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His hands wrap around my back, warm through the flimsy cotton of my dress. It is a moment of sadness and awakening—of realisation and acceptance.
It is a moment of perfection.
I reject the idea as overly sentimental, almost definitely coloured by his surprising admission, and make an effort to put some distance between us. At least, emotionally.
And I ask the first of many questions I have. ‘You were twelve. What happened? Where did you go?’
He seems contemplative. Thoughtful, like his mind is reaching back to that time in his life. ‘My priest took me in. Father O’Sullivan.’
‘Your priest.’ It’s a murmur, and I reach for his wrist on autopilot, lifting it to my lips. There is a small, dark green cross tattooed to his tanned flesh. ‘You’re Catholic?’
‘No.’ His lips twist. ‘He is. My parents were.’
I nod. ‘Do you still see him?’
‘Yeah. Once a month or so.’
Another question is heavy inside me but I don’t know how to phrase it, so I hold it tight for now. There will be time later.
‘Will you stay for dinner?’
His eyes hold mine and then he nods slowly. ‘Yeah.’
Relief surges through me. I move back to the cannelloni, which I have laid in neat rows in a deep baking dish, and pour in warm stock and melted cheese, then cover them with aluminium foil and place them in the oven.
He’s watching me intently when I turn around, and I smile slowly. Everything feels oddly perfect.
Like the calm before a storm.
* * *
He’s waiting in the hotel room when I arrive on Tuesday afternoon, only he’s not really waiting for me. When I push the door in, he doesn’t hear me at first, he’s so caught up in whatever he’s reading on his laptop screen. He’s set up on the table near the window, and the image of Connor Hughes at work is so compelling that I stand perfectly still and simply look at him for as long as I can. I don’t breathe. I don’t speak. I just stare.
He’s wearing suit pants and a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up his forearms. The tie he wore throughout the day has been discarded on the chair beside him and his top two buttons are undone, revealing the column of his neck and the hint of a tattoo.
I swallow to moisten my throat but it doesn’t really help.
The door slides shut behind me with a loud click and he looks up, a frown on his face that gives way to a look of surprise. ‘Is it four?’
‘Yeah. Ten past, actually.’
He stands up, his eyes dark as they hold mine. ‘This dress.’ He closes the distance between us, and I look down at the simple summery dress I donned that morning. It’s pale green with white buttons down the front. He grabs me around the waist and lifts me easily so that I laugh. His mouth comes down on a button and pulls it, his eyes laughing at mine.
I groan, though—the sight of him fills me with needs I can’t fathom.
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Everything.’ He drops me back on the bed so that my hair flies around my face and then his fingers are on the dress, pushing it up my body, his hands worshipping me even as they destroy the dress, ripping at it until it opens down the front.
‘Hey!’ I laugh, pushing up on my elbows. ‘That’s one of my favourites! I’ve had it for ever.’
‘Trust me, Olivia, the last thing you need is clothes,’ he mutters, dropping his mouth to my breasts, his teeth sliding over my nipples through the fabric of my bra. I drop backwards, surrendering completely to the pleasure of this moment, certain I must have died and gone to heaven.
But even heaven wouldn’t feel this good.
* * *
She is asleep beside me and I find I don’t want to leave her. I
