Chapter Thirty-Three

Wrapped in a thick and cosy ruby red cashmere blanket her mother had sent, Libby curled up on the new wicker sofa in the garden, trying to read The Crucible by the light from the kitchen, but her only real mission was to survive until bedtime. Her headache had gone, but her slightly queasy stomach remained despite a bowl of Zoe's all-curing chicken noodle soup. Eight o'clock, surely she could go to bed at nine.

'You have a message,' Zoe said, coming out, blatantly reading the text. 'It's off your boyfriend.'

'I haven't got a boyfriend.'

'Okay, your friend who's a boy, you know the one you don't get to shag, it's off him. Need a drink. You busy.'

Libby snatched the phone. Crikey, it really was off Patrick. What was wrong? What on earth had happened the day before? All day, she'd not been able to dismiss a silly thought that he'd carried her home. But it was wishful thinking. Xander had carried her home. She vaguely remembered that.

Just in garden. Come round?

How many minutes did she have? Two, ten, twenty? She sprinted into the house already stripping off her tatty old exercise clothes, her comfort clothes. What to wear? With no idea how long she had, she couldn't waste time choosing. Jeans, a snug black jumper, a squirt of perfume and two layers of mascara on top of the three she'd applied that morning. Sadly, the oversized beanie she'd been wearing all day had made her fringe stick out at seventeen different angles. She clipped it back and pulled the hat back on. She'd have to do.

With only seconds to spare, she sat back down on the bench and picked up her book.

'Why are you sitting out here? It's freezing.' Patrick stood leaning on the gate, a bottle in his hand. 'You do realise that book's upside down.'

Arse. 'Come in. I have a new, super warm blanket.'

'This...' he said, holding up the bottle, 'is totally against the rules, but I've had a very, very bad day.'

The bottle wasn't wine. It looked like whisky. 'Are you okay?'

'I'm prepared to drink straight from the bottle, but since it's a thirty-one year-old Laphroaig, we ought to give it the dignity of a glass.'

We? Libby couldn't bear the thought of a glass of wine. Neat whisky might actually make her sick. She didn't even like whisky. As Patrick wandered across the lawn, she ducked inside for two tumblers, hoping to avoid drinking any of the rancid stuff.

'Hope you don't mind, but I don't drink at home and with a thousand pounds bounty on my head-'

'Our heads. I understood you're only worth five hundred by yourself.'

He gave a hollow laugh as he added an inch of amber liquid to each of the glasses. 'I'm fairly sure you're hung-over to hell and really don't want this, but as a hair of the dog, it kicks arse.'

'I'll give it a go, but I'm not promising anything.'

He remained leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees. 'Do you ever just watch TV?'

'Never have. Too busy dancing or thinking about dancing or talking about dancing. I'd rather read a book out here.' She curled up. 'What's up?'

'Once, you asked if I liked being a vet. Well today, I don't.' He rubbed his forehead.

'Did something die?'

'Baxter, my dog.'

Oh, the friendly collie.

'I was sixteen when I got him as a puppy. He was my dog, but he ended up living with Mum and Dad when I moved back here. I was too busy having fun to look after him.'

Libby put a hand on his back, comforting him. For a second, he glanced back at her, his eyes sparkling with tears.

'I put him down this afternoon, Libs.' He took a deep, shaky breath. 'He was old and in pain. Dad was in Kendal and Fergus was on call, so I said I'd do it. There's no way Mum could. I said it wasn't a problem that I could do it. I could and I did, but I shouldn't have because it was a problem. I feel like I've murdered my own dog.'

Without stopping to think, she pulled him back to her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. His head rested against hers, his eyes firmly closed. Silence filled the air, but he didn't pull away. For minutes, he let her hug him and she mindlessly twirled one of his perfect curls around her finger. God, he had lovely hair.

'Have you tried the whisky yet?' he asked, not seemingly worried by her obsessive twirling.

'Is it compulsory?'

He nodded. 'It'll warm you up. It really is freezing out here.'

