“No.”
“Where have you been?” I ask, turning back to face her.
“I—”
“Did you think you could avoid me after last night?”
“I went to speak to Lady Isla,” she says, not answering my question and avoiding my eyes as she twists a loose thread at her knees. Not so much a loose thread as a line of them cutting across the hole at the knee of her jeans. Artfully ripped, I suppose. She catches me watching, her gaze dipping to her sparkly running shoes that look to have had a run-in with a puddle or two.
“Oh?” And why?
“I went to see her because I was going to leave.” My stomach constricts intensely and immediately. Her head lifts, our gazes meet, and I see the conflict there. Conflict I understand because neither of us could’ve anticipated this. “After last night.”
“It was that bad, was it?” I try to keep my words light. I fail.
“No, you know it wasn’t,” she says softly, her cheeks turning a delicate pink. “But—”
“Regrets happen in the daylight . . .” I allow my words to trail off, hoping she’ll fill in the blanks. Cold feet. That’s all this is. Nothing to worry about.
“No, I don’t regret it. But not regretting spending the night with you doesn’t make it right, either.”
That, at least, is gratifying to know. Especially if it’s not flattery. Flattery I don’t need. Holland, however . . .
Do I need her?
There was a reason I spent the morning looking for her and an afternoon thinking about her in a darkened cinema.
“Alexander, we can’t do this,” she adds almost plaintively. “Isla is relying on me, and I work for you, and I swore to myself a long time ago that I would never have a relationship with someone I worked with.”
There’s a story behind the statement, but I park it to one side. For now.
“I take it Cameron doesn’t count.” My tone is sharp, the words coming from some place defensive, reinforced as I fold my arms. I flex my biceps for good measure, like a child greedy for reassurance.
“What?” She drags her gaze higher, blinking as she does so.
Though the action was juvenile, I find I’m still gratified to see she hasn’t changed her mind since last night. If nothing else, she still wants me.
“He’s part of the castle team. Could you have a relationship with him? He has asked you out.”
“That has nothing to do with you.” Her tone is prim, her hands suddenly tightening on her knees. “You have your rules around relationships. And so do I,” she adds after a brief pause.
“What are my rules?” I find myself purring almost dangerously.
“Don’t play games,” she replies, her tone arch. “I heard what you said at dinner last night. You only involve yourself with women who are okay with you not committing. I guess I must look like the ideal candidate.” She makes a flourish with her hands which I suppose is to indicate how she looks, perhaps her age. Granted, she’s not the kind of woman I might ordinarily glance at twice in the street. But fuck it, she’s more than that, and she’s more than just turned my head. Since that strange Wednesday afternoon in London, her presence in the world has threatened to turn my life upside down. Threatened to turn me inside fucking out!
“I have no idea what you mean,” I answer coolly, unable to say any of this.
“You think we can just carry on with this thing while you’re here, and I’m telling you we can’t. It’s not right, and it’s unprofessional. You can’t mix business with pleasure.”
“I assure you, it can be done.”
“Not by me, it can’t.”
“Fine. You’re fired.” I adjust my posture, lounging almost.
“What?” Holland slouches back in her chair as though I’d pushed her there.
“Effective immediately. You’ll be paid for your notice period, but you no longer work here. Now, can we get back to discussing—”
“It doesn’t work that way,” she says with a sad shake of her head. “I’ve told Isla I’ll continue to work here until she finds someone else, and I will. But if you want to fire me, I guess Mari will run the education centre. Then I’ll just have one job to do. And when Isla finds a replacement, I’ll leave.”
“And then where will you go?” I ask, suppressing the way my stomach cramps at the thought of her no longer being here as I allow my attention to shift to the fireplace as I try to digest my new reality.
“Someplace else,” she answers simply, divulging nothing else. Not an emotion. Not a clue. Not a fucking thing.
“Come to London with me,” I find myself demanding suddenly, wondering why I hadn’t thought of it sooner.
“I can’t—why?” Her response is promising, despite her denial.
“Because I want you to. Because you want to.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “It just wouldn’t work between you and me.”