“I remember nights like this, sitting at a bar. Long days in your office, you on your computer, typing furiously. Me being subjected to very dry, boring text describing very funny topics.”
I remember the night I kissed you.
I remember the night you kissed me.
A softness comes into his stark blue eyes. “What do you remember about the actual research?”
He’s testing me, my knowledge, ever the professor.
I decide to impress him. I remember everything.
I launch into it with perfect confidence. Keaton, Chaplin, Lloyd. I describe their history, their early work, their critics. The rise and the fall. The inevitable tragedies that remind you that no life is safe from pain, even the life of the clowns.
All the while his eyes are transfixed on mine, rapt, cycling between pride and something darker. Deeper. He’s leaning in closer, and my eyes take a long drop to his mouth, my mind briefly put on pause, wondering what it would be like to kiss him again. How wonderful would it feel? How badly would it destroy me?
“So there,” I say when I’m done, my breath short from talking so much. I take a few big gulps of my cider while he stares at me, rapt. I give him the side-eye. “What? Don’t tell me I got any of that wrong. I know I didn’t.”
He licks his lips then swallows. I watch his Adam’s apple move. “No,” he says, a quick shake of his head. His eyes light up. “That was bloody impressive.”
I grin at him, loving the look on his face. “It seems you’ve forgotten who you’re dealing with here.”
“No, no. I haven’t forgotten.”
After that our conversation lapses into an easy rhythm. We order more drinks, talk, and laugh. I tease him, my favorite thing, and he responds in kind. The world around us seems to drop away, the pub noise diminishing until his voice, that smooth Scottish burr, is all I hear, reverberating in my ears, chest, and bones. Our own little world cocoons around us and it’s impossible to count the minutes or the hours.
Eventually though, Max taps the bar. “Closing up, mate,” he says.
I turn my head and slowly blink at him. The lights are brighter. My brain is liquid, my face flushed as I take in the rest of the pub. There’s no one left. It’s only us.
I flash Brigs a shy smile. “It seems we closed the place down.”
Brigs looks equally as surprised. He takes out his wallet and puts a few notes on the table. “It seems we did.”
“Let me pay for my own half,” I say, reaching for my purse on the back of the chair.
“Darling, I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says dismissively. He slides the money to Max and then eyes the clock above the cash register. “Eleven thirty. You should have kicked us out a while ago, Max.”
“Nah,” Max says, taking the money. “It was more interesting to watch you two.”
Brigs’ gaze slides to me, his eyes warm from the effects of the alcohol. I feel a sudden urge to keep the night going, to see where it could go. I’m drunk and comfortable, and I’m not ready to say goodbye to this. It’s that kind of combination that makes you keep drinking long after you should have stopped, regardless of right or wrong, good or bad, early mornings or not. Consequences don’t matter at this point; they are something fuzzy in the future to worry about later.
I get off the stool, trying to keep my balance, but Brig’s hand shoots out and places a firm grip on my arm, steadying me.
“Thank you,” I tell him, clumsily grabbing my purse.
He lets go but takes a step forward until I can feel the heat of his body. He studies my mouth and then reaches forward, gently running his thumb underneath my lips.
My heart catches in my throat and I can’t breathe.
“Your lipstick is all smeared,” he says huskily.
And for none of the right reasons, I can’t help but think.
Oh, this is so dangerous.
He drops his hand. “Would I be a good host or a bad one if I invited you into my flat?” he asks.
Oh Jesus.
My cheeks are on fire. I have to be smart about this, but the more he stands there, staring at me, the stupider I get. “I’m not sure if I’m in the right frame of mind to make that decision,” I whisper.
He smiles kindly. “Let me walk you to the tube.”
I exhale in relief, even though my body is demanding a recount.
We step out into the night, the air cool and crisp, perhaps signaling an early fall, but I’m burning up inside. The station is right across the street, and as we go over, Brigs points up at his building, a stately beast made of brick and white trim.
“I’m just up there,” he says, pointing to the third floor. “If I ever get bored, I just stare out the window and wonder what Mr. Holmes is doing.”
I see a shadow pass across his nearest wall. “That one? Is there someone there?”
He laughs. “That’s just Winter. My dog.”
I give him an incredulous smile. “You have a dog?”
“I told you my brother rescues them, right? Well, he kind of rubbed off on me.”
Now I really want to go up into his flat. It would be the greatest excuse, too, to pet his dog and maybe, um, other things.
But somehow my willpower is still in control.
I do manage to say, “Maybe I can say hello next time.”
That was brave of me. Assuming that there would be a next time and all.
“That would be nice.”
We stop walking just outside the entrance to the station. He exhales heavily, brows pulled together, and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his fingers linger there a moment too long. “I still have to get used to the blonde. I still have to get used to this.”
I’m not sure if I’m breathing or not. I’m so singularly focused on him, his fingers in my hair, the way his troubled gaze rests on my mouth.
Kiss me, I think. Let’s see what else we can get used to.
“Goodnight Natasha,” he says, and there’s a beat of hesitation, like he’s about to lean closer and place his lips on mine. I’m acutely aware of how much I want him, how much I ache.
