Ten minutes later I was in Sam’s office, having a lovely melt-down. “I must have been mad,” I said to him. “I'm totally unqualified.”
He was digging out a file listing PA duties. “You have common sense, and you learn fast. You'll be fine.”
“I have a son at home! Ben’s only seven.”
“Curtis works regular hours. This doesn't change a thing.”
“But Sam, I’m not at all what he thinks.”
“He's happy with your work, and that's all that matters.”
“But—!”
“Look, Emma,” Sam’s voice was gentle. “I think you need the money?”
“Ben’s dyslexic,” I whispered. “He’s just been diagnosed.”
“Then this is a gift from heaven,” Sam said firmly.
He refused to listen to any more protests, and when I saw the salary bump, I shut up. It would net me a laptop, and the tutorial sessions were within reach.
So I floated home and prepared myself for a heart-to-heart with Ben. Ups and downs, right? The promotion was giving me a lovely kick, but I had to break the news to Ben that he’d been diagnosed dyslexic.
I’d been worried ever since the conference with Miss Maddy, so I’d been trying to figure out what to say to him should the worst happen. Now it had come, and I was word perfect.
To make it as easy as possible, I presented Ben with my beautifully prepared and sensitive explanation over a supper of bangers, mash, and mushy peas, one of his favourite meals.
We can do this. We’re going to be fine.
I was pep-talking at pro level
“I’m so proud of you, darling.” My voice was shaky from pure nerves. “You work so hard, but I know you really struggle with reading sometimes.”
“So I’m dyslexic?” Ben was completely calm.
“Erm, right.” I just stared at him, totally taken aback. “How did you know about that?”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Mu-um!”
“So my telling you that it was just a special quiz didn’t fool you?”
“Pffft!” Ben laughed.
Kids, right? They’re so much smarter than we give them credit for. I found myself actually shaking with relief. “Do you know what dyslexia is, love?”
“It means your brain’s wired differently,” Ben responded instantly. “Siti’s dyslexic, and so’s Rupert. Marion isn’t, but her mum says she is because it means you get extra time in exams. She’s pushy, Marion’s mum.”
Okay, so my seven-year-old son was more aware of parenting politics than me. “I had no idea you got extra time,” I told him.
“They forgive you bad handwriting and spelling, too,” Ben grinned. “Marion is super lazy, so she’ll need all the help she can get.”
“Good lord. Really?”
“Yes, but it means I get special homework,” Ben said. “Extra,” he explained.
“I’m afraid that’s true. But I’ll help.”
And then, very cunningly, he grinned at me. “Do I get extra ice cream, too?”
I had to laugh. “Definitely, and on the days we go to tutoring, you get to pick a takeaway supper.”
Ben speared a sausage with his fork, saying casually, “You’re the best mummy, you know that, right?”
Kids are amazing, they really are. I had to blink rapidly, because I was watering again.
“Can we afford it all?” Ben was concerned.
“Yes. I got a good job, and today I was promoted.”
“Wow!” Ben was round-eyed with pleasure. “Good job, Mummy!”
“It means new shoes and a laptop to help you, love. And this weekend we'll go to Gullivers.”
Gullivers Dinosaur and Farm Park is about an hour from town, and a hot favourite with the kids. Ben went with school a year before and adored it, but I’d been unable to take him because of the distance. Now, promotion money meant we could have proper days out.
“Dinosaurs and goats and ice cream?” Ben’s excitement was patent.
“Yes, and we'll see if Will wants to come.”
“Awesome!”
Ben’s excitement was infectious, and it shored me up, but when I got to my new job, nothing could make up for my essential lack of skills.
“Damn, damn, damn.” Two weeks later I was groaning aloud. “I must have been barking when I agreed to this!”
My desk was littered with forms from the Ministry of Housing and Planning. I had a glossary and a copy of the relevant Acts, but the combination of legalese and technical terminology was defeating me.
Being the CEO’s PA was definitely not a typing job. I could deal with booking tables and the correspondence, and train tickets and cars were easy, but Curtis thought I was a banker’s wet dream, so I also had to produce market research and statistical reports.
Thanks to the library and classes on YouTube and Google, I was able to keep my head above water—just. I was burning the midnight oil every night. The Ministry was killing me, though, and there wasn’t a single online video or Idiot's Guide that would help me fake it.