She laughed, throwing the blanket over their legs. It was like being in bed together - a massive step forward. 'Okay, I did say I'd give it a go.'

The neat alcohol burned, but taste was smoother than she'd expected and even with her raging hangover, not unpleasant.

Patrick smiled at her then stretched out his legs, relaxing back, his shoulder resting against hers. 'Christ, it's been a fucking awful day, and not just Baxter. That was just the icing to finish it off.'

'Grace?' Libby asked, braving another sip for something to do.

Patrick nodded.

'Andy told me what happened last Christmas.'

Patrick knocked back the rest of his whisky. 'Yeah, so this is partly my fault, but I had no idea that all this time, she's... Anyway, she wants to take the practice manager job at the Haverton surgery, Gloria's old job. It's the right thing. She'll get the promotion she deserves and they'll get the person who should've been doing it for a year. The downside is I get stuck with Lisa who can't make coffee to save her life.'

Libby laughed and pulled her feet up to sit cross-legged. It didn't sound as though he was seeing Grace. If he was, he'd be sitting in her garden, not Libby's. Why was he here? Why when he had a bad day did he come here? She shifted slightly, her knee now almost touching his thigh. He refilled his glass.

'What happened last night?' she asked.

'I'm sorry she ruined your birthday.'

'It wasn't ruined.' But if would've been a million times better with you there. 'I had a great day. I loved the bike ride. Thank you for looking after me.'

He smiled down at her, her knee now touching his leg. Had he moved his leg, or she her knee?

'You should be very proud,' he said. 'You had your eyes open the whole time.'

Thank god, it was dark and he couldn't see her blushing. 'Maybe not the whole time.'

'I'm sorry I didn't get back to the party.'

Libby shrugged. 'You two needed to talk.'

'Well, mostly, I needed to delete every photo she had in the house and get the passwords to take that fucking website down. The Haverton Eye is now offline.' He shook his head. 'The photos she has of people, on her phone, on her PC, they're unbelievable. She actually has a camera on a tripod in her bedroom.'

He was in Grace's bedroom? Libby drained her glass. Oh god, was he here because he and Libby were friends now? 'You two get along very well. Aren't you tempted to give it a go?'

'With Grace, are you kidding? Libs, she almost ruined my life. She still might. Besides...' He laughed into his glass before taking another sip.

'What?'

'I'm not interested in Grace.' He turned away, fighting a smile. 'And I never will be.'

Did that mean her liked her? Trying to hide her own grin, Libby held out her glass. 'It's working. The whisky.'

'What on?'

'My hangover.' She swatted his arm. Unadulterated, blatant, flirting. 'And it actually tastes... okay.'

'Good girl.' He added a little more to her glass. 'So, did you give the emerald to Zoe?'

'Of course. She's got it on EBay already. The Buy It Now price is twenty grand.' Libby glanced away. 'But look, I told Andy too.'

'And?'

'Nothing. Zoe wants to forget about it. She couldn't care less who borrowed it as long as twenty plus grand lands in her bank account.'

'Did you tell them it was Grace?'

She nodded. 'It kind of explains who Becky saw. Besides, what's Andy going to do, drag Grace down to the nick and leave his mum at home? He knows neither of us would let that happen.'

'Thanks. I know Grace is... seriously, I could kill her right now, but she's saved my neck more than a few times. I owe her.'

Libby nodded. 'It seems Stan saw Maggie come home, his timing's vague to say the least, and Becky saw Grace leaving, so that's that. No burglary, no murderer. I feel a bit... is wrong to feel deflated? I quite liked playing Miss Marple.'

'Miss Marple? You need to watch more TV.'

'I'll add CSI to my watchlist tomorrow.' She sipped the whisky, appreciating the warmth it gave her, if not the fuzzy head.

He relaxed more, his body edging closer still. 'Now, what's this I hear about you playing piano and doing party tricks?'

She groaned, but couldn't hold back a smile. When she'd woke that morning, memories had flooded back and she'd wailed into her pillow, but sitting with Patrick, she laughed, uncaring, because her knee rested on his thigh and his arm lay on her knee. He refilled her glass and she explained how, after a few too many glasses of wine, her tendency to show off stopped being quite so latent.

