“God, Holland. I’ve missed you. Haven’t you missed me? Didn’t you want . . .?”
Yes. Yes. I’ve wanted him. Wanted to see him. Wanted to touch him. But I’d told myself I can’t. That nothing good would come from being with him. Yes, there would be pleasure, but that pleasure comes with a cost because each time I’m with him, I lose a little more of my heart. All those pieces mount up, and one day, I’ll realise I love him and that he doesn’t love me back.
Doesn’t. Won’t. Can’t. The reasons won’t matter at that point.
But I can tell him that, so I do the only thing I can.
Can. Will. Am.
I tighten my grip on his hair instead and try to answer his question with my kiss, recording the moment as a tactile memory.
His lips on my neck.
The prickle of his beard against my hand.
The corded muscles in his arms and the mass of his chest.
His hand glides up my side, glancing the side of my breast. My mind fragments. Thoughts scatter and mean no more as I whimper and twist towards him in silent encouragement. Alexander growls low in his throat, his hand closing on my breast, the sight so lewd and lush that I have to close my eyes.
“Open your eyes.” The command in his voice liquifies my bones. “Don’t you dare close your eyes to what’s happening between us.” But for his hands and the wall behind me, I might be a slick pool of Holland on the floor. “This is everything, Holland. More than either of us could’ve anticipated, but—”
At a childish shout, we freeze. Alexander’s hand falls away, and he pivots, setting himself away from me. In front of me.
“It’s mine, Hugh! Give it back!”
“You’ll have to catch me first!” Feet scrabble against the carpet as Hugh’s rangy form comes into view. “You son of a monkey arsed—”
Alexander bows forward as Hugh runs smack into him. He catches the boy by the shoulders to steady him.
“Hugh.” Alexander’s voice is thunderous, drawing an intake of breath from his nephew. “Your timing is impeccable, as always.” I think that’s the duke-ly way of calling him a little cock blocker.
“Whoa!” Archie shortly follows, his shirt tails flapping, as usual. “I didn’t see you there, Uncle Sandy.”
“Evidently.” Alexander glowers down at the boys. “Remind me, what have you been told about running near the staircase?”
“That Great-uncle Leo went daft after falling down them?” Hugh offers, clearly not sure.
“He was like Humpty Dumpty!” Archie pipes up. “He fell down and broke his head!”
While the exchange might be entertaining some time other than now, I find myself pressing my hand to my tripping heart. Tripping, like it’s recently dropped acid as it freaks out and dances all over the place. What if they hadn’t been yelling? What if, like (ab)normal kids, they’d walked sedately around the corner? They might well have been on the receiving end of sex education they’re not yet ready for.
As Alexander continues his uncle-in-charge duties, I find myself sliding along the wall in the other direction. But before I’ve even made two steps in the opposite direction, I almost fall over my bag.
“Holland.” Alexander’s head whips around, his brows beetled as I swipe the tote up.
“Quick,” Hugh doesn’t quite whisper. “Let’s make a run for it while Holly’s in trouble.”
As a boy-sized thunder of feet hits the stairs, my gaze slices their way, then back to Alexander again.
“Don’t do this,” he mutters, reading my intention. His face is like thunder as he reaches out for me. “We need to talk.”
I skirt around him, and like an errant kid, I also hit the stairs.
“I’m sorry,” I say over my shoulder. “But I can’t do this.” My voice breaks on the last word.
But I can’t live like this.
I can’t be that woman. Be like my mother.
Even when it seems like I am, after all.
34
Holly
“Holly, how are you?”
I find Isla in her office behind the mahogany desk.
“Are you well?” She looks concerned as she begins to stand. “You look quite flushed.”
Because I’ve been running, I don’t say. Running away from your brother. Running away from myself.
“No, I-I’m fine.” My gaze slips behind her to the large window and the grey clouds gathering there. “I was running,” I admit, bending to give Gertie a stroke as she lumbers over to me. “To get indoors before the rain.” I feel bad for lying, but what’s one more on top of the whoppers I’ve told so far? I imagine my smile looks a little more manic than it does encouraging, but she’s far too polite to suggest so. With words or otherwise.
“The weather forecast didn’t say anything about rain today.” She glances over her shoulder before rounding the impressive desk. As she indicates the seating area, Gertie lumbers over, curling at the base of an overly cushioned armchair. The chair that Isla then gracefully lowers herself to. I settle into the couch, kitty-corner. “Oh, but I have news,” she announces. “I’ve found someone to take over the job of looking after the boys. A nanny.”
“Oh, wow. That’s great.” So why does it not feel so great, especially when I’d arrived in her office ready to hand in my notice, effective immediately? I can’t claim to be hurt or upset when we both know finding my replacement had become a priority.
A bigger priority after what just happened on the stairs.
“Yes, I interviewed her last week. Not a face-to-face meeting, but over the internet. Her references were excellent, and I’ve just gotten off the phone with her last employer, who was very encouraging.”
“Well, that’s just great. Really great. I’m happy for you.” Or I’m trying to be.
“The only thing is she can’t start for two weeks. Do you think you’ll be able to carry on until then?”
“I . . .” am in trouble, but how can I say no when Isla has enough worries of her own? How can I tell her two weeks’ notice is too much unless she wants to take the chance her sons might get the kind of education not available at school? Dammit. “Of course.” I am so incredibly screwed. “Yes, of course I can.” I add what I hope is a bright smile as I blunder on, “but I’m sorry to have to tell you that I’ll be moving on completely then.”
“You mean, from the education centre?” Isla looks visibly shocked.
“Yes.” I guess I’m really doing this. “I’m sorry for the short notice, but I really feel it’s for the best.”
“Things are . . .?”
“Nothing has changed,” I say quietly, folding my hands in my lap. “You can’t blame—it’s not just his fault.” My words hit the air in staccato bursts and probably don’t make a lot of sense. “Argh! I hate crying.” Though I find myself doing just that as, a moment later, a box of tissues appears on my lap. “I have to go,” I whisper, curling my hand around the box like it’s a life vest. “I really can’t stay. I know this is for the best.”