Keep your cool and breathe, my inner self was saying sensibly. Gorgeous Caitie was not a rocket scientist, so there must be a way to get this done.
I looked at the forms again. I could slot in simple stuff like our company turnover and manpower, and I’d figured out that blobitecture was a design style and not a spelling error, but the rest of it was complete gobbledygook. To me, negative space sounded like something from Asimov, as did programmatic adjacencies.
So I sat there, cursing. I couldn’t ask Curtis for help. Fitzsimmons had liked his concept presentation of the pagoda so much that they’d told him to go on to the next stage. Now he was at home, working on his design. He’d called in every morning, but he’d not been in the office since the day he'd given me the new job.
His absence meant I could get to grips with my new responsibilities at my own pace, but I found that I missed him. Strange, right? But I guess all those cosy chats over the preceding month had become a habit. Or maybe it was the lean body, exuding that delicious leather and orange scent.
Oh, those heavenly, long, sinewy arms, hard around us! His lips will be soft and the kiss gentle yet passionate, his warmth flaming into passion...
“You're pathetic.” I gave myself a good talking-to. “He offered you the job because he was fed up with predatory blondes. So buck up and stop drooling. And while you're at it, get to grips with the work. He said he wanted a competent woman, not a nincompoop.”
At least the new money had already kicked in, as Sam had given me a small advance. Ben had his laptop, and the tutor had started, too. I'd be paying instalments for a year, but it was worth it because Ben was bouncing about, gaining confidence by the day.
Although the roof was still damp, I'd been unable to resist a gorgeous red swing dress. The quarter arm sleeves and tailored top made it perfectly corporate, but the A-line flared skirt hid my tummy and made the most of my curves. I felt light and beautiful just putting it on.
“Emma?” Ruby, the new admin girl and my replacement was standing in the doorway, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I’ve got a problem with the invoices.”
“No problem. Come and sit down.” I smiled, but my inner tension mounted. Ruby was a sweetheart, but an expletive-ridden conversation with Mac Douglas on her first day had given her a permanent fear of phoning sub cons to sort out queries.
It took just half an hour to get it all straight, but I was uncomfortably aware that my own work was piling up. Apart from the legal forms, I had Curtis’ quarterly expenses to do.
The accountant did all the heavy lifting, but it was my job to make a list of Curtis' expenses and to figure out what was deductible and what not. As he collected receipts for everything from Waitrose sandwiches to plane tickets, simply chucking them in a drawer, I was often lost.
“If you hadn’t fibbed about your work at Royal Bank, you would be able to ask for help with that, too,” I told myself firmly. “Now you’ll have to suck it up.”
Oh well, it meant more late night research. I'd hit the library and read up after Ben went to bed. It wasn’t a patch on doing my toes or watching Britain’s Got Talent, but I had only myself to blame.
Still, the Ministry paperwork wasn’t part of my so-called talents, so I could legitimately squeal for help. Curtis was immersed in his designs, but perhaps Arthur in Purchasing or Nikki in Design could help.
As I considered who to call, my phone rang. “Emma, I need some things from the office, but I’ve got a flat battery, and I’m stuck at home, waiting for the mechanic to bring me a new one.” Curtis sounded distracted and tense. “Can you come and see me?”
Yes! Yes! Yes!
“At your house?” I asked, completely taken aback. “I don’t have a car.”
“Uber it, and I’ll pay you back. Listen, I need that book on classic Indian architecture; it’s on the top shelf. And bring me the plans for the Berkshire project, the one I did two years ago. Oh, and can you stop off and buy me something to eat? And milk! I’ll pay you back.”
“What do you want?”
“Anything. Sausages and bacon or something frozen. It doesn’t matter.” Curtis sounded harassed. “But don’t forget that Indian book!”
Welcome to the world of the executive PA, right? Forget endless glamour and hanging out with rich folks at cocktail parties on super yachts. It’s more like being a typist, hotel concierge, and nanny rolled into one.
But the thing about the rich is that they do enjoy some of the lovelier things in life. An hour later, rolling up with fresh ingredients for a full English breakfast, frozen lasagne, a ready-to-eat bag of salad leaves, milk, and orange juice, I gazed in awe at Curtis’ home.
It was a converted Queen Anne carriage house, set at the end of a driveway overlooking the fields. He’d left the sweep of stone steps, the carved stone door-case, and the myriad of windows, all with their deep, stone flower boxes. It was glorious. A perfect period piece.
