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Nobody’s ever wiped my tears away for me.
When my sobs finally subside with a deep, shuddering sigh, he looks down at me with a small smile.
“Feeling better, yeah?”
Is he being smug? What if he thinks he’s got one on me now that he’s seen me cry? Does he think I’m going to melt at his feet now? I pull away.
“Yes, thanks. You’ve fixedallmy problems.”
He sighs. “Alright. No need to be rude.”
“Well, what do you expect me to do? Fall in love with you?”
“A simple thanks would probably do.”
I throw him a dirty look. But since I always try to treat staff politely and he works for Spearcrest, I suppose thanking him is the least I can do.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He points at his car. “I’m gonna head off.”
I look at his car, at him, and then over my shoulder at the dark trees surrounding the car park.
“I need to go back to the sixth form girls’ building,” I say.
“Right,” he says.
“It’s very dark,” I add, piercing him with a pointed look.
He lets out a low laugh. “Do you want me to walk you back?”
“You’re the one who brought me here in this creepy car park. Seems the least you can do.”
“If you say so.”
I glare at him but he doesn’t see it. He closes and locks his car, and then leads me away from the car park. His hand rests lightly on my back as he walks me through the trees and back to the main path. His touch is warm.
Once we’re walking in the bronze glow of the old lampposts lining the path, I can see him much more clearly. He has a strong jaw and a pretty nose, aside for the slight bump I noticed earlier. He has dark beauty spots near his mouth and on his neck. His muscles are thick. He’s wearing a T-shirt with a quilted gilet over it, but he doesn’t seem cold. There’s dirt smeared all over his trousers and arms. My tears form a wet patch on both his T-shirt and gilet.
There’s something about him I can’t quite understand. Something fascinating and earthy and disconcerting.
Is this how all the Lady Chatterleys of Victorian times felt when faced with their calm, unconcerned social inferiors? What is it about dirt-streaked men that makes rich women so flustered?
Maybe it’s just because the rich women know society would never approve. The simple appeal of the forbidden fruit. Maybe the rich women just want to have something they’re not supposed to.
Maybe they just want to anger their fathers.
Because what could possibly anger a rich father more than seeing his precious daughter in the dirty hands of some working-class nobody? Some part-time gardener with—I’m guessing—no education, pedigree or prospects?
That would anger any rich father.
Especially mine.
Chapter 5
Haute Hook up
