is trembling. “What are you doing here?” she whispers. “Are you here on business?”
I shake my head. “I missed you. I shouldn’t have let you walk away from me in the airport. I’ve missed you every day, and I love you, Gabriella Manners.” I take her face in my hands and give her a long, deep kiss. Then I lift my head a
gain. “I don’t want to stop you from travelling. I don’t want to get in your way. But I miss you, and I thought maybe we could, you know, travel together.”
More tears run down her cheeks. “Oh, Harry…”
“If you’d like that.”
“I’d love that. I’ve missed you so much.”
Taking a deep breath, I put my hand in my pants pocket and pull out a small velvet box. Dropping down onto one knee, I pop the lid. “Ti amo, vuoi sposarmi? That means I love you. Will you marry me?”
She stares at me. “Si! Caro mio.” And she bursts into tears.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Gabriella
We marry two weeks later, in Florence, in a quiet ceremony with just us and a couple of strangers as witnesses. Later, we’ll return home and celebrate with our friends and family, but it feels important to both of us to do this alone, in the peace and quiet of this beautiful place, where we promise to love each other forever.
Afterward, we stroll along the Ponte Vecchio, Florence’s oldest bridge across the Arno River. Halfway across, we stop and I lift my arms around Harry’s neck.
“Do you regret it?” I ask, somewhat breathlessly. I keep expecting him to say yes. I keep waiting for the bubble to burst.
“Never.” He kisses me. “I love you, Gabriella Manners. I’ve promised to love you for the rest of my life, remember?”
“They’ll say we were too hasty. That we should have waited until we were sure.”
“I’m sure,” he says. “Are you?”
“Yes.”
“So fuck ’em.”
He kisses me for longer this time, and I think I’ll never grow tired of his mouth, the sweetness of his tongue, the feel of his body against mine. Yes, this is a whirlwind romance, but that doesn’t mean it’s any less valid. I love him, and he loves me, and I know—I just know, the same way Colette knows—that the relationship is going to work.
Two Italians walking past us cheer, and we pull apart and laugh.
“I don’t care what anyone else thinks.” He hugs me tightly and kisses my forehead. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone in my life. That moment when you walked away from me at the airport was the worst I’ve ever felt. I’m never going to let you go again.”
“Okay.” I rest my cheek on his chest and snuggle into his arms.
I don’t know what the future holds for us. I think we’re going to travel together, and then perhaps we’ll go back home for a while and spend some time there. Maybe we’ll have kids, maybe not. It’s kind of nice living from day-to-day. Not everything has to be planned and organized, and I know Harry feels the same. Oddly, we’re freer when we’re together than we were when we were single. How does that work?
I telephoned my sister yesterday. It just felt like the right time. It wasn’t an easy call, and we both cried, but I think I came off the phone ten pounds lighter.
Harry was talking about his father this morning, telling me a story about when he and his brothers were all kids, and laughing while he told it, and for the first time since his father died—maybe even since he was a child—there was no hate in his voice.
The past slings chains around us and pins us to the ground, stopping us from flying to the stars. But for once, I feel as if the links of the chains are finally breaking, and we can start to form our own future.
“La liberta,” Harry murmurs, confirming my own thoughts.
At last, we’re starting to be free.
Taking Liberties
Like a Boss: 3
by Serenity Woods
Chapter One
Caleb
Love at first sight is bullshit.
That’s in my humble opinion (or IMHO, as my friend Colette would say). Not that I have much experience with it. (Love, that is. I’ve plenty of experience of bullshit.) But from what I understand, love is something that develops over time, like a photograph in a darkroom, or whiskey in oak barrels, or cheese. Okay, maybe cheese isn’t the best example—I can hear the squeak of Colette’s eyeballs rolling in their sockets at that comparison. The point is, so I’ve heard, love is about trust and contentment and becoming comfortable in another person’s company, discovering their strengths and weaknesses, learning what they like and dislike, and feeling as if—at that moment—nobody in the world is more suited to you than this person.
This is all hearsay, by the way, as my one and only foray into Cupid’s world ended very badly, with no sign of trust and definitely no contentment anywhere to be seen. But others assure me it exists in this form, and, if that’s the case, it simply can’t happen at first sight.
Lust at first sight… well, that’s another matter. That I do have experience with, because the moment I lay eyes on the new girl who comes in to collect a parcel from the conference room, I fall in lust.
I feel like a character from a cartoon—like Hanna and Barbera’s Tom when he sees that girl cat with the long eyelashes and the bow on her tail. His eyes pop out of his head with hearts painted on them, and his tongue unrolls like a red carpet on the floor. Yep, that’s me.
