Page 72 of Secret Paths

“My face is unreliable.”

“It is doing something deeply embarrassing.”

I should put the phone away.

Instead, I look at the message again.

And smile.

Big mistake.

Hunter’s grin spreads slowly. “Ah.”

“No.”

“That one deserved it.”

I turn away from him and type.

Me

It has cleared its schedule.

The reply comes before I have taken three steps.

Mandy

Good. Tell the owner to bring wine.

I put the phone back in my pocket.

Hunter is still grinning.

“Not one word,” I say.

He claps me on the shoulder as he passes. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“You absolutely would.”

“Constantly,” he says, and carries on down the path.

Chapter 8

Mandy

By half past seven, I have changed into flowy yoga trousers, taken my earrings off and decided Peter is late.

He is not, strictly speaking, late.

We did not agree a time. His text merely informed me that his dick had cleared its schedule. My body had responded favourably to the news, which is not something I intend to examine while standing in my kitchen with my phone in my hand.

Still, I have brushed my hair, put on lip gloss I can pretend is accidental and sipped the last of the wine knowing Peter promised to bring another bottle.

The doorbell rings at twenty-two minutes to eight.

I put my glass down and walk to the door.

Peter stands on the step with messy curls, colour high on his cheekbones above his beard, and two canvas shopping bags hanging from one hand. A bottle of red is tucked beneath his other arm.