AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“But we also deserve a damn vacation,” Eddie says. He gestures to the view. Then he gestures to my mother and me. “And we deserve to have a good dinner with new friends. How about we make another toast, then?”
We raise our glasses.
Soon after, dessert is served. My mother’s cake actually turned out okay, considering, and both the royals eat at least half of theirs. I finish the whole slice, just so my mother won’t have a complex.
I get up, head over to the window, and see Harrison down at the dock, the sun reflecting gold off the water. His back is to me, his hands clasped behind him, and he’s facing into the distance. I know he has a job to do, but it doesn’t feel right to have him all the way down there, especially after we had that beautiful meal, one that he contributed to in some way, even if it was just to get the groceries.
“Is it against the rules if I bring Harrison some cake?” I ask, turning around.
Monica laughs. “The rules? No. I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”
“The man has a sweet tooth like you wouldn’t believe,” Eddie says with a boyish smile.
Interesting.
I head into the kitchen, where Agnes is putting dishes away, and she helps me put a slice of cake onto a plate. I slip out of the sliding doors onto the deck, then go down the stairs to the stone path that weaves through the sun-browned grass to the dock.
He still hasn’t turned around, even as I step on the dock and it jostles a little from side to side, water splashing as I walk.
“It didn’t seem right,” I say, stopping a few feet behind him.
Slowly he turns around and glances at me, then at the cake in my hands. Not surprised to see me at all. Guess there’s no sneaking up on him. Probably recognizes the sound of my footsteps or some weird shit like that.
“What didn’t seem right?”
I gesture with the cake toward the house. “You not being there at dinner. Usually you’re all up in my business, tailing me like I’m a shoplifter.”
He looks back to the water. “Have to keep my eyes here. With the police up on the road, the media will try new tactics.”
“How long is Bert supposed to stay there?” It sounds like an easy gig, but it’s not like this island is free of crime. There’s definitely a dark underbelly to this place.
“As long as he can. We’re bringing another member from London over to take that duty, but it will be a few days.”
“Jeez. How many people do you even have here already? It’s hard to keep count, you’re all so sneaky.” Like, hiding-in-trees level of sneaky.
“Enough,” he says firmly.
“Am I bugging you?” I ask. “I mean, am I distracting?”
He lets out a rough chuckle. “You’re definitely distracting.”
Even though he laughs, I have no gauge at how serious he is, since he’s always so damn serious.
“Should I go? I just came to bring you cake.”
He turns slightly, and though I can’t see his eyes beneath the sunglasses, I can tell he’s eyeing the cake. Or maybe he’s looking at me.
“That’s for me?”
I raise it up in his face. “They gave me permission and everything. I checked—it’s not forbidden.”
At that I see the corner of his mouth lift, and I’m momentarily transfixed by his lips. They’re so full and pouty, and I’m . . .
Jealous. Jealous of his lips, that’s all. Not at all turned on by them, not at all wondering what they’d be like to kiss, not at all wondering what they’d feel like on my—
“I see,” he says. He reaches out and takes the plate from me. “Shame it’s not forbidden cake. Always find it tastes sweeter that way.”
From the rough sound of his voice, I’d swear he’s making innuendo.
And then he dips his long forefinger into the frosting and pops it in his mouth, sucking on the finger briefly. I can see his tongue roll inside against his cheek, and my entire body flushes, warm and fizzy from head to toe.
My god. That is innuendo.
I can’t see his eyes. I can only see my reflection in his sunglasses, and my mouth is open.
I abruptly close it.
“This your mum’s cake?” he asks.
Okay, and the moment has passed.
I clear my throat. “Yeah. It’s actually pretty good.”
“Icing could use some work,” he comments, delicately smacking his lips together and looking off. It’s like watching a sommelier tackle some old Bordeaux, but in this case it’s my mom’s take on Betty Crocker. “Too much sugar. Definitely not the right consistency.”
I fold my arms across my chest, feeling defensive. “Please tell me you were a past judge on The Great British Bake Off.”
“Oh, that show is rubbish,” he says. “None of it’s real, you know.”
I give a mock gasp. “You could get kicked out of Britain with that opinion.”