Now let me explain, first of all, why this is so unusual. I’m not lacking in experience where women are concerned, or at least, I wasn’t when I was younger. I’ve dated all kinds—tall, short, curvy, boyish, sexy, homely, skinny, curvy. But the last couple of years, I’ve tended to go for a particular type. Typically tall, blonde, sophisticated, well-spoken, educated, and ambitious. They’re usually called Sophie or Annabel or Lydia, and they wear pantsuits and have French manicures and style their silky hair in neat bobs.
I suppose, if I were to think about it, I’m subconsciously searching for someone who would make a suitable long-term companion. A woman I can take to the theater and the opera, to dinner parties and to charity functions, who’ll be able to blend in with the clientele I mix with, and who other men will look at with envy and say to each other Have you seen Caleb’s date? Wow, what a looker, and she has a degree in engineering, too! And the other guy will reply, Yeah, and Caleb told me she does yoga and can get her ankles behind her ears, which is really useful because apparently she knows every position in the Kama Sutra and she’s filthy as sin, even though she looks like a goddess.
Such is the fantasy. I’ve yet to meet a real woman like this, but I’m happy to keep looking for the foreseeable future.
The girl who comes into the conference room is… well, let’s say politely, not like this. She’s short—maybe five-four, slender, and… hmm, how best to describe her. Well, she has jet-black hair that’s twisted up so the ends stick out all over the place. She has black eyeliner, black eyelashes, and purple lips. She’s wearing a tight sweater the same shade as her lipstick, a black mini skirt, black tights—one leg of which bears a ladder running up her thigh—and long black boots. And she has a shedload of attitude that’s obvious from the moment she walks in.
We’re coming to the end of a busy afternoon preparing for a presentation we’re putting on next week as part of a huge telecommunications conference in the city. As well as several members of the office staff, the four directors are there—me, Elen, Seb, and Harry, as well as Seb’s partner, Colette, and Harry’s girl, Gaby. Harry and Gaby returned only last week from a long stint abroad. The two of them got married in Florence, and they’re having a big party on the weekend to celebrate the wedding.
Lots of people are talking and moving around as we check out the various promotional materials the marketing department have put together, so nobody else hears the door open. I’m standing right near it, though, so I turn and stare as the girl comes in.
She stands there for a moment, looking around, obviously looking for someone or something. Then her gaze falls on the post tray on the table near the door, and she leans across and picks up a large parcel waiting for collection.
When she turns back, she finally sees me watching her.
Our eyes meet, and she stops in her tracks. She has huge green eyes, made even huger by all the black eyeliner, and she’s chewing bubbleg
um. We look at each other for a long moment. Then her gaze leaves mine to slide slowly down me, taking in every detail of my appearance, I presume, from my suit to my shoes and then back up, lingering in a not-subtle manner somewhere around my crotch before returning to my face.
Her eyes meeting mine, she pokes her tongue through the bubblegum and blows out a big bubble, which she then pops with her teeth before gathering the gum into her mouth with her tongue and chewing it again. Her lips curve up, and she winks at me before finally backing out through the door and disappearing down the corridor.
Someone appears beside me, and I glance down at Elen—the only female director and Seb’s younger sister.
“Who the fuck was that?” I ask her.
“A walking lawsuit.” She gives me a direct look. “No banging the temps, remember?”
“Yeah.” I look down the corridor, but the girl has vanished. “Don’t worry. She’s not my type.”
My gaze comes back to Elen, who is now giving me a wry smile. “Her name’s Roxie,” she tells me. Of course it is. “She’s working in the mailroom. She’s only twenty-one, and she really is as feisty and unconventional as she looks.”
“All right,” I say, somewhat impatiently, “I said, she’s hardly my type.”
“Yeah. The steam coming out of your ears says otherwise. Just want you to know what you’re getting yourself into.” Ignoring my glare, she grins and walks away.
Refusing to look back down the corridor, I close the door and return to the table. We have to make a decision on which leaflets and promo sheets are the best, and Seb and Harry are currently arguing over two, so I’m going to have to intercede.
I push the girl and her laddered tights to the back of my mind. I am not going to fall in lust with someone like Roxie. That way lies seven kinds of madness. I’m definitely not going down that road.
Chapter Two
Roxie
It’s nearly nine p.m. on a Friday night, and the bar is heaving. It’s the middle of summer, and the room is warm enough to make me break into a sweat.
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