But the roof was covered in solar panels, the sash windows had been picked out in deep blue, and the flower boxes were filled with cornflowers and sweet William. It was antique yet fresh and beautiful.
Admit it, we want to live here!
As I took it all in with envy and delight, the door swung open, revealing a visibly frazzled Curtis. He shoved a handful of money at the Uber driver and promptly addressed me, “Did you remember the book?”
“Yes.” I pressed it into his hand and frowned.
Instead of the well-groomed man from the office, this Curtis was wearing rumpled jeans and a T-shirt that was inside out. He had a quarter inch of stubble, his cheeks were hollow, and he looked as if he hadn’t slept in days.
Better than a rock star. My inner self was lusting, but I was worried.
Curtis was leafing through the pages nervously. “Great! And the Berkshire project?”
“It’s in my bag,” I soothed him. “Curtis, are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.” The hazel eyes were alert, looking straight into mine, but he smelled a bit stale, and I could see his hands were shaking a little. He looked too thin, as well. “I’ve just been a bit busy.”
“Too busy to shop, shave, and sleep?”
Curtis looked guilty. “Sorry. I know it’s not part of your job to come all the way out here, but I must have left my lights on or something because the battery—”
I cut him off. “I don’t mind that. But Curtis, you look dreadful.” Without thinking about it, I propelled him in front of me, into the house. “When did you last eat?”
“Oh, this morning,” he said confidently.
But entering the kitchen, I spotted a plate with crusted egg yolk remains that were definitely not fresh.
“Maybe it was yesterday,” Curtis frowned.
“And maybe it was the day before?” I took in the hollow cheeks. “Or the day before that?”
“Oh no! Of course not!”
“Go upstairs and shower. I’ll have breakfast ready in twenty minutes.”
“Okay, I’ll just have a look at this book,” Curtis mumbled. “I’ve got an issue with the asymmetrical garden, and if I remember right, it has a suggested fix. It won’t take a minute.”
My mum instincts kicked in automatically. “You can read it after you’ve had your shower.”
Startled, Curtis looked up at me. For a moment, I thought he’d yell, but then he grinned. “Yes, Mum.” Before I could speak, he was frowning. “You know, I think it might have been the day before yesterday. The egg, I mean.”
I dug into the shopping and handed him the bottle of drinking yoghurt intended for my own lunch. “It’s unsweetened and low-cal, but it will hold you.” I pushed him gently out of the kitchen. “Go on. I’ll get the kettle on.”
Curtis turned and grinned. Even wrecked, it was a smile that made my toes curl. “Emma, you’re a star.”
“I know.” Because acting cool would hopefully stop the red-hot flush that was racing up my neck.
We can take him upstairs. You know, just to make sure he gets there.
Beetroot. I was certain my flush was now brighter than traffic lights.
Curtis wasn’t moving. He was checking me out. “You look beautiful,” he said. “I love the dress!”
“Thank you.” Yes, no doubt about it. My skin was flaming nicely. His laser eyes were at work again, but unlike the first time they were full of appreciation. Although he was just looking, I could feel his hands on my body.
He’ll mould our waist, his hands moving up gently and with sweet intent...
I shook my head and chased away the lascivious thoughts flooding through me. It kind of worked, except I had the awful feeling that the blush was permanent, and so were the squelching panties. Unwashed and somewhat slightly dazed, Curtis had that flavour of wild lion that just cried out to be taken to bed and ravished.
“I never thought to see you in a dress,” Curtis said impulsively. Then he shut up and looked appalled.
“Why not?” I asked surprised.
He twitched a bit and then shrugged. “Oh,” he said vaguely, “I just thought it wasn’t your style.” And then he fled before I could ask any questions.
I stood looking at his back disappearing rapidly upstairs, now totally convinced of his disinterest. Even a casual compliment had sent him running for cover.
“You twit!” I scolded myself. “He wants a competent PA, not a watering pot or man-eater. He’s said so again and again, yet one comment about a new dress and your mind’s in the gutter!”
My inner Gollum came straight back, whining, but he’s gorgeous and we wants him!
I crushed her, “Repeat after me: he’s just so not into you.”
Determined to behave myself, I set about doing my job. Pretty soon I was enjoying myself. I adore my own cosy Victorian kitchen, but this one was straight out of House and Garden magazine. Beautifully appointed with double sinks, Creuset pots, and an eight-burner AGA-style range, everything was fairy-tale luxurious and expensive.
