The Secret Art of Forgiveness (30 page)

He ran his thumb over her lip and his eyes misted with heat. ‘But I think it might be worth the risk. I think you're worth the risk, Emily.'

Then, without waiting for her response – because, well, basically he was a mind reader and he knew exactly what she needed and wanted – he dipped his mouth and caught her bottom lip in his teeth.

There was a moment where she knew this could only complicate everything, but as his lips touched hers her body exploded with such a fierce need to kiss him that nothing could stop the moan escaping her throat, or her mouth opening to him as if this was what she'd been waiting for her whole life.

How long they stood there kissing she had no idea. Time meant nothing; only these new tastes, new sensations running through her, made any sense. He tasted of fresh air and bliss and all she knew was that she couldn't get enough of his mouth on hers, of his hands on her waist, on her shoulders, in her hair. He shifted his weight and for a moment she feared he might stop, so she grabbed his jacket and pressed herself against him.

But all too soon he was pulling away, his forehead touching hers as he said, ‘Right then, how was that?'

‘Good. Very good.'

‘Feeling any better?'

She leaned into him, steadying herself against his solid frame and giggled. ‘Lots. But I may just have to do it again very soon. That pressure, you know –'

‘Keeps on building.' Finishing her sentence, he kissed the top of her head so sweetly, and when he said ‘I'll walk you to the door and this time I really mean it', it felt like the most natural thing to do.

Trouble was, once they'd reached the front door, it didn't feel right for him to leave; but it didn't quite feel as if it was the right thing to ask him in either. She wasn't ready for that next step. God, she wanted to; so much. Her body ached for him, but she needed to work out what that would mean. Whether she really was the kind of woman who went from one man's arms to another's, and whether that mattered. Whether she should act on this strange tug towards him or try to put him out of her head.

The latter, it seemed, wasn't even a viable option. Under the little front door light, Jacob held her hand and kissed her cheek. She nuzzled against him, feeling like a teenager in woman's clothing. Although she had no right to be doing anything at all. She was already thinking about how much this would hurt Brett and how it was only complicating things. The thought had her pulling away. ‘Look, Jacob, I'm sorry. I shouldn't be doing this.'

He breathed out a rush of air. ‘Brett?'

‘Yes. I'm sorry. I mean, we're not together, but I am trying to sort out my head and this isn't helping.'

Jacob nodded with a resigned look on his face. ‘No. You're right. What chance has that poor guy got when he's up against such a sweet talker as me?' He laughed but his smile turned sad as he gave her hand a quick squeeze. ‘I should go. Goodnight, Emily Jane.'

She didn't want it to end like this. ‘Wait. Could we be friends, do you think?'

He turned back, frowning. ‘I thought we already were.'

‘Yes. Yes, we are.' In the aftermath of the kiss her body felt wired – adrenalin, she supposed. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to just
be
, with him. ‘Look, there's no way I'm going to sleep any time soon. Don't suppose you fancy a walk?'

He shrugged and his eyes narrowed playfully. ‘You're not going to try to kiss me again, are you?'

‘No. You're safe. Just a walk. A chat. But first…' Grabbing his arm she led him through the kitchen door and lifted a bottle of chardonnay from the fridge and a packet of chocolate biscuits from a shelf. ‘Supplies,' she laughed.

‘Good call. Perfect combo.' He picked up two glasses and some cushions and walked with her down to the lake. She couldn't account for the heat and joy inside her, the giddy sensation in her gut, the way her mouth spontaneously stretched in a smile. She'd turned a bloody gorgeous, perfectly perfect man down and she felt…
alive.

Also, very guilty, but so damned alive.

Jacob scattered the cushions on the slightly damp grass and she held out her glass as he poured the wine.

‘To you, Emily. Amazing woman and kisser
extraordinaire
– just putting it out there. And… friend.' He chinked his glass against hers and pouted at her glare. ‘Okay, we won't mention the kiss again.'

‘You just did.'

‘I did what?' His eyebrows wiggled.

She laughed. She'd done the right thing, but that didn't mean she didn't regret saying no. ‘You mentioned the kiss.'

