CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
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EMMA
I had to call someone. I needed someone to help me organise the messy road map of emotions that I was experiencing. Amanda. She would help me clear my head. Sometimes her honesty was painful, but it was what I needed.
I hadn’t unpacked, and I fished my mobile phone from the bottom of the bag, knowing that the bill would be extortionate. I pressed redial and waited patiently.
Amanda answered at the second ring with her usual upbeat personality.
“How’s tricks?”
“Good, just got to James’s flat.”
“Ooohh, how is it? Have you seen him yet?”
“Yeah, he picked me up from the airport. I haven’t done any investigating yet.”
“Why not?”
That would’ve been Amanda’s main priority when going to a new place. Hotel rooms, other people’s houses, no matter where, she had to be shown around before she could settle and relax. I took my time to answer, thinking of the moment before he’d left—the way his arms had felt around my waist, his smell, and the way his eyes looked. I could feel my breath hitching and my heart speeding. Amanda must have sensed my turmoil through my silence.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice full of concern.
“We had a moment.”
She shrieked. “Go on,” she cried.
“Nothing really happened, but….” I filled her in with every single detail, from the arrival at the airport to the awkward departure just a few minutes ago.
She took a deep breath and said, matter-of-factly, “Emma, you have to stop this or you’ll get hurt.”
“I know, I can’t help it. Every time he looks at me, my knees go weak, but he’s my friend,” I said, with my hand on my forehead, holding my eyes shut as if that would help me solve my thoughts quicker.
“You haven’t heard your voice when you speak about him, and I’ve seen the way your eyes look. That horrid lovey-dovey expression.” Amanda took a deep breath and continued, “So you have two options. You either tell him how you feel, with the chance of getting knocked down, or you can hold it in and find someone else.”
“He’s with Jane. Have you seen her? She’s bloody gorgeous. Plus, I just can’t tell him how I feel. It would ruin our friendship.”
“It might, but it could also make you feel better to get it off your chest. Now, you better go and see how his mansion looks, and take pictures so you can show me after.”
“Okay, speak to you later,” I said, and slumped back on the bed.
She was right, I knew that. I would decide which option once I was done with this holiday.
Closing my eyes to think made me realise how tired I still was.
When I woke up, it was dark outside and the night lights of the city twinkled around the room. My mouth was parched and I was in desperate need of water. I tiptoed out of my dark room and headed for the kitchen.
The living room was open plan, with never-ending wooden flooring and islands of expensive designer furniture scattered around, but what took my breath away was the view. Even from where I stood, the city winked at me from the wall of windows.
The kitchen was separated from the living room by a grey marble counter. I opened the giant fridge, in desperate need of water, and the warm glow of the indoor light showed me every single flavour of fruit juice possible, packaged in huge cartons. I decided to keep it safe and chose the simple apple one. I opened the cartoon and heard Amanda’s moaning voice in my head, reminding me to use a glass.
As soon as the golden liquid quenched my thirst, I tidied up after myself and headed towards the window. There was a sliding door out to the terrace. On our trip up in the lift, James never mentioned that he lived on the rooftop.
It was dark outside, but the tall buildings around me still had lights on and I could see small figures moving inside the offices.
I was mesmerised by the place, the noise of the street, the lights… it made me itch to get the camera and snap a few pictures.
Someone gently wrapped me with a jacket. I turned and saw a smiling James.
“I didn’t want you to get cold.”
It was a denim jacket that smelled of him and was still warm.
“Hey.” It was all I could muster, still speechless by the surroundings.
James broke the silence with, “How was your day? Did you do the exploring you planned?”
“No, I fell asleep. That bed is to die for,” I said, wrapping myself tighter.
“Come on, let’s get inside. I can see you’re cold.”
“Good idea. A nice cup of warm tea will do the trick, but first, where’s your toilet?”
“The toilet is down the corridor, second door to the left. And I’m afraid I don’t have a kettle.” He chuckled, knowing the reaction that statement would have.
I held up my finger and said, “Hold that thought,” as I ran towards the bathroom.
The warmth from the indoors hit me and the need to pee was greater than I realised.
I couldn’t remember which door he said, and opened the first one to the left, which contained what looked like exercise machines. I danced, crossing my legs, and opened the next door, waiting to see what the next surprise would be, mumbling profanities and not believing that the man had a gym, but no kettle.
“Score!” I whispered when I saw a gleaming toilet shining like a beacon.
I wrestled with my zip and did my business without any accidents. I washed my hands and didn’t dare look in the mirror. There weren’t any towels in sight, so I looked in the drawers and cupboards. Every single one of them was filled to brim with beauty products such as aftershaves, shower gels, and every other thing you could imagine. The bloke had more stuff than Boots the chemist. I found a small hand towel hanging behind the door and dried my hands before going back outside.
James stood in the same spot I’d left him, holding a jacket in one hand and his house keys in the other. He wasn’t doing anything special, but it was incredible how edible he looked. Inappropriate thoughts invaded my head again and, in a vicious circle, my cheeks burned.
“Are you ready to go? I have a surprise for you,” he said.
“Not until you tell me why on earth you have a running machine and not a kettle?”
“That’s easy. I’m not here very often. I have another place in LA, between here and there… haven’t thought about it. Let’s go, before we’re late.”
Once in the car, I asked him, “And do you have a kettle in LA?”
“Nope,” he answered, smiling at my reaction, but before I could continue with my rant, he said, “I don’t drink tea.”
That answer stumped me into silence. I could argue all the positives on having a kettle, but I knew, deep down, that he would come back with some sarcastic retort.
I noticed that the driver wasn’t Ralph. This man was taller, lankier. He wasn’t dressed like Ralph either, with his casual jeans and cheesy woolly jumpers. This man was dressed in a crisp white shirt and a black suit—exactly like you would expect a bodyguard to dress.
“Who’s he?” I whispered.
“Anthony, I’d like to introduce you to Emma Mitchell. She’ll be staying with us for a while,” James introduced us, and Anthony nodded in the rear-view mirror without uttering a word.
“Where’s Ralph?” I asked.
“He’s on holiday, away to see his daughters.”