I felt like Nigella as I rummaged through all the sexy kitchen gear. However, as most of it looked brand new, it was clear that Curtis wasn’t a cook. On the premise that I might need something, like condiments maybe, I snooped.
The fridge was totally empty, and the freezer was stocked with just a bottle of vodka and a tray of ice-cubes. A sneaky look inside the microwave revealed smears. Curtis nuked his meals. It was surprisingly depressing. Somehow I'd imagined him having dinner parties with loads of friends.
“Maybe he loathes dinners,” I told myself. “Not everyone is social. His idea of a blast may be a binging on Netflix and a packet of crisps.”
We could sit on the sofa, curled up against those firm abs, feeling the heat of his body as he runs a hand through our hair...
“Oh shut up!” I scolded my devil.
Getting back to business, I broke out a large, thick-bottomed frying pan, and set about making sausages, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, and tomatoes. Curtis appeared just as I was putting the toast under the grill. He was wearing jeans—clean, ironed ones this time—and a yellow shirt that deepened his tan.
Oh, dear heaven. Better than chocolate.
We wants him! We needs him!
I was as one with my inner me, totally in super slutty mode, undressing him quietly in the inner recesses of my mind.
Unaware of my silent lechery, Curtis was happy. “Bacon and eggs? This is how heaven smells. I’m absolutely starving.”
I was, too, having had just sensible cereal for breakfast, but I kept to a slice of toast.
“Aren’t you eating?” Curtis was wolfing down mushrooms dipped in egg. “This is the best thing I’ve had in ages.”
“Probably the only thing you’ve had this week,” I pointed out astringently. “For goodness’ sake, Curtis! Your fridge is completely empty.”
“I get that way when I work,” he shrugged. “And I did mean to go shopping, but the car battery went flat.” He looked up and out of the window, “Speaking of which, here’s the mechanic.”
As he ran out, I washed up and then looked about the downstairs, shamelessly snooping by sneaking looks into the rooms that led out of the hall.
The interior had been opened up, merging the original small rooms into dreamy, open spaces. He’d kept all the fireplaces, high ceilings, and wood panelling. But turquoise walls and white rugs in the living room, and Danish modern furniture with yellow paint in the dining room added a subtle and luxurious twist.
It was beautiful, and I loved it.
Oh, to live here, with him! My evil self sighed.
But the sensible me was thinking that all this glamour just underlined how totally out of his league I was.
As I went back to the wide-open front door, I decided the view was gorgeous, too. I had an eyeful of Curtis poring over the opened bonnet of a Mercedes SUV. He really had a backside for jeans.
Firm and tight. Yum.
Maybe I growled a little, because he straightened up as if he'd heard something. He was smiling, a little streak of motor oil shining on one of the slanting cheekbones. It was pure pin-up.
“Look around,” Curtis called. “I’ll be done in a minute.”
Given license to snoop, I had a good gander at the living room and then went out onto the patio.
The house had a view of the valley, all the fields dotted with lush grass and sheep. The patio was sunny and protected from English gusts and gales by strategically placed shrubs. It was dominated by a large pine table, littered with papers, and an untouched, abandoned cup of black tea.
Clearly this is where Curtis got his inspiration. From the view, I could see why. The garden was peaceful and pretty. In the hedgerows, birds were singing and whining.
That's when I realised birds don’t whine.
“What on earth is that noise?” Curtis was cruising around the corner, the Indian book in his hands. “It sounds like a child.”
“Maybe it’s a badger?” I was born in town, so the very little I know about nature calls comes from Animal Planet. I can identify lions and wildebeest, but our own wildlife is a mystery.
“Badgers growl and squeak. This is a whine.” Curtis made straight for the hedgerow and then very carefully parted the bushes. “Well, now,” he said softly. “Who are you?”
It was a puppy. Black, barrel-bodied, with long, awkward legs, big paws, and a long, blunt nose. Definitely part Labrador by the looks of him with maybe a dollop of Alsatian.
My heart melted instantly. “Oh, how sweet!”
Curtis was holding him up, checking him over. “Careful,” he warned.
That's when I noticed he was holding up a back paw. “He’s hurt? But how?”
“Dumped out of moving car or chucked over a fence,” Curtis said flatly. “Someone from town, probably.” He was stroking the soft ears, gentling him, but he looked grim.
