Page 38 of The Stranger

“You put the d in delusional.” I plonk my glass down, cross one leg over the other, and fold my arms across my chest for good measure. How can this man be so good with his mouth, and also so vile with it? I’m not supposed to be thinking about his mouth and its many talents.

“You want to keep Emmy’s position open for her return.”

“That’s why I’m staying for the weekend,” I retort through gritted teeth.

“Sadly, that no longer suits me.”

“Sadly, I don’t give a f-stuff. Your summer plans are not my problem.”

“I disagree.” For someone speaking perfect English, he gives a very Gallic shrug.

“I don’t care,” I say, mimicking the action. Exaggerating it even, one hand in the air, palm skyward. Bof! I’m basically a beret, striped T-shirt, and a string of onions away from really taking the piss.

But I shouldn’t let him goad me into this kind of behavior. It’s not like he’s the first high-handed arsehole ever to cross my path. I’ve dealt with loads of idiot men with more money than taste while helping in Lavender’s art gallery, and I’ve suffered my fair set-downs from imperious consultants. And I always keep my cool—always!

I’m react like water flowing around those human obstacles. I rarely take offence and I never, ever get my dander up. Well, hardly ever. But with him, it’s personal—very personal. I think I could happily throttle him. Strangulation with a smile. I bet he’d be into that.

“Ah, but you do care.” His voice is soft as he reaches for his glass again, holding his wine to the light as though to study the pale contents.

“I care about my friend, which is why I’m giving up my weekend.”

“One month.”

“One month minus twenty-eight days.” I realize my jaw is painfully tight and that my foot is beginning to jump. He’s getting under my skin. “That’s what was agreed,” I say, placing both feet flat.

“Your agreement was with Emmy. Your agreement with me must be until Emmy returns, or for one month. Whichever comes first.”

“No can do.” I reach for my own glass. Again. “I have a job⁠—”

“From September.”

How the heck does he know that? “I have plans.” I take a sip as something twists inside me, but it’s not anxiety that makes words shoot like bullets from my mouth. “My family is expecting me in Croatia.” Or they would be if I’d gotten around to texting them. As I glare at him, my heart bangs against my chest like it’s trying to escape, and my insides are awash with… something.

Is it unease or is it exhilaration? It’s hard to tell.

Anxiety. It’s got to be. No way I’d be excited at the thoughts of being stuck with this… this highhanded hunk of good-for-nothing. Besides, he really can’t mean it. He can’t want to be around me. Not after last night. He’s probably just trying to make me run for the hills, tout de suite.

“How strange,” I murmur, setting the glass down. Elbow to the table, I press my chin to my fist. “Have you had a fall recently? Bumped your head at all?”

His smile threatens but doesn’t quite give. “I have not. But thank you for your concern.”

“Any headaches? Nausea? Blurred vision?”

“I feel perfectly well.”

“Hmm. Something isn’t right.” I tap a finger to my lips, then drop it as I notice his eyes following the motion. “You’re most certainly having some kind of cognitive issue.”

At this, he smiles properly. Why does he have to be so attractive? Give the man a pimple or something, for God’s sake.

“I assure you my memory is fine.” His tone is the verbal equivalent of a smirk. It makes me wonder exactly what he’s remembering. Nothing good, that’s for sure. Maybe my clumsy kiss or when I told him I haven’t had sex in an age.

“Ever been diagnosed with a mood disorder?” I demand, refusing to give up. “Bipolar? Schizophrenia?”

“I’m in peak mental and physical health, thank you for enquiring. I have to say, the more you talk, the more I’m convinced this is the right decision.”

“Cognitive issues and delusions,” I mutter with a frown.

“This has been fun, Dr Primrose, but the fact remains, I require you to accompany us to our house in Mallorca.”