Then he turns and walks away to his flat.
I watch his tall, lean frame go, admiring his ass beneath that motorcycle jacket, before I head underground.
When I finally get back to my flat, I’m utterly exhausted and still a bit drunk. I open the door and am immediately bombarded by Melissa in her bathrobe and a zillion questions.
“How was the date?”
“Fine.” It was better than fine. It was…luminous.
“Did you get laid?”
“No.” My conscience stepped in.
“Did he at least kiss you?”
“No.” But I wish he had.
“Are you going out with him again?”
“I shouldn’t.” And I mean that.
She looks utterly crestfallen for a moment then looks me up and down with a one-shouldered shrug. “Maybe if you wore the mini-skirt like I told you.”
“Maybe,” I concede, even though I know I could wear a potato sack and it wouldn’t matter. His soul speaks to me, regardless of what it’s dressed in.
I go into the bathroom and wipe off my makeup in the mirror, before getting undressed and glancing down at my underwear. “Well, Sponge Bob,” I say. “You did good.”
Yet when I crawl into my bed and set my alarm for the morning, my chest feels carved out. Hollow. I knew that seeing Brigs tonight wasn’t going to be easy. I just didn’t anticipate how hard it was going to be and not in the way I thought. I expected that being in close proximity to him, away from the prying eyes and bustle of school, would have brought on an overwhelming sense of grief and pain, a reminder of the damage we had done together. I thought I would relive his last words to me, that I would remember that epic fall into darkness where I couldn’t even save myself.
And while it was there, a potent undercurrent between us, it only came second to what really blindsided me: desire. The overwhelming need to be possesse
d by him, to have his heart, body, everything. It’s like we are picking up where we left off—not on that phone call, but in my old London flat, with hope and promises and the memories of his stubble razing my skin as he kissed my lips and neck. God, even my nipple had been in his mouth.
Before I know what I’m doing, I’m touching myself, sliding my finger along my clit, wishing it was him, needing to burn off this energy that is sweltering inside me.
I come to thoughts of him, trying not to yell out his name, but I’m screaming it on the inside.
And just like that I’m sated enough to fall asleep, and hopeful enough that tomorrow this need will still be wiped clean.
CHAPTER TEN
Brigs
Edinburgh
Four Years Ago
“Miranda,” I say delicately, standing in the doorway of our kitchen.
She’s at the breakfast table, a cup of tea in front of her, the steam rising in the beams of morning light coming through the window.
Her back is to me. She says nothing.
“Miranda,” I say louder now and slowly walk closer to get a look at her.
When I’m finally in front of her, only then does she look up.
“Brigs,” she says to me. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
I shake my head and pull out the chair, the noise of it scraping against the floor loud and jarring.
“No. Nothing. Why?”
She shrugs and sips her tea, her eyes going to the window.
It’s silent in here. I can hear the grandfather clock ticking and the sound of Hamish playing with his toy cars in the other room.
It would be the perfect morning for any family.
But my heart is cold. The room is cold. Everything about this house is laced with ice.
She takes another sip of her tea and gives me an expectant look. She had a manicure yesterday, her nails polished to stones. “What is it?” she repeats, annoyance in her tone.
I guess it shows how often we actually talk to each other. I can’t remember the last time we had a conversation that didn’t involve Hamish. And that’s not good. That’s why my heart is being torn in a million directions. That’s why I’m feeling everything that no married man should feel.
But it has to stop. I have to try.
“I was thinking,” I tell her slowly, eyeing the window. “It’s a brilliant day outside. Why don’t we drop Hamish off at your parents, or mine, and the two of us go on a drive? Anywhere you want. We haven’t taken Moneypenny out for a spin in years.”
“Oh, Brigs,” she says with a sigh, avoiding my eyes.
“What?”
“I don’t have time for that,” she says simply. “I’ve got a lunch date with Carol.”
“We don’t have to take long. We can go after.”
She shakes her head, making the disagreeable little noise she makes when she’s fed up with slow waiters at a restaurant or when the maid doesn’t dust the china figurines in the sitting room.
“What would we do? Where would we go?”
“Anywhere,” I tell her imploringly, leaning toward her and placing my hand palm down on the table. “And we can do anything. You just say the word.”
“I’d rather not.”
I inhale deeply through my nose, staying silent, hoping she’ll see the need in my eyes.
She doesn’t. She looks at me briefly, then back down to her tea. “I said I’d rather not,” she repeats.
“Tomorrow then,” I tell her. “We’ll go tomorrow.”
She sighs, hastily tucking her hair behind her ear. “I’ve got plans. You know I’m busy on the weekends.”
“You’re busy every day.”
“Well, so are you,” she snaps. “And you don’t see me on your bloody case about it, do you?”
Maybe things would have turned out better if you were, I think. If you actually cared.
“Jesus, Miranda,” I tell her. “When did this become okay?”
She raises her brows. “I don’t even know what you mean.”
I put my hand on top of hers. “This. This marriage. This distance. What happened to us?”
