‘Oh, clinic after clinic after therapist after clinic. She’d put on a little weight while she was there and then come out worse than ever. Nothing worked.’ His voice is bleak. There is a pang of something in the region of my heart for him.
‘We all saw therapists, to help us help her, and to help us get through it. It didn’t work.’
I move to stand in front of him, not knowing what to say but knowing my body can offer comfort. Closeness. Touch.
He puts a hand on my hip, keeping me where I am, making space for me so I fit right there, in the voids created by his shape.
‘It’s not about vanity. I think that’s the biggest misconception people have about eating disorders. It goes so much deeper than that. She changed schools and everything that was familiar and comforting in her life evaporated. Uncertain and feeling out of control, she did what she could to take that control back.’ I feel his ragged intake of breath. ‘Until that was out of control and she didn’t realise it.’
I don’t know what to say. I stand close to him, inhaling his masculine scent, my breaths in unison with his, and I hope he feels all the words I’m not offering. I hope he understands how much sympathy I feel for him, how much I wish I could fix that somehow.
‘Grief is hard, guilt too. My parents were broken by her death. Our lives had this gaping emptiness. For years we were just... It was impossible to be together and be normal. Her absence was everywhere and in everything. But, over time, we’ve found a rhythm with it. We talk about her, remember her, mark her birthday, laugh, cry.’ I lift my face to his, and something jerks inside me. There’s an intensity of emotion that almost bowls me over and, more than that, I’m hyper conscious of what a uniquely special man he is.
‘How is it possible you’re not married with three kids?’
The question—so out of left field—obviously catches him unawares. Despite having asked it, it does the same to me.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘You’re just unusual. You’re so...’ I search for a word, draw a blank ‘...nice.’
It’s like saying today was hot. Blatant understatement. He immediately reacts, his eyebrows shooting upwards, his lips quirking into a small smile.
‘Nice?’
‘And hot.’
His laugh is soft, from low in his belly, and I’m immeasurably glad to hear it after the sadness that was so heavy in his voice a moment ago.
But he sobers almost instantly, lifts his hands to my face and cups my cheeks, holding me steady. ‘I didn’t feel very nice, the night we met. I should never have slept with you, knowing what I did.’
I was furious with him, but somehow, over the last few days, that anger has dissipated so completely that I can barely even remember feeling it. I don’t feel anger for Barrett now. Instead I feel...nothing I want to analyse, but things that worry me enough to have me pulling away, blinking up at him like I’m waking up from a dream. My heart is beating faster, my body flushing with something like adrenaline.
What am I doing?
What the hell have I let happen?
Why am I standing on my terrace with this guy, hugging him, listening to him bare his soul, holding him close? I feel a frown shift on my lips and try to suppress it but the air around us has changed. Gone is the relaxed sense of confiding from a moment ago. I’m tense now. Worried about what we’re doing. Not right now, but in a week’s time...a month? He’s leaving, sure, but what if he leaves and I actually miss him. Isn’t that the risk I’m running by spending all this time with him and getting to know him like this?
Since when did I get more interested in him than his body and what he can do with it?
Within the space of a few seconds I understand what I’m feeling and why and I know with unswerving clarity what I have to do.
I reach for the straps of my dress, pushing them down my arms slowly, watching him so I see the moment his expression shifts from his own guilt to one of curiosity, then bemusement and finally sensual surrender. I toss my dress away from me and stand before him wearing only a silk thong, my eyes holding a silent challenge.
‘Want to go for a swim?’
A muscle throbs at the base of his jaw, his eyes shifting from my body to—briefly—the pool behind us.
‘Right now?’
I step forward, pressing my near-naked body to his. ‘Yeah, right now.’
I pull his clothes from his body, my fingers tracing his flesh as I remove each item of clothing until he stands in just his underwear. I curve my hands inside the elastic, grabbing hold of his ass, bringing him closer to my body, desire weaving through me like magic and silk.
He grins, but it’s a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. I don’t care. With every moment that passes I feel more certain that I have to end this with him. I don’t know why I’ve let it get this far, but it was stupid and wrong. Not just because I don’t do this kind of thing but because of his connection to the Harts. Why didn’t I just slam the door in his face, refuse point-blank to have anything to do with him and them and keep going on with my life?
Why indeed?