Page 107 of Secret Paths

Every instinct I have wants to. Not because I think she owes me the story, but because she is standing in my hallway looking as though she has held herself together with string and professional competence until both finally gave way.

But Mandy is here.

That is the important part.

She came here.

When she lifts her head, the look in her eyes lands somewhere low in my chest.

“I do not want to talk about it.”

“Then we will not.”

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then she steps forward and kisses me.

There is no teasing in it. No clever opening line, no balance to restore, no performance of casual. Her mouth is soft at first, almost careful, and then suddenly not careful at all.

I let her set the pace.

Her fingers slide into my hair. Mine settle at her waist. She pushes closer, still cold from outside, and I feel the shiver that runs through her when my palm spreads against her back.

I lift my head enough to look at her. “Mandy.”

“I want you.”

Her eyes search mine, tired and fierce and already braced for me to ask the wrong question.

So I do not.

I touch her cheek. “Bedroom?”

She nods.

“Yes.”

I take her hand, and lead her upstairs.

My room is not ready for her.

That is my first stupid thought.

There is a pile of clean washing on the chair, a paperback face down on the floor and a crack in the ceiling I have been meaning to deal with since April. My bed is made, but only in the technical sense that the duvet is on top of it.

Mandy does not look at any of that.

She turns to me before I have even shut the door.

Her kiss is urgent, but it is not playful. She grips the back of my neck and pulls me down as if she needs to be certain I am real.

I close the door with my heel and hold her face between my hands. ‘We can stop.’

‘I do not want to stop.’

‘I know. I only need you to know you can.’

Something in her expression gives. Not much, but enough.