'Get another glass,' he said, nudging her. 'I want to see the three-shot spinning trick.'

She laughed. 'Not a chance. I'd fall over if I tried it today.'

'Spoilsport.'

'Hey, so Daisy said I could keep her bike for a while.'

'Want to go for a ride sometime?'

'Promise not to kill me?'

He pulled a face. 'There is the custody issue, but okay.'

Snuggled under the blanket, they relived the ride, laughing at the time she forgot to unclip her feet and fell sideways, taking out him and Scott. Libby sat back, still giggling, her head against the sofa. Hot Patrick was here. This was it, the night something would happen.

An hour later, Libby put her empty glass down. She'd managed to heartily knock back three refills. Her hangover had vanished, but now she was a little too tipsy again. Patrick turned to her. She smiled at him. He smiled back.

'It's late. I'd better go.' He screwed the top on the less than half-full bottle and handed it to her. 'So I don't get tempted to drink the rest.'

Though clearly cold, he'd never once suggested they go inside. Instead, he seemed happy to sit in the garden, huddled under the blanket with her.

'Do you really want to go?' Her words were barely more than a whisper, but they made his smile disappear.

Slowly, he shook his head and pushed a strand of her fringe back under her hat. Libby gazed at him, a smile teetering as the distance between them shrank. He kissed her. Patrick kissed her. His lips lingered and without hesitation, Libby kissed him back. She clutched his jacket as he held her face, his fingers brushing her neck.

Why were they doing this outside where it was bloody freezing? They should be inside, wearing a lot less clothes. No. Robbie always told her to play hard to get. This was one occasion she would stick to her morals. Her morals evaporated when Patrick's hand drifted down, stroking a thumb down her neck, making her tip her head back, catching her breath.

'Do you think,' she said, still gripping his jacket, 'if we send Michael Wray the photo ourselves, he'll still pay up the thousand pounds?'

Patrick's hands dropped and cold air replaced his hot body.

'It was a joke,' she said. Kiss me again.

He simply stared at her. His emotions unreadable.

'Patrick?' Oh why did she stop kissing him?

He leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, not looking at all like he wanted to kiss her again. Was this the ultimate in Hot and Cold? Kissing her then regretting it? But god, he'd just kissed her and she wanted more, much more. Didn't he?

'What?' she whispered.

'I can't do this,' he said, still staring at the floor. 'I've got to go.'

He was leaving? He kissed her like that and he was just leaving? 'Why?'

'I'm sorry, Libby. I think you're... but I can't do this. I can't be your distraction.'

She blinked. 'Deja vu.'

He closed his eyes, swearing. 'I thought you were asleep.'

'It was real?' she asked.

He cringed and nodded. It wasn't a dream. He really had said he couldn't be a distraction. He really had kissed her.

'You kissed me, but after that,' she whispered, 'you avoided me for weeks.'

'I had my reasons.'

She stifled scream as she stood up, striding across the patio. 'And last night? Was that a dream?'

With his eyes still closed, he shook his head. 'I wanted to make sure you were okay. Scott said you were wasted. I just carried you upstairs.'

He'd come into the house. He'd taken her up to bed. Was he some weird pervert? 'And then what?'

'Nothing.' He held up his hands, finally facing her. 'I was trying to be nice. It's like I can't stop looking out for you.'

She raked her hair back. 'I can't take any more of this.'

'Libs...'

'Four months you've been doing this, four bloody months. You'll be my best-friend one minute, kissing me when you think I'm asleep, taking me to see Jane, hanging out in the garden, all the nice things that made me think... And then bam! You walk out of the pub, and refuse to speak to me when I come to say thank you, and...' What about Halloween? 'But this has to be the showstopper in your hot and cold routine.'

He stared at the floor, but her tears loomed. He'd rejected her, twice.

'Your best-friend told me to stay the hell away from you,' she said, trying not to sob. 'I should've bloody listened.'