The last time we’d left the house together was a few weeks ago, and that was just to take Hamish to the park. I don’t think we spoke more than two words to each other.
It was that night I went to Natasha.
That night that I saw the truth.
Miranda stares at me curiously before slowly removing her hand and hiding it under the table, where I can’t touch her. “You are daft, Brigs. Absolutely daft. Nothing has happened to us. This is just us. This is just our life. It’s always been this way. Nothing has changed.”
But I’ve changed.
I’ve changed.
And this won’t do anymore.
“Please,” I say to her. “Come with me. Forget about your plans and your friends for once. Forget about taking care of Hamish. Forget about everything except your husband. Just this once. For me. Today. Please.”
I’m begging. I know she can see it in my eyes, hear it in the crack of my voice. This has to happen. I won’t go down on a sinking ship without trying to swim to shore.
She gives me a sour smile and shakes her head. “I told you,” she says, voice clipped. Final. “I’m busy.”
There’s only a table between us but it’s a million kilometers long.
I stare at her, hoping that she can at least see that I tried.
But she’s back to looking out the window, sipping from her tea with manicured nails, her mind already far away, onto bigger things, better things.
“All right,” I say with resignation. I get up. “I’m going to take the car out anyway.”
“Be back before twelve-thirty,” she tells me. “I’m not burdening Carol with Hamish on our lunch.”
“Right,” I tell her.
I stride out of the room, say goodbye to Hamish, kissing him on the head, grab my keys, and go.
I get into Moneypenny, the old Aston Martin, and hope she turns over easy. I need to get out of here, fast.
She coughs and stutters.
I slam my fist into the wheel.
“Fuck!”
I yell and yell, my face going red, spit flying out of my mouth. I throttle the wheel, as if I could strangle the car, the key digging into my other hand until finally she gives in.
My heart is racing. Sweat drips from my brow. I gun the car out of the driveway and onto to the road, nearly losing control on the sharp bend by Braeburn Pond. I drive and drive, taking the corners wide, cutting off cars, my mind caught in a whirlwind. Thoughts just tumble into each other without going anywhere, around and around and around.
Without even thinking, I end up in Natasha’s neighborhood, on her street. I pull the car over and stare at her building. I can drive off. I can go blow off some steam with Lachlan. I can drive and scream and wish to god that things were different.
But I don’t want to do it alone.
I get out of the car and head to her flat.
I knock on her door, wondering if she’s even in, if she might still be sleeping. It’s still early on a Saturday and we don’t see each other on the weekends without it being work related, such as seeing a classic film at the cinema. I hadn’t planned to talk to her until Monday, her last week of work as my research assistant before going back to London.
My heart pinches at that thought.
She’s leaving me.
What the hell am I doing?
But then the door opens slowly and she’s staring at me with wide eyes, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, a fluffy robe around her body.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, immediately feeling bad. “Did I wake you up?”
She yawns. “Kind of, but I should be getting up anyway. What’s, um, up?”
I rub my lips together. “I…I wanted to know if you wanted to go for a drive?”
“Where?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Far away. But not too far. I have to be back by twelve-thirty f
or Hamish.”
“What time is it now?”
“Eight-thirty.”
She rolls her eyes. “And you were wondering if you woke me up. I should still be sleeping for at least another two hours.”
I nod, embarrassed at my enthusiasm. I’m being inappropriate. “I should go.”
I turn around, but she reaches out and grabs my arm, holding tight. “No, don’t,” she says quickly. “I want to go with you. Just give me five minutes, okay?”
I turn to look at her and she’s flashing me a persuasive smile.
“I’ll be in the car,” I tell her.
Somehow she’s true to her word. In five minutes she’s jogging down the steps of her building, dressed in jeans and a tank top that shows off the tawny warmth of her summer tan. She hasn’t touched her hair at all; it’s still up in that bedhead bun, and there isn’t a bit of makeup on her. She doesn’t need it. She looks joyful. She looks absolutely beautiful.
“You’re fast,” I tell her as she slips into the passenger seat.
She giddily drums her hands across the dash and beams at me. “I’m fast when I want to be. I love this car. Where are we going again? Oh right, somewhere far away. Can we get coffee first? I’m dying.”
I can’t help but grin at her as I turn the key. The car starts on the first turn. She’s my good luck charm. “You don’t seem like you need coffee.”
“I always need coffee,” she says emphatically. “You know this. So where to?”
“I honestly don’t know. You pick.”
“Do you have a map?”
“Of Scotland?”
“Yeah.”
I nod at the glove compartment. “In there.”
She opens it and it falls open with a clunk. She takes out an old faded road map and starts looking it over.
“Anything strike your eye?”
“I’m looking for Loch Ness.”
“That’s too far.”
“Okay, is there like another lake with a swamp monster?”
“Nearly all the lochs are in the Highlands.”
“Arrrrrrrrrr in the Highlands,” she says playfully, imitating my accent.
“Okay, maybe no coffee for you.”
“Don’t be cruel, Professor Blue Eyes.” She goes back to studying the map but the mention of my nickname makes a small fire build inside me. And not one of anger.