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She brushes past me, and plucks a coffee from my hand, avoiding direct eye contact. “I checked the app, and it’s not far to the motorway again. You were right about that turning, after all.”
And with that, she skips downstairs.
Blast from the past?
I scowl, my good mood gone in an instant. That’s what she thinks about last night? It wasn’t the fucking rain making her clutch me like that, writhing on my cock and gasping for more.
There I was, thinking it meant something. That itmattered.
But apparently, Jolene has other ideas.
I wrest my foolish hopes under control, and follow her out to the car, stowing our bags before getting behind the wheel. Jolene’s in the passenger seat, already scrolling on her phone.
“I got breakfast,” I say gruffly, watching for her reaction.
There is none.
“Cool. Thanks.” Jolene takes a sarnie, and keeps staring at her phone, studiously ignoring me as she starts to eat. She doesn’t look over as I start the engine and drive away; no morning small talk, no easy laughter like in the pub last night. And definitely no wild, reckless, flirty heat.
The message couldn’t be clearer: What happens in Lower Dickingham stays in Lower Dickingham.
It’sthree more hours to Glasgow, and although the weather is still shite, rain spattering the windscreen, it’s nothing like the storms last night. I quickly find the motorway again, and we get back on track, making good time as I speed us north, impatient to get this whole madcap road-trip over with as soon as possible. No more Austen-inspired detours that make Jolene’s face light up with an intoxicating glee. No more scones to leave that kissable trail of crumbs on the edge of her lips.
And definitely no more nights in a four-poster bed, making her scream the bloody roof down as she comes like a freight train on my fingers… My tongue… My cock.
Blast from the past, my arse.
I scowl, gripping the wheel tightly. I glance over at Jolene, wondering if she’s haunted by the fresh, passionate memories too.
Nope. She’s napping, snuggled up with her eyes closed in the passenger seat.
I exhale. Dammit. I can’t even be mad at her, not with her looking so sleepy and warm like that, all her sassy defenses down. No, the person I’m really pissed at is myself.
What was I expecting, after the way I broke her heart?
It doesn’t matter that I broke my own damn heart in the process, too. I was the one who fucked things up, and no matter how justified my reasons felt at the time, it doesn’t look that way to her. I cut her off, ignored her pleading emails and voicemails like a damn coward, and by the time I came to my senses, it was too late to take it back.
I hurt her. I broke her trust. And I wasn’t even man enough to tell her why.
Was I really thinking one night of passion would be enough to make her forget?
My phone buzzes angrily again in the console. Bradley calling. Again.
“Are you going to get that?”
I look over. Jolene is wide awake. “It’s my boss,” I reply. “I thought it best to avoid him until all this is sorted out.”
“But what if you avoiding him makes him think that something is wrong?” Jolene looks panicked. “Answer him!”
I set it to speaker and pick up.
“MacKenzie, you Scottish bastard. Where the fuck have you been?”
“Busy,” I answer vaguely. “What do you need?”
“Just checking shit hasn’t gone totally off the rails over there.” Bradley replies. “Reeve’s not trying to tack on another fuckin’ English historical property for a hundred k a day?”
“Nope. The locations are still locked. No changes. And the production team is looking to shave the budget,” I add. “I’ll have new estimates for you by end-of-day Wednesday.”
