The week had passed by like any other. Busy, busy, busy!
And frustrating, frustrating, frustrating, because I’d expected Alexander to interrupt it. And he had not. Which leads me to think his attention span was even shorter than I thought.
So much for I want you. I’m willing to wait.
Men. I just don’t understand them. Including the two in the back seat who begin to argue over some piece of Batman trivia.
When I get back to the castle, I spot Griffin in the distance, his ear glued to his phone as he takes part in what seems like a very tense conversation.
Thank heaven for small mercies, I think as my feet hit the gravel. Maybe he won’t see me. While I might not have seen much of Alexander, I had (unfortunately) seen a lot of his brother. He seems to pop out of the woodwork when I least expect it, and frankly, I’m bored of being hit on.
I pull my phone out of my back pocket and begin to check my emails as I make my way over to the education centre.
“Were you just butt dialling me?”
At the deep voice, I look up.
“Because I swear that arse is calling me.”
Against my better judgement, I laugh—in my defence, it has been a slow week—but I carry on walking.
“Don’t you have anything else better to do?” I call over my shoulder.
“Well, if you’re offering, I could do you.”
I ignore him. Of course, I do. While internally flipping him the finger.
33
Alexander
“Holland, there you are.”
Her feet move quickly, almost hopping up the first two treads of the staircase before her mind seems to catch up with her predicament, and she stops, her shoulders almost slumping forward. Caught you, darling girl.
“Hey.” She turns, offering me a brief, close-lipped smile, her mouth working a touch as though she’s coming to the end of chewing something. Where the examination ends is, as I’d hoped, my legs. More specifically, what I have between them. “S-Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” she begins to stutter, her face turning bright pink.
I manage to curtail my smile as I draw to a stop at the bottom of the stairs. As Holland is standing two treads higher, our eyes are almost level. Not that she manages to keep them so, because there go her eyes again.
Down.
“I h-had my ear . . . pods in.” Her hand lifts to her ear in a jerking motion, halting halfway.
“Did you?” I try not to smirk because she clearly does not, though I imagine she’s been wearing them for the past few days as a perfect excuse for ignoring me. Not that I’d sought her out until now, yet it seems as though it’s been a wasted effort. I’d thought a little space might help her try to work out her own feelings about me, especially given our interlude in the kitchen. I’d expected her to seek me out at some point. I thought an admission to having feelings would be a little too much to hope for, but even just to hear she’d missed me would’ve been nice.
I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do. I’ve been rejected before, of course, but not by someone whose gaze turns soft when they see me. Not by someone who clearly still wants me.
The past few days have been nothing short of hell. I’d found enough to keep me occupied, initiating some minor repairs to the castle and spending late nights on the phone to my broker in New York. I’d taken Isla’s boys to the pizzeria in the next town over and even began to teach Archie to ride. Far too late, in my opinion. A failing I place squarely on the shoulders of his father. But whatever I’ve been doing, physically or mentally, my thoughts haven’t strayed too far from Holland. To know she sleeps under the same roof has kept me awake and frustrated well into the wee hours. I want her in my bed, next to me, not in a room somewhere else in the castle.
I just . . . want her, goddammit. I want her in whatever capacity she’ll have me.
“I, erm, thought I had them in.” Holland hitches a cotton tote higher on her shoulder, her gaze almost—but not quite—dipping again.
“So, you thought you didn’t hear me . . . but then you realised you did?” I tilt my head like old Gertie catching the rustle of a biscuit packet, only in this case, what I hear is her planned-out efforts to avoid me. Yet she can’t keep her eyes off me.
Relaxing my posture, I hook my elbow over the newel post and lean against it. Holland purses her lips and shakes her head before she ultimately chooses to ignore my goading. What a shame.
“I haven’t seen you around much this week,” she says instead.
Her breath smells sweet. Sugary. It makes me wonder what she was eating. And whether she’d allow me a taste. And while she might not have seen me, I’ve seen her, even if she has tried to be more evasive than a cat burglar. She’s never in the kitchen, not around at mealtimes, and the door to the education centre is locked outside of opening hours. Which has left me calling to see her when she has an audience—Hugh and Archie or the kids taking part in broomstick lessons or crafts—or ambushing her in her bedroom, which would be the exact opposite of the point I’ve been trying to make. That I want more of her. More than just the pleasure found between her thighs.
“I know,” I agree regretfully, my gaze flicking to the floor. “I’ve been busy. Also, I’m not sure if you realise, but I’ve been giving you some space.”
“Oh.” Her answer seems more a sound than a question. Might it also include a touch of relief? “I didn’t even notice.” She makes a careless gesture with her hand, the words delivered as one long string, and they don’t sound like a lie at all. Or they wouldn’t if you were say, deaf. “I mean, I only just noticed I hadn’t seen you. Now that I am seeing you. In front of me, I mean.”
And seeing quite a lot of me because there goes her gaze again. Maybe I should’ve just ambushed her the morning after the kitchen wearing this get-up. Or maybe I should just tie her to my bed and keep her there until she gives in.
Holland, what am I going to do with you?
What do I have to do to make you see we’re worth it?
“I’m cut to the quick,” I say, clutching a fist to my heart. “You haven’t missed me? Not even a little bit?”
“Do the gardeners grow cannabis in the orangery?”
We don’t have an orangery. Which she knows.
“I’m just high on seeing you. No white lines or green leaves necessary. Just Holland.”
“H-Have you been for a ride?”
At last! These riding boots are always a bastard to put on. I’m pleased the effort wasn’t wasted. Very pleased indeed.
“As a matter of fact, I have not.”
“What’s with the get-up, then?” Her eyes flick across my tight-fitting polo shirt then down. Down to my pale riding jodhpurs, more suitable for the polo field than the Scottish countryside. Farther still to my
“Funny that you should ask, but I recently heard that those who take care of themselves, those who are in good shape,” I add a tiny flourish, “should wear tight-fitting clothing, lest their delicate skin chafe.”
“You are nuts,” she says, her laughter seemingly against her better judgement as she shakes her head. But it does my heart good just to hear it. “There’s nothing delicate about your skin. You have the hide of a rhino.”