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Her heart shifted uncomfortably, bruising her ribs from the inside.
“Would you –,” she turned and looked towards her flat. “Like to come up?”
She knew, even as she asked the question, what his response would be.
“No.” He cut the engine, reaching over and cupping her cheek. “I won’t.”
Not ‘I can’t’. ‘I won’t’. It was a subtle but important difference. She nodded slowly, dislodging his hand. He let it fall, but it briefly grazed her thigh. She ached – oh, how she ached – for the intimacy they’d shared just last night!
But every mile they’d put between themselves and Athlestone Park had stripped away that intimacy, bit by bit, so now they were their old selves – he was her boss, and that was all.
Dredging a cheery smile to her face, she spun away, reaching for the door handle and pushing it open. She heard his own door mirror the action. He came around to the trunk, popping it as he approached and pulling her bag out, then her garment bag with the bridesmaid dress.
She took them carefully, avoiding touching him. “Thanks.” Another too-happy smile.
He nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets. No contact.
She had to say something. But what? “I’ll – see you in the office, I guess.” Oh, no. Those words didn’t sound happy, they didn’t sound fine. She blinked quickly, and cleared her throat, trying again. “Don’t work too hard today.” She added a wink for good measure.
He didn’t seem to believe her second attempt, but it didn’t matter. They were done; it was over. Her place was in sight. She tightened her grip on the garment bag and took a step backwards. “Thanks again.”
She half-expected, the whole way to her door, that he would call out to her, ask her to wait. That he might run behind her and turn her around, drawing her into his arms and kissing her until she could barely breathe, just as he had so often this weekend.
But when she reached her door and turned back to his car, it was gone. Only the yellow lines remained.
Her heart sank.
His concentration was shot. He could tell himself it was because of Yaya’s stroke, but that was a lie – and a bad one. Yaya was recovering beautifully, or he wouldn’t have come to the UK for a business trip. He could tell himself it was tiredness, but Luca didn’t get tired. For his entire life he’d been able to function on practically zero sleep – a few hours a night – and never felt the pace of his life wore him down.
He lifted his gaze to the door of his London office, grinding his teeth together.
There was only one reason he was failing to concentrate, and if he closed his eyes he could smell her, feel her, taste her.
Cristo.
Bronte.
He pushed his chair back, striding towards the door, reaching his hand out before halting, abruptly. This wasn’t the weekend, and these lines weren’t flexible. He couldn’t go out there just to speak with her. He couldn’t go out to sit on the edge of her desk and breathe her in, watch her smile, see the way her delicate fingers clicked over the keyboard. He swerved away from the door, moving to his window instead, looking out onto a bright, warm London sky. One more week.
Not even.
On Friday – or sooner, if he could get the details of this deal finalised – he’d get on the jet and leave the UK. And stay away for as long as it took to stop thinking about her.
Bronte’s eyes strayed to his door for the hundredth time in half as many minutes. She tapped her pen against the edge of her desk, stared down at the papers and then shook her head. They needed his attention, but not immediately.
Knowing it was the coward’s way out, she ripped a post-it note from the pad and wrote, neatly, across the top:
Luca –
For your attention.
Thanks,
Bronte.
She put the files in the tray on her desk, then returned her attention to her screen, working her way through emails.
It wasn’t a nine to five job – far from it. But for the first time since starting at Montebello, she folded her laptop up a few minutes after five, and slipped it into her handbag. There were still emails to be dealt with, but she could do that from home.
