“What’s your name?”
He gives a small chuckle that’s nevertheless full of his usual mischief. “Well, if I didn’t know, the fact that you’ve called me by it twice might have given me a clue.”
I repress a smile. “Name, please.”
“King Charles.”
“Oh, Camilla.”
He chuckles and I pat his shoulder. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” I say, only realising I’ve used the endearment when he stiffens.
“You’ve used that before,” he says.
“Hmm,” I say noncommittally.
“Yes. You never used it before when we were together.”
“That’s because I didn’t know.”
He stiffens. “Know what?”
Because I didn’t know I loved you then. The words are on the tip of my tongue, but my instinct tells me not to push this. He might be tired now, but he’s never been a pushover. That’s a big part of his charm.
“Nothing,” I say smoothly. “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you in a few hours. Have a better answer next time,” I add sternly.
He chuckles and when silence falls, I think he’s fallen asleep. But then his voice comes soft and small in the darkness.
“I’m sorry.”
“Whatever for?”
“I didn’t speak to you about what I saw in your office. That’s on me. I should have given you the right to explain.”
The words are sweet to me. I know he’s impulsive, but he’s a very thoughtful man. “I don’t blame you,” I whisper. “I blame me. It’s my fault. You tried to get to know me, and I wouldn’t let you. It’s hardly surprising you jumped to that conclusion over what you saw and even less so that you didn’t feel able to talk to me about it.”
He fumbles for my hand and squeezes it. We lie together handfast for a few minutes, and I listen in the quiet still of the night as his breathing deepens. “Night,” he finally mumbles, and silence falls again, but I maintain my hold of his hand even when his grasp goes slack.
The wind howls outside the window, throwing snow at it in wild abandon, but inside we’re warm and snug. In the old days, I could have nestled close and cuddled him, but I didn’t. It’s funny that now I’m happy to lie here just having his hand in mine. It’s a painful pleasure, but it’s one I wouldn’t forgo for the whole world.
I fall asleep to the sound of Joe’s soft snores and with my mind full of plans.
Chapter
Thirteen
Joe
I come awake slowly. I’m warm and cosy, a bank of heat at my back and the duvet nestled around me. I stretch, and a hard cock pokes my back and a strong arm tightens around me. I can’t think of a better way to wake up.
“Mmm,” I say throatily.
But when my eyes crack open, I’m smacked in the face by reality. I jerk out of the arms surrounding me and sit up. Lachlan blinks sleepily at me, his dark hair is a mess, his square jaw stubbled. He looks like a gorgeous pirate.
“What’s the matter?” he rumbles.
I shake my head to clear it. Thank goodness he slept through me wriggling against him. I’d never live it down.
“What time is it?” I mumble.
He grabs his phone and squints. “Eight.”
“Oh shit. I need to book my taxi.” I jump out of bed and grab my head when it gives a throb of pain. “Ouch,” I say plaintively.
“Joe, fucking hell.” Lachlan gets out of bed and comes round to my side.
I try to ignore the heavy erection in his shorts, but I can’t help my mouth watering. My own arousal flags when he probes the tender spot on my forehead gently.
He grimaces at me. “You’ve got quite a bruise coming. How do you feel?”
“Okay. A bit stiff.”
We both look down and he snorts.
“Oh, shut up,” I say and nudge him. “I need a shower. My neck is hurting a bit.”
“That’s from the air bag. Thank god you weren’t going fast. I’ll grab you some paracetamol. Then we can go down for breakfast.”
I nod and shuffle into the bathroom. Ten minutes later I feel a lot better. Wrapped in the hotel robe, I come out of the bathroom, rubbing my hair dry. Lachlan doesn’t spot me. He’s looking out the window, his expression pensive. I take a second to admire him, adoring all his muscles—broad shoulders, long legs, narrow hips, and a wide chest covered in silky, dark hair. He’s so gorgeous.
I frown. He has lost considerable weight, though.
I wonder what he’s thinking about, but I don’t get a chance to guess as he catches sight of me and smiles.
“I made you some tea,” he says, pointing to a mug on the bedside table. “There are some painkillers there too. Take them while I have a shower.”
“Thank you,” I say, touched. I wander over to stand next to him and peer out. “Jesus Christ. I don’t think I’m getting a taxi, am I?”
The sky is grey and thick with snow. Snowflakes tumble in a dizzying swirl, and I can barely make out the patio below, the snow is so thick. The view looks like something from Narnia and if a faun skipped by playing a flute I wouldn’t be surprised.
“No,” he says. His mouth turns down in what I think is supposed to be a sympathetic frown, but he can’t fool me. He’s happy about this turn of events.
A week ago, that would have made me ragey. Not so much today. Now I want to smile at him, and I refuse to examine the reason why. My head is achy enough already.
There’s a flash of colour and a robin appears on the balcony. It perches on the railing, its head cocked to one side as it watches us.
“Oh, poor thing.” I race to the tea tray and grab a packet of biscuits. Tearing open the packet, I grab one and crumble it. Then I open the balcony door to chuck out the crumbs.
“Fucking hell, it’s bloody freezing,” Lachlan grumbles. “And your hair is wet. Get inside.”
“But the robin.”
“I’ll do it. Go and stand by the fire, Joe.”
He takes the packet from me, and as I shiver by the fire, I watch as he solemnly crumbles the rest of the biscuits and sprinkles the crumbs on the balcony’s snowy table.
“Come inside,” I shout, worried about his bare feet in the snow. “You’re only in your boxers.”
He hops inside and shuts the door. He shakes his head, as though I’ve made him do a foolish good deed, but his lip is twitching with humour.
“He was hungry,” I say.
“Well, lucky for him, the Bird Man of Loch Lomond was here.”
I grin at him and wander over to perch on the bed while I sip my tea. “Bathroom’s all yours.”
He gives me a distracted smile, a hint of pensiveness back in his expression, and then walks into the bathroom. The shower starts up a few seconds later. I sip my tea, staring unseeingly out of the window.
Now that the wedding is over and my duty done, I can focus a bit more on the utter disaster that is my private life. Lachlan didn’t cheat on me. That rather reframes the last few months. He’s no longer the bastard. Well, at least no more than usual.
I’ve been the one in the wrong. I leapt to conclusions and, while Lachlan can try to take the blame for that, it’s solely my fault. It was almost like I wanted him to be the guilty party. After all, if he was a cheater, then I didn’t have to look too hard into my own behaviour. Lachlan may have withdrawn from me, but I let him. I have a sneaking suspicion that if I’d pushed him, he’d have warmed up.