“Oh God, dumped? How cruel!”
Curtis examined the pup’s feet. “He’s too fat, not enough exercise, and his paw pads are soft, so he’s been an inside boy. He was probably dumped because he’s getting too big.”
Bastards! Inner me was swearing foully. Argh!
“Sometimes people really suck.” I was furious, shaking with rage. “There’s a special hell for people who dump pets. I’m convinced of it.”
“I agree,” Curtis said grimly. “The least they could have done was hand him in to a shelter.”
My heart sank. Shelters do great work, but everyone knows they’re full to the brim. Nobody wants to talk about it, but every year thousands of perfectly healthy pets are put to sleep.
Ben would love a dog, but with the roof and the tutoring, we couldn't afford vet bills, too.
“You’re an ugly fellow,” Curtis was saying to the puppy, “but you’re in luck. I need a guard dog. Seeing you’re the only applicant, you’re hired.”
“You’re taking him?” My heart was doing somersaults with relief.
“The shelters are overloaded, and I like dogs.”
He’s perfect, inner me was swooning.
Curtis ran a hand down the long black furry back, reducing the puppy to ecstasy, and he looked apologetically at me. “I want to go over the correspondence with you. Could you bear to wait while I take him to the vet?”
“I’ll hold him while you drive.”
The vet was brisk. “The paw's not broken, but it needs support.”
“Do what's needed,” Curtis said with obvious relief. “Emma, may I impose again? Will you buy him some food? There's a grocer across the street.”
“I'm all over it.”
Curtis simply handed me his wallet. “Whatever you think he'll like.” He stroked the black ears, smiling at the pup. “I think he looks like a Hector, don't you?”
Rub my ears like that! Oh lord, he’s GORGEOUS!
But I smiled and said lightly, “Definitely hero material.”
The rest of the day flew by in a happy blur. We drove back from the vet in perfect harmony and sat in the garden, Hector blissfully asleep on a plaid rug, work papers piled in front of us. Even confessing that the paperwork was beyond me was easy.
“Of course you don't know about the Ministry forms,” Curtis said simply. “That's my job, not yours. It landed on your desk by mistake.” He scanned the bits I had managed to fill in, eyebrows raised. “I'm amazed you got as far as this! It took me a month and a special training seminar to get to grips with it.”
You'd be less pleased if you saw the hash I’m making of your expenses and deductions, was my thought. But at least I had time now to finish those.
“I want your feedback,” Curtis said as he unrolled his drawings. “Don't hold back or sugar-coat anything.”
It was clear that Curtis had been inspired. The pagoda soared into the sky, slender and exotic. The roof floated over the top, the dragons writhing along the edges like friendly dogs, inviting prosperity and good luck in accordance with Feng Shui, in fine Chinese tradition, while unicorns and lions, just like the ones on our own royal palaces, frisked next to them.
“It's glorious,” I breathed. “Magical! I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Really?” Curtis was smiling. “You like it?”
“No. I don't like it; I love it!”
“Oh, thank God!” he burst out.
That set me back on my heels. “Why wouldn't I love it? Your work is famous. Everyone loves it.”
“I wish,” Curtis smiled. “But believe me: not every project is a winner.”
He sounded businesslike, but I heard a note of unhappiness underneath. I suddenly realised that I’d been blinded by the plush executive office, the smashing house, and all the bling that went with success. Now I become conscious of the fact that he must have had his share of failures, too. And from the sound of it, Curtis wasn't half as tough as he seemed.
“I never thought about it,” I said slowly, “but architecture is just like novel writing, isn't it? Your work is creative; it's intensely personal.”
By the way Curtis was twitching uncomfortably, I reckoned I'd hit home. Rejection hurt him as badly as it crushed authors.
Awww, he’s vulnerable, my devil had a soft side.
“Look,” I couldn't help but reassure him. “Tastes and needs differ, Curtis. Whether Fitzsimmons or whoever you're pitching to agrees to go ahead or not is a business decision. It's not a reflection on your work. Everything you create is inspired. You have a unique talent.”
Curtis grinned at me. “Thanks. You could have a career as a self-esteem coach, you know.”
His scent, oranges and spice, drifted around me in a delicious haze. He was so close that I could feel the heat from his body. The fact that he'd opened up to me, revealing his secret fears, warmed my heart, but the rest of him was going straight downstairs. There was a jungle drum working between my legs, and I'd trouble catching my breath.