‘What kiss?'

‘Idiot.' Picking up one of the cushions she hit him, gently. ‘So, you and Liam were in cahoots tonight, deep in conversation about anything or anyone in particular?'

‘Sally, you mean?' He shook a biscuit out of the packet and handed it to her, then took one for himself. ‘She may have come up in conversation.'

‘Oh? Do tell…'

He grinned. ‘Liam wants to buy Tom one of those old-fashioned, cut-throat razor kits for his birthday and he wondered if I knew where to get one. I suggested asking Sally, given she's a hairdresser.'

‘Oh.' A little deflated, she kept pushing. ‘Nothing else?'

‘I would never dream of saying. He's a good bloke, but very shy. I think he gets stage fright every time he sees her, but I did overhear him asking about the razor and she did offer to show him a catalogue she had in her house… Genius, I thought. I reckon it was a good night, for those two anyway. Plus, we've got ourselves a line-up for the festival now.'

Thinking about the quality of the acts they'd seen tonight, she wasn't sure they'd hit the jackpot as yet. ‘Unless you can get us a headline act between now and then.'

He threw a pebble into the lake and watched as it skimmed across the top of the water. Two ducks took to the air, squawking, spooked by the disturbance. After a few moments everything settled back to a warm, still calm. Jacob broke the silence. ‘Actually, I read that Johnny East's just come out of rehab. He's probably looking for a gig, something to spruce up his image.'

Emily shuffled upright and nabbed another biscuit. ‘What? Jiving Johnny? I remember my mum listening to his stuff when I was a kid. Quite catchy.'

‘He was huge back in the day. Wait. Watch it… You've got…' He tugged some grass from her hair and for a second he leaned in and she thought he might kiss her again. True to his word, he didn't. ‘I'll get in contact with him. He might want the positive exposure, and he has a good few thousand Twitter followers, so who knows?'

‘That'll bring in the wrinklies
and
the kids. Excellent. Oh, you are good.'

‘I am. But that, unfortunately, is something you will never get to find out.' His eyes twinkled and this time he just shrugged at her glare. Once he let down his guard he was breathtaking, funny and even more damned sexy. What had she done by pushing him away? ‘If he says yes I'll rewrite the press release and send it to you for proofing.'

‘Excellent. And then we can begin our awareness campaign. Better late than never. God, I hope it works. There's a lot resting on this festival being a success.'

Jacob's voice softened. ‘You're scooting back to New York anyway, so why worry?'

New York. It seemed a lifetime ago. She supposed it was. Somehow, in a very short space of time, Little Duxbury and the people in it had got under her skin. She needed to make the most of her next couple of weeks.

She didn't want to think about leaving.

After she'd taken another sip of wine she shifted and settled against him – her back against his chest, feeling the soft, reassuring bump-bump of his heartbeat on her spine. She'd thought it might be weird between them but it wasn't, not at all. They both knew they'd stepped over a line with a shared secret, a stolen kiss and a new understanding that had, strangely, brought them even closer.

‘And now I want to know more about you, Mister Mysterious Journalist. I'm sorry you were put on the spot the other night. You know, when Dr Shepherd asked you to do a talk.'

His heart thumped a little faster. ‘It's fine. I was just taken aback, that's all. People don't generally want to hear my life story… it's really not that interesting.'

‘I bet it is. Afghanistan sounds terrifying.'

There was a silence and she could feel his breathing speed up. His voice was sad when he answered, ‘It was.'

She sensed something momentous had happened and she hardly dared ask him what. But she did anyway. ‘Something happened there?'

His arms tensed – reflexive, she thought. ‘My photographer got killed. In front of me. Land mine. Stupid bugger stood on it.' There was a hollow laugh, the ghost of a shared joke from times past. A haunting memory. ‘Pretty bloody shit. Actually.'

Emily stroked the arm that had tightened around her waist, wishing she hadn't asked something so personal, but very glad she had. ‘That must have been terrible. I can't imagine how you could ever get over that.'

He shrugged. ‘You don't. You carry it with you. There's a lot of fallout.'

