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Panic strummed inside him, made him edgy. Somehow Ruby had got right under his skin, and the idea caused angst to tighten his gut as he prowled the lounge and kitchen.
Memories of the past evening itched and prickled—they’d drunk cocoa in front of the lambent flames of the fire, talked of anything and nothing, laughed and philosophised. Then they’d gone to bed and... And there weren’t words, truth be told, and he wasn’t sure he even wanted to find any.
The panic grew—as if his actions had opened the floodgates. Letting her in had been a mistake, and nothing good could come of it. He wasn’t capable of closeness.
‘Ethan?’
He swivelled round, saw her at the top of the ladder. How long had she been there, watching him pace?
With an effort he forced his lips up into a relaxed smile. ‘Morning!’ he said, and his heart thumped against his ribcage as he took in her tousled hair, the penguin pyjamas.
Silence stretched into a net of awkwardness as she climbed down the ladder, paused at the bottom to survey him. Impulse urged him to walk over and carry her right back upstairs, and he slammed his hands into his jeans pockets and rocked back on his heels. No more impulses—because his emotions were already ricocheting off the Richter scale.
‘Coffee?’ he offered.
‘Yes, please.’
Trying to keep his body rhythm natural, he headed to the kitchen. The endeavour was a fail and he passed her, breath held, unsure what to do, ultra-careful not to touch her. Yesterday he’d have teased her mercilessly about the penguins, dropped a kiss on her lips, taken her hand... Now he sidled past.
Ruby stood stock-still, one finger tugging a strand of hair. ‘I’ll... I’ll go change,’ she said, the words stilted, and relief rippled with regret touched his chest.
Because he knew she’d gone upstairs to armour herself in clothes. For this bubble
of time she had been herself—no façade needed. Same for him. But now... Now it was time to go back to normal. Because being himself was too raw, too hard, too emotional. And emotion was not the way he wanted to go—he wanted the status quo of his un-rocked boat.
So he filled the kettle and assembled the ingredients for breakfast. The bread they had bought yesterday, the succulent strawberry jam, the pastries Ruby loved so much.
The sound of her shoes tapping on the wooden floor forced him to look up.
‘Looks great,’ she said, the words too bright, underscored with brittleness.
Her glorious hair was tamed into a sleek ponytail, not even a tendril loose. The knowledge sucker-punched him—never again would he run his fingers through those smooth silky curls, never again would he touch her soft skin, hear the small responsive gasp she made...
Enough.
A sudden urge to sweep the breakfast off the table, to get rid of the false image of intimacy, nearly overwhelmed him. The intimacy was over, and the sooner they exited this cloying atmosphere the better.
Too many emotions brewed inside him now, but at all costs he had to remember this was not Ruby’s fault. If he had miscalculated it would not rebound on her. Instead he would haul back on all this feeling and return to professional normality. Though right now, in the line of her direct gaze, work seemed almost surreal. Which was nuts. Work was his life.
Jeez, Ethan.
Now he’d gone all drama king. Maybe he’d actually shed some brain cells these past days. In which case it was time to use the ones he had left. Fast.
No point in rueing the fact that he’d agreed to this fling in the first place. His eyes had been open to the fact that it would be different from his usual liaisons—he simply hadn’t realised how that difference would play out. But there was no time for regrets. None at all. Regret was an indulgence—the important thing now was momentum.
With determination he lifted a croissant, went through the motions of spreading butter and jam. Then he glanced at his watch. ‘We’ll need to hit the road soon. I thought we could do a drive-round and get a visual of any areas or properties suitable for Caversham. I’ll do a computer trawl whilst you pack up. Then maybe you can take over whilst I pack.’
‘No problem.’
The cool near formality of her tone smote him even as he forced himself to pick up his coffee cup.
A gulp of coffee and she pushed her plate away. ‘I’m on it.’
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
RUBY LOOKED AROUND the banqueting hall of Caversham Castle and tried to summon more than a token sense of pride and achievement. It looked fabulous, and she knew the sight would usually have prompted a victory dance or three around the room.
Actually it looked better than fabulous—she had worked flat-out the past two days, and all the work she had put in prior to Christmas had paid off. Medieval-style trestle tables fashioned from oak were arranged round the restaurant floor. The ceiling boasted an intricate mural depicting knights, princesses and acts of valour. The whole room seeped history, with maps of Cornwall through the ages and Cornish scenes from centuries ago adorning the walls.
