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Louisa continued, “I was talking to Ginny and she said he had a difficult time helping his mum through her sickness. Six years they fought, and she didn’t make it. He was so young, too. I think it’s scarred him.”
“When did this happen?” Wentworth’s voice sounded dry.
Elliot cuddled Honey tight.
“Not sure, exactly. It sounded like at the end of high school? . . . Oh God, Wentworth? Are you okay?”
“Ah, just need a minute. Too much . . . sun. You go ahead. I’ll be right behind.”
Louisa’s steps neared through the foliage and Elliot had barely twenty seconds to get his emotions in check. He knew it was healthy to let go, but now was not the time. He’d hold on to his feelings and take the time to purge them later. Maybe with some ice cream while watching the Australasian debating tournament.
Elliot wasn’t sure what agitated him the most. That Wentworth saw him as a man who was incapable of love, or letting love adapt. Or that he’d surely put it together now. That Elliot had pushed him away at the same time his mum had gotten sick.
Cameron and Henry re-joined the group, describing the detour they’d taken. Their mussed hair and ruffled clothing painted a whole other picture of their adventure.
“We’re quite close to the Tilney Manse,” Cameron said, and shivered.
Henry raised his brows.
“This is where I got lost that night when I was thirteen.”
“The night I was your ghost?”
“Stop laughing. It was scary. Hey, I told you to stop laughing.”
“Never. You’re much too fun to tease.”
Wentworth returned, gaze rigid on the path, and they continued on. Henry and Cameron dominated the conversation with their playful flirtation. Louisa tried engaging Wentworth with a few outrageous stories of her own, but he did little more than grunt.
A large muddy ditch loomed before them and Henry found a felled tree bridging it where they could cross.
One after the other.
Henry and Cameron.
Louisa.
Wentworth.
Elliot and Honey went last.
The bark was mossy, slippery underfoot—
Elliot lost his balance and hurtled toward the ditch.
Those eyes always shimmered
Every time I sang
W. McAllister, “Bumblebee Breakup”
Instinctively, Elliot let go Honey’s lead and he yipped to safety.
The short drop rushed through him and then thunk, into deep, squishy mud. Suddenly Wentworth was on his knees on the log, grim-faced, calling his name, reaching for him.
“Louisa, grab the pup!” He grasped Elliot’s slippery hand, helping him to his feet and pulling him up the bank to safety.
Dark and frustrated navy eyes took in every inch of Elliot, assessing the damage, and then, “Why’d you let your Honey go?”
Sticky with mud, his left foot tender to stand on, Elliot was suddenly tired of constantly reining in his feelings. He glared back at Wentworth. “If I hadn’t, he’d be down in that ditch with me, covered in mud and very unhappy. I let him go for his own good.”
“He thought the world of you. He’d happily be covered in mud right now.”
“He has no idea how hard the fall was.”
Wentworth’s chest rose and fell and his lips pressed hard together. “Maybe it wouldn’t have felt so hard if you’d let him fall with you.”
He yanked himself around and strode off toward the others.
Louisa had Honey on the lead, and Elliot moved toward them, wincing at the tenderness in his foot. Wentworth, still stormy, glanced back and caught Elliot’s limp. His wrenched expression tore through Elliot and if that wasn’t enough, Wentworth lunged toward him again.
A bracing arm burned around his waist and Elliot thought it might be possible to drown in the sensations wracking his body.
The slight shift of Wentworth’s fingers at his ribs as he guided them over uneven ground, Wentworth’s heat blazing against his side. The ocean scent that filled Elliot’s lungs . . . Close his eyes and he could imagine he was seventeen again. Tenderness filled his chest.
Wentworth could have left Elliot limping. He could have suggested someone else help him while he busied himself with Honey. But, amidst his frustration at Elliot, he’d chosen to steady him. Support him.
The action spoke loudly, and the familiarity ached. Elliot shivered, something Wentworth had to feel; something Wentworth would have responded to, in the past, with a gentle squeeze.
This time, though, Wentworth ignored it, and the ache deepened. He could never be seventeen again; he would never have that Wentworth taking care of him again.
Wentworth barked at the others to find the nearest place they could order a taxi.
“No need.” Henry led the way through the trees to the graveyard attached to a massive neo-gothic mansion. “Cameron and I can take him home in Dad’s car.”
“It’s a tiny twist,” Elliot murmured. “A few minutes rest and I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
Wentworth ignored him. “Thank you, Henry. Right to his door would be good.”
Henry rushed inside for keys and came out clicking the fob. A sleek black car unlocked and Wentworth was right there, opening the door, his hands carefully manipulating Elliot onto a blanket in the backseat. He even pulled the seatbelt over Elliot’s pounding chest.
