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His short, sharp laugh—if that was what it could be called—bounced off the freshly plastered walls.
‘That sounds like Libby.’
There was another beat of silence, which Anouk only broke after it had become more than awkward.
‘So, it’s true?’
He didn’t answer. If he denied it he would feel as though he was betraying a six-year-old girl. At the same time, he had no idea what else to say.
‘How young?’ Anouk added at last.
He’d answered this question a thousand times to different kids over the years, or considered it not to be the business of any of his hospital col
leagues. But somehow it was different with Anouk. He couldn’t bring himself to send her home, yet he had no intention of sharing something so personal with her.
Even if a component of him wanted to.
All of a sudden he had to get out of there. This conversation—or perhaps the last few—with Anouk had left him feeling battered and bruised, as though he couldn’t work out what he wanted from her.
It was an unfamiliar, unwelcome sensation.
Mostly.
He should leave, but he found that he wanted to spend more time with her and therein lay the issue. The more Sol thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that he only wanted her because he hadn’t had her yet.
As distasteful as it was, there was no other explanation. No other reason why she should have him tied up in such knots.
The solution was to remedy that situation. To convince Anouk that it was in both their interests to finish what they’d started the night of the gala. Once they had indulged their mutual desire, the sweeping need would at last abate.
Surely it was inevitable?
‘There’s no electricity in this place yet,’ he stated abruptly. ‘Except for the temporary generator powering the heaters. But there’s a decent coffee house on the high street.’
She stood still as they watched each other for a beat too long. He waited for her to make her excuses and leave, and he told himself that he didn’t care either way.
And then, abruptly, she grabbed her bag and threw it onto her shoulder.
‘Let’s go, then.’
* * *
‘I swear I’ve heard this Christmas song in the shops since November,’ Anouk muttered as they opened the doors to the coffee house only to be blasted by the heat, the gorgeous smells, and the music.
She wasn’t even sure what she was doing here. Only that her chest was tight with some nonsensical notion that Solomon Gunn might actually...open up to her. As much as she knew it was ridiculous, she couldn’t eject it from her head.
‘Or October.’ Sol laughed, his earlier unease having apparently melted away as soon as they’d left the centre and she’d dropped her questions. ‘Okay, you get the table, I’ll get the drinks. Just tell me what you want.’
Anouk tried not to feel deflated. It shouldn’t matter that he didn’t want to trust her. She shouldn’t let it bother her. Just as she hadn’t let that moment back in the new centre get to her. When he’d held her so close that she’d been convinced he was going to kiss her again.
When she’d ached for him to kiss her again.
But he hadn’t. He’d just dropped her as though the moment hadn’t crept under his skin even a fraction of the way it had slunk under hers.
And then she’d badgered him about his life, his childhood, being a young carer. As if that could reveal a side of him that she could understand, relate to, trust. But to what end? It wasn’t as if she wanted a relationship with him. She wasn’t naïve enough to think any woman could tame a perennial playboy, and yet...there was something about him that simply didn’t seem to fit with the reputation.
Or perhaps that was what she was telling herself to justify her incongruously wanton forwardness the night of the gala. The night she still couldn’t bring herself to regret. Even though she knew she ought to.
Maybe wanting to trust him was more about herself than Sol. Perhaps it was her wanting to vindicate that uncharacteristic one-night stand—if you could even call it that—to explain her sudden foray into seductress territory.
