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“The woman’s been dead almost two hundred years,” he points out, still looking way too amused for my liking. “I don’t think she’ll be spinning in her grave over the opinions of one… What did you call him?” he asks, grinning. “A shriveled-up toffee wrapper?”
I have to laugh too, remembering his face. “His bow tie was all shiny, like a candy wrapper. And he deserved it, too! Making that woman feel bad, just for being interested in Jane. He should face justice,” I insist. “He should have to face the consequences of his snooty actions."
“And how will you do that, exactly?” Fraser arches an eyebrow.
I think hard. “I’m going to write him a really bad TripAdvisor review,” I declare.
He snorts. “That’ll teach him.”
I take a sip of my fizzy orange soda. My heart is still racing from our escape… And just how easily—sexily—Fraser was tossing me around. If he’d lifted me up and thrown me down somewhere else…
Like a bed, for example…
“What’s this famous cake, anyway?” I change the subject, hoping my cheeks aren’t too flushed at the hot, steamy visions pulsing in my mind. I prod the pastry in front of me, an open pie filled with some kind of almond filling.
“It’s a tart,” Fraser corrects me.
“Now, don’t be judgmental,” I quip, and he smiles.
“A Bakewell Tart. They’re famous around here,” he explains. “Me? I’ve always preferred a good scone.”
I watch as he loads one up with jam and a mountain of clotted cream, digging in with clear relish. I watch him lick cream from his lower lip and have a filthy flashback that makes my stomach curl.
Fraser, buried between my legs, gripping my thighs tightly as his tongue drives me wild…
“So, Scotland!” I exclaim brightly, even more flustered. “We should be there in time for dinner, I’d say. Is Glasgow anywhere near your hometown? Do you get back there often? How long have you been living in London, now?”
If Fraser notices my fluster, he doesn’t show it. He swallows and takes a gulp of water. “My family’s place is further north,” he replies, relaxing back in his chair. “Near Inverness.”
“In the wilds of the Highlands…” I smile. Fraser always painted such a vivid picture of Scotland, with its dramatic hills and deep, placid lochs. “How are your folks, anyway?” I ask, picking at the tart. “Is your mom still driving everyone crazy with her bassoon playing, or has she moved on to something more tuneful, like a trumpet?”
Fraser looks away. “My ma… Passed away.”
My heart drops. “Oh my God,” I breathe, instinctively reaching across the table to take his hand. “Fraser, I’m so sorry. What happened?”
He shrugs, still avoiding my gaze. “Car crash. Drunk driver. It was years ago.”
“Still, I can’t imagine…” I squeeze his hand. Fraser meets my eyes for a moment, and I can see the ghost of grief in his gaze. “You must miss her terribly,” I say softly.
He gives a nod. “Aye.”
There’s silence as we sit there, sharing the moment. Then Fraser releases my hand and rises to his feet. “We should get on the road again,” he says briskly, clearing our things. “I saw a petrol station on our way into the village. That should sort us for the rest of the way. No more detours,” he adds, warning. “I’ve been avoiding messages from the studio all morning. They want an update, and the next one I deliver better be that Hugo’s safely in his trailer in Sussex, and everything going to plan. ”
"Right,” I say slowly, getting up. Clearly, he doesn’t want to talk about it. “Of course. Thanks for humoring me on this one,” I add, as we head back to the car. “Even if I did almost get us arrested. It was a memorable stop.”
Fraser gives a low chuckle. “It’s the only way you do things, Jolene Jameson. You’re anything but forgettable.”
I glow at the unexpected compliment, but before I get too comfortable, he adds a pointed look. “Now, can you keep from causing any more trouble for the next four hours? There aren’t any child locks on the doors, but if you think I won’t toss you in the backseat to keep you under control, you’ve another thing coming.”
Back on the road,Fraser’s mood takes a turn for the cool and surly—and the weather quickly follows suit. The skies cloud over quickly, and soon, rain is spitting down, darkening the afternoon skies. “Dammit,” he curses, squinting through the windscreen as the lone working wiper swishes uselessly.
“Typical English weather,” I joke, trying to keep things light. We were getting along so well back in Bakewell, joking around like old times, but now Fraser is barely speaking, just scowling at the road ahead, tightly gripping the steering wheel.
I feel a pang. I wish I hadn’t brought up his family back at the café. Losing his mother like that… God, I have a hundred questions, but I can tell from the shuttered expression on his face that it is absolutely not the moment to get deep and personal. “I’m surprised it’s taken this long to get a downpour,” I tease instead. “It’s July, after all. Rainy season for you Brits.”
“It’s the last thing we need to slow us down,” he grumbles, as the rain pours harder, and I give up on staying cheerful. I ball up my jacket as a pillow instead, and get comfortable, trying to take a nap in the lumpy passenger seat. It’s been nonstop since I discovered Hugo was missing, and I barely slept a wink last night. Now, tiredness takes over, and even with Fraser radiating tension beside me, I drift into a brief, light sleep...
“Bloody hell!”
