He turns so he’s facing me, still leaning on the fence. This time, his eyes blaze. “If your surname wasn’t Rutherford, I’dcarry you back to the cottage and fuck you senseless, over and over again.”
I stare at him. “W-what?”
He moves a few inches closer so he’s looking down at me and raises a hand to lift up my sunglasses before cupping my face. He studies my mouth thoughtfully, as if he’s considering exactly how to kiss me.
“You drive me insane,” he murmurs. He brushes my cheek with his thumb, then lifts his gaze to my hair and slides his fingers into the loose strands. “You’re absolutely stunning.”
My nipples tighten in my bra, but I’m not sure if it’s from the look in his eyes or the cool breeze blowing across us. I shiver, and his eyes narrow, but he doesn’t lower his hand.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, his voice husky.
This time I have no smart comeback. My lips part automatically. I want him to kiss me. Desperately. My body aches for it. I want to slip my hands beneath his polo shirt and slide them up his back. I want to feel his mouth on mine. I want him inside me. I remember how it felt, and the heat that flared between us.
But then he blinks, and the heat in his eyes dies down, as if someone’s lowered the pilot light inside them. He lowers his hand, and his expression hardens.
“That’s what I’d do,” he says, his tone flinty, “if you weren’t a fucking Rutherford.”
And he walks past me, heading back to the cottage.
I stay there for a moment, feeling winded, as if I’ve been punched in the stomach. I can’t catch my breath. I lean on the fence, close my eyes, and try to calm myself, until eventually the breaths come without a struggle. In… out…
Am I shocked that he wanted to kiss me? Or disappointed that he didn’t?
A little from column A…
I lean my head on my arms as emotion washes over me. Oh God… why did I come here? This was such a stupid mistake. I should have let Brielle bring him. If he’d slept with her, then he wouldn’t have been worth worrying about, and if he hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter either. He’s not mine. He’ll never be mine. Our families have been enemies for too long. He hates my grandfather. He’s still convinced I tried to seduce him. And nothing’s going to be able to change that.
I wish I could just hop in the Land Rover and head for the airport. I’m severely tempted. But I make myself breathe deeply and calm down. I can’t just leave the poor guy in the middle of nowhere. He’d be able to get a taxi eventually, no doubt, but when it comes to it, he’s still the father of my child, and I like him. I don’t want to abandon him. The reason I don’t want to go back to the cottage is because I’m emotional and confused and embarrassed, and I don’t know how to handle this situation. It’s messy and complicated, and it’s not all about me and how I feel—it’s mixed up with our family feud and the fact that he’s biased against me because of my name.
And besides, it’s the same as when I had to go and meet him in the boardroom. I didn’t want to do that either, but I told myself then that I’m not a coward, and that hasn’t changed. It doesn’t matter if I say the wrong thing and screw it up somehow. I’m human and I make mistakes. The important thing is that I face up to them and do my best.
Unbidden, my hand slides down to rest over my stomach. I’m nearly ten weeks pregnant now. I really, really don’t want to have a procedure to terminate this pregnancy. If I’m honest, I don’t want to take a pill either. I’m not keen on pain, and I don’t want to face the messy emotional fallout of what I’ve done, either.
But is it fair to bring this baby into the world? I wouldn’t like to have me as a mother. I’m so far from being a perfect mum it’s not even funny. But no baby gets to choose its parents.
I shiver. The sun is low in the sky, and the heat of the day is waning as the wind whips across the fields. The clouds to the east are an ominous iron-gray, and the first spot of rain lands on my face. I have no option—I have to head back to the cottage. Now I have a whole evening locked in a ten-foot square room with a gorgeous guy who wants me and hates himself for it. I amsucha glutton for punishment.
I walk back slowly, taking my time to make sure the sensors on the fences are aligned properly, and climbing on the steps at the back of the cottage to check the gutters are empty, as the rain will refill the water tank. The solar panels next to the cottage have weathered many storms and should be fine, but I check them anyway.
When I’m done, I open the door and go inside. Caesar is sitting on the sofa, barefoot, his feet propped on the small table, reading a book. I close the door behind me and walk across to the kitchen to wash my hands. As I dry them and turn around, I see him watching me.
I look at the book in his hands—it’s one of my old ones from the shelf, a copy ofWuthering Heights.
“Didn’t think you’d be into the classics,” I say.
He shrugs. “Seemed appropriate.”
I know what he means. There’s something about the vast landscape here that echoes the ruggedness of the Yorkshire Moors.
“I presume you’re Heathcliff,” I say. “He was a grumpy bastard, too.”
Caesar glares at me. I give a short laugh and open the fridge. “What do you want to eat?” He doesn’t respond, and aftera second I glance at him and say, “Let me rephrase that. What would you like for dinner?”
“Jesus,” he says. “Are you going to torture me all evening?”
“That’s the plan.”
He scowls. “I’m not hungry.”