“You okay?” Curtis had noticed.
“Yes.” Oh hell. I was flushing again. “Just a bit hot.”
For you.
“It's a nice day,” I spoke loudly, drowning the lustful voice.
“Any day when it's not wet and minus zero is nice.” Despite the joking manner, Curtis seemed relieved. The tawny eyes, no longer anxious, were warm and friendly. “I was thinking,” he said diffidently, “would you like to stay for supper?”
“Yes!” Then remembering Ben, who'd soon be out of school, “I mean no!”
Curtis burst out laughing. “Okay, forget what I said about the coaching! My self-esteem is officially crushed.”
At that I blushed a deep pink, suddenly totally tongue-tied.
“It's a weekday and you've things to do,” Curtis answered for me. “I understand. We can do it another day.”
Yes! Yes! Yes! My devil was dancing.
“It's just not possible,” I burst out. I couldn’t stay out for hours after work. Ben needed me.
“Sure. I get it.” But now he sounded a bit taken aback.
Oh help, I thought. How can I explain? He thinks I’m a totally dedicated career woman. No ties, no family, just completely focused on work. A competent woman. If I'd been honest from the start, I could tell him about Ben. Should I tell him? Or will he hate me for not telling him weeks ago? And what if he asks questions, and I have to tell him I scrubbed floors at the Royal Bank? He'll hate me. Or fire me. Or both! Ohmigod, I don't even know what's worse.
Curtis stood up. “I'll drive you back.”
“I can Uber it.” I was miserable and feeling awfully guilty.
“Nonsense. It's the least I can do after dragging you all the way out here.”
Curtis sounded cheerful again. Maybe he was relieved I'd refused supper. After all, he was gorgeous, kind, thoughtful, talented, successful, and rich. There must be a million girls much thinner, prettier, and cleverer than me queuing up to meet him.
“Let me go get my keys,” Curtis said coolly.
Seeing us get to our feet, Hector struggled up from his rug, yawning and stretching. Then he pawed at Curtis and whined.
Curtis looked at the small, suddenly nervous dog and smiled. “Nobody's leaving you behind,” he said gently. “You can sit in the back seat.”
Oh heavens I want him, I thought desperately. Why can't I find the words?
He had a chunky Mercedes-Benz G-Wagon that proved to be deliciously roomy and luxurious inside. I sat back in the giant leather seat, gazing silently at the walnut-trimmed music system as Curtis drove me back to town.
The friendly, happy chat had evaporated. We sat in silence, pretending to listen to the radio, but I knew we were both increasingly stiff with embarrassment.
We fucked up! How did this happen?
As we wound our way along the pretty, winding country lane and into town, I became more and more miserable. I was longing for Curtis Weston like a lovesick schoolgirl, and when there had been an opportunity, I'd totally messed it up. The entire situation was my fault. As we drove through the streets, it began to rain. It seemed symbolic.
When we pulled up outside the cottage, words still failed me.
“I hope I didn't offend you?” Curtis sounded strained.
I looked into the hazel eyes, dark with worry. “Not at all.” Then, impulsively, I kissed him lightly on the side of the mouth.
To my surprise, Curtis put his arms around me and kissed me back. His lips were soft and gentle, moving slowly over mine, taking their sweet time. I just sank into it, feeling the warmth of the touch sweep over me. The breath was catching in my throat, and my heart was thumping against my ribs in burgeoning excitement.
His scent, rich and deeply masculine, floated over me. The abs were warm and hard, crushing me against him. While his lips explored, his hands were moving over my back and then tracing my curves.
My knees were liquid, and the jungle drum was doing its work again. Tingles of excitement were shooting through me, setting my body aflame. This is what I’d been waiting for. This was perfection.
We were shocked apart by a damp nose and a wet lick. Hector had decided to join in.
My body was rippling, totally focused on want. “That was different,” I said breathlessly.
Curtis wiped puppy drool off his ear and grinned. “Definitely,” he agreed.
God knows what would've happened next. I might have dragged him into the cottage, cavewoman style, and demanded he finish what he'd started, but just then my phone beeped. I knew without looking it was Layla. Ben was waiting for me. Guilt swept over me. “Got to go,” I said hastily.
And before Curtis could speak, I'd bolted.