‘I wish I'd known you then.'

He shook his head. Took a long drink. ‘I'm glad you didn't. I wasn't nice to be around.'

She rested her head against his chest and interlocked her fingers in his, hoping to give some kind of comfort, unable to imagine what hell it had been. ‘You really, really don't have to talk about this at the festival.'

‘I said I would and I won't back out. You must know that.'

‘But it'll be so painful.'

A pause. His voice almost a whisper, ‘Yes. Yes, it will.'

She waited, not knowing what to say, then pressed a kiss to his temple and didn't care whether he thought it was forward or confusing – she just felt it was the right thing to do. She would have kissed Sal, or Tom, or Greta just the same way. Really. His shoulders relaxed a little.

But there was a lot more silence and she fought the temptation to thoroughly kiss away the hurt she saw in his eyes. She didn't have to hear his words to know that the fallout probably included his marriage. Possibly involved the move to Little Duxbury. That the healing was still a work in progress. Who the hell was she to mess that up with a going-nowhere holiday romance?

Especially when she had enough healing of her own to do.

Chapter Fifteen

The next week flew by in a crazy, chaotic cloud of annexe-painting, Judge-sitting, planning, working and festival organisation. Those few lazy hours with Jacob were a distant memory as she juggled and dropped and snatched up a zillion balls every day. And every day she felt further and further away from where she needed to be for her job and the committee.

There'd been no time to analyse her feelings about what had been going on down at the lake. Although that kiss did come back to her night after night as she lay awake into the small hours, and the need for him hadn't gone away.

She also couldn't get rid of the image of him in a dirt ball with hell all around and a friend and trusted colleague dead. How much that must have hurt; she'd seen the pain in his eyes.

But she had other important things to do so she did what she always did and compartmentalised. Put aside the longing and ache and the desire to learn so much more and, instead, focused on the problem right in front of her.

One thing at a time.

Even though everything else was pushing, pushing, pushing for attention.

‘We have just over one week to go. How are ticket sales going? Great, I hope. Would anyone like to go first?'

Silence.

What?
Emily looked at each of the committee members in turn and her heart started to thump. ‘Sally? Greta? Dr Shepherd? You've sold some, haven't you?'

Greta edged to the front of her seat and grinned. ‘I've sold thirty-four. You just have to be pushy.'

Thirty-four bloody tickets when the costs were running to thousands. Her stomach sinking fast, Emily looked at her spreadsheet and dredged up some enthusiasm. Thirty-four? Time to rally them, make them believe in this, push them harder and further. ‘Okay. Well, that's a start. Something is better than nothing. But we can do better. I gave two thousand to the schools to sell. Feedback has been great so far – but apparently some people always wait until the last minute. We need to get the word out that tickets are selling fast. Get in early before they all go, that kind of thing.'

But her confidence was starting to flounder.

Her phone buzzed. Harry, from Haute Couture Hounds.

No.

Not now. She was trying to salvage a disaster this side of the Atlantic Ocean. They were five hours behind; they could wait until everyone had gone. ‘How about ticket sales in the pub? Liam?'

He rubbed his chin. ‘Five, I think. But I'm going to have a big push this weekend. That's when we're busiest.'

Tam huffed and shook her head, flapping her hands. ‘Five. Five? It's going to be a complete failure.'

‘No, it isn't. It can't be. We've all worked too hard for it to fail.' Emily knew she was trying to convince herself just as much as the others. But, basically, Tam was right; it was going to be a disaster. Emily had taken on too much and her focus was split into too many pieces.

But it couldn't fail. It just couldn't. Because all the energy she'd put into it would be for nothing. All the angst, the trouble with Gez and Greg, the distancing from Brett, upsetting Tamara… All of it would be for nothing if this festival didn't come off.

‘I have another press release going out tomorrow.' Jacob took the reins and she could have kissed him.
No, she couldn't. She couldn't.
He smiled reassuringly. ‘I'm hitting up all the local radio stations and news outlets. I have a social media campaign on the go – it's going to be very intense over the next few days. We just need more exposure.'