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As the sunwinked between the rooftops of two houses, Solo leaned on his bike handlebars and lit a cigarette. It was 6 a.m., he hadn’t slept all night. And he was smoking. On a Sunday morning. As the sun rose.
Fantastic. His temples throbbed as he dragged in a slow inhalation and stared down the deserted street of neat little houses. Number 26. He could see the rose bushes poking out over the top of the picket fence from here. And any minute now he was going to walk into what looked like a sweet little English country cottage and probably have his balls broken.
But he had to talk to her. Had to have this out with her. At ten o’clock he was meeting Emma and he had to come clean about all of it with Polly before then.
Sighing, he ground his cigarette but out on the tarmac and took out his mints. Shoved a couple in his mouth and ground them down quickly under his teeth.
He couldn’t add smoker’s breath into the equation, he needed every one of his powers to persuade Polly that he… he…
That he loved her?
Would he, could he, go that far? He ached for her, longed for her when she wasn’t with him, felt better, brighter, more alive, laughed more than he’d ever laughed before.
It was nothing like he’d once felt for Emma. The kind of reverent worship you had for a beautiful work of art you had no idea how you’d come by.
No, his feelings for Polly tore him apart, shredded him. And had the potential to make him whole.
He pushed off from his bike and sauntered slowly down the street, pretending that he felt cool, calm and collected while his hands sweated in tight fists in his pocket and his heart pounded.
Finally reaching the fence, he made his way up the path, the steps to the veranda and knocked on the door.
No answer. The blood thundered in his ears.
He skirted round the house. Polly’s window was at the side, the curtains still pulled, so he went round the back, tripped over a watering can with a loud clatter-clunk, and arrived at the back door as Polly’s head thrust out.
She was a mess, he could see that. She still had the remains of last night’s make-up round her eyes, so panda-like, in fact, he had to ask himself if she’d been crying. Her hair looked like a thousand birds had taken up residence. His heart lurched.
Was he responsible for her looking so… so damn miserable?
When she saw him, her brows pleated and her mouth turned down. “What the fuck?”
She pulled her dressing gown round herself and made to slam the door but he vaulted over the felled watering can and got his foot in the door before she could shut it.
“This is breaking and entering,” she squealed and tried to slam it again. A little tussle ensued but Solo realised he wasn’t having to use any strength whatsoever before she gave in, tossed her head, crossed her arms and stomped inside.
He followed.
She turned fiercely at the kitchen bench. “I’m warning you, I have a full set of sharp knives here.” She scowled.
He shut the door gently and leaned on it. They faced each other, and he suddenly sensed the weariness flowing between them; she hadn’t slept either, it was obvious.
“I’ve come to explain.”
“I don’t want an explanation.” But her green eyes held a different message. They were plaintive, raw, and it hurt like hell to see, but it also gave him courage.
“Well, you’re getting one.”
She slumped visibly, one hand fisted close to her mouth. She wouldn’t meet his gaze.
“I should have told you Emma was coming over. She told me a while back she had a modelling assignment here.”
She let out a derisive snort. “She’s a model. I should have guessed
Urggh. Why hadn’t he just said she was here for work? Her eyes were walls. Ice-covered walls. Her face was snowed in.
He cleared his throat. “That’s not relevant to us,” he said and she snorted again but didn’t speak. “I was going to meet with her today, she, um—she and I are going to FaceTime Drew, for the first time since he’s been hospitalised.”
