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I sigh, retracing my steps back through the train. I try not to panic as I find a quiet carriage, and collapse into a seat. It’s like I told Hazel: I’ll just go to this Mara Dunleavey’s address in Glasgow, and intercept Hugo there. It’s only Sunday morning! We still have plenty of time before anyone notices he’s gone.
And, you know, pulls the plug on the entire movie.
The final departure announcement sounds, and then a moment later, we’re gliding smoothly out of the station, heading north. I wanted to see the country, didn’t I? I think with a hollow amusement. Well, I’m certainly getting a full tour now.
“Is this seat taken?”
“Go ahead—” I start to answer, before the voice registers. And the face. And the tall, brawny body that I swear wasn’t this broad back when I had my arms wrapped around it last.
“Seriously?” I exclaim in disbelief, as Fraser effortlessly stows a weekender bag into the luggage rack and drops into the seat facing me, sprawling out across the space. “Which part of ‘I have this handled’ don’t you understand?”
He shrugs, clearly unconcerned by the fact I’d rather be sharing space with a live alligator than my annoyingly handsome ex. “You haven’t found him yet, have you?” He challenges me.
“Well, no…”
“Then clearly, you need an extra pair of hands.”
Fraser strips off his suit jacket and hangs it carefully from a hook by the window, making sure it doesn’t crease. Then he pushes up his shirt sleeves, revealing tanned, muscular forearms, dusted with tawny hair. Damn him. I know exactly what I’d like those hands to be doing to me, which is the reason I was trying to put some distance between us.
The three feet dividing us now across the narrow train table? Doesn’t count.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I grumble, annoyed by his lack of faith in me. “I’m perfectly capable of taking the train alone.”
“I don’t doubt it.” Fraser gives me a measured look. “But not everything’s about you, sweetheart. I’m responsible for protecting the studio’s investment in this movie, which means I need to be absolutely certain this missing Darcy business doesn’t spiral out of control, and wind up costing us precious time and resources.”
“Ah yes, the bottom line. Your new best friend. Far be it from me to get in between you and your beloved budget.”
I make a show of digging in my bag and pulling out a magazine, then settle in to read, pointedly ignoring him. Now, I wish I’d brought something longer thanVanity Fairfor the ride. The journey up to Glasgow is over four hours, and all the thrilling celebrity gossip in the world won’t be enough to distract me from Fraser’s looming, sexy presence.
As it is, I last all of three minutes before stealing a glance at him. He’s lounging in his seat, scrolling something on his phone, looking perfectly at ease.
Of course he is.
The man doesn’t even have the decency to be phased by our weird chemistry. Or the fact that thirty-two hours ago, he had his tongue in my mouth and his hands on my ass.
There’s a rumbling noise. It takes me a minute to realize, it’s Fraser’s stomach growling. He shifts in his seat, looking annoyed.
“Hungry? What a shame. You should never embark on a journey unprepared,” I say sweetly—and then I unpack my own supplies.
Fraser takes in the generous spread, his mouth twitching with a reluctant smile. “I should have known you’d come well supplied, you never could go an hour without a snack,” he says, shaking his head. “Christ, woman, we’re taking a train journey, not hiking Mount Nevis.”
“Feels like it’s working out for me now,” I counter. “Hmm, what am I in the mood for?” I pretend to muse, setting out my options on the table between us. My many, many options. “A sandwich, maybe… The bacon roll, or my fruit cup… No, I think I’m in the mood for a nice almond croissant,” I announce, and then tear into the pastry.
Fraser glowers, watching me eat. The man I knew ten years ago could put food away like nobody’s business—and that was before he was this deliciously burly.
I wait, smirking.
Finally, he breaks. “How much for the bacon sarnie?”
“How much are you offering?” I beam.
He pulls out his wallet and checks the contents. “Ten quid,” he offers.
I shake my head.
“Twenty, then,” Fraser says. “It’s a steal. You can’t have paid more than three quid for that thing.”
“Ah, but as Intro to Econ taught me, the value of something is equal to what someone is willing to pay for it,” I say brightly, licking powdered sugar off my fingertips. “And as a numbers man yourself, you have to respect the free market.”