She headed for the door, but he jumped up, grabbing her arm as he stood behind her. She stared straight ahead, but he dropped his head to whisper in her ear.

'Libs, please don't run off. I'm sorry if I've fucked you around.'

She tried to resist, but her head rested against his, adoring his lips against her cheek. 'Then why do you keep doing it?'

'Because I'm finding it impossible to stay away from you, and I have to.'

'Why?'

'Look, I have my-'

'Don't you dare.' She spun around, pressing her hand against his chest to keep him away. 'Don't you dare say you've got your bloody reasons. I don't care about your bloody reasons. You had your chance, you blew it in October. I'm really sorry about Baxter and Grace and that you're having a really bad day, but...' She leaned up to whisper in his ear, using the words he'd crucified her with on Halloween. 'Patrick, you need to leave. Please.'

And just like he'd done, she pushed him away.

'Libs...'

'Whatever you're imagining in your pretty little head, it's never going to happen.' She ran into the house, slamming the door, her tears already falling.

Why did he keep doing this to her? Why couldn't they go out together? What was so wrong with her? Was he ashamed of her? He couldn't like her, not really. If he did, he wouldn't mess her around like this.

Slumping against the hallway wall, she willed him to come in, to explain. Had she overreacted? Probably. But one minute they were sat laughing over her squealing down the bridleway from Lum Crag, the next he kissed her. God, that had to be the all-time greatest kiss. She closed her eyes, reliving every moment. How his hands held her face, his fingers in her hair, his stubble on her skin, and when his thumb brushed down her neck. She shivered. If she hadn't stopped the kiss, they'd have ended up in bed. They could be in bed. Why the hell had she stopped kissing him?

She'd overreacted. She should go back out. Apologise.

Whatever you're imagining in your pretty little head isn't going to happen.

No, this was self-preservation. He didn't want to go out with her. He just wanted a cheer up shag because he was feeling down. That's how much he thought of her. She was just another Grace. Hadn't she learned anything? She'd been warned, told that he was trouble, that he'd break her heart, and oh look, job done.

No, he'd said he couldn't stay away from her. He liked her. She knew he did, but he had to stay away from her. She stifled another sob. If he had reasons not to want to be with her then he wasn't her Somebody, because her Somebody would forget their reasons. She'd forget all rational thought for him.

The chicken noodle soup, whisky and desolation churned in her stomach. She bolted to the bathroom just in time to throw up.

*

He could go after her, make her listen, but listen to what? He couldn't tell her what he was prepared to tell her the day before. He couldn't tell her about the ultimatum anymore. He couldn't tell her the truth because several other people had their fingers on a shutter button, dying to catch him and her together. And if they got a photograph, Wray would make up a story and they'd be front page news. He'd lose his job, his parents' respect and his life. All for one thousand pounds. He'd pay five grand for anyone with a camera to piss off and leave them alone.

Why did he have to kiss her? Kissing her screwed everything up. Fuck. He'd kissed her because the woollen hat had hidden the fringe and the dark disguised the black eye make-up. She sat there looking more than pretty; she looked adorable. Beautiful and, Christ, she tasted sweeter than she looked.

The girl was amazing, but if they went out, they'd be busted by Wray's trigger happy fortune hunters. He'd lose everything. He rested his head against the door. Did it matter? What would he rather lose, everything or Libby? This was crazy. How could he be thinking of sacrificing everything for a girl who dressed in a teenager's wardrobe?

He rested his head on the kitchen door. Christ, he'd never seen her angry. Had he really messed her around that much? Whatever you're imagining in your pretty little head isn't going to happen. Yeah, he'd messed her around that much.

The kitchen was in darkness, no movement inside. He wanted to apologise, but he had no idea how to make it better. He knew it would be a mistake coming here, but he'd wanted a shoulder to cry on and there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

Jesus, did he want to go out with her? Did he want a relationship? He shuddered at the word. This was a mistake, a fucking big mistake. He should never have listened to Scott.

Sod it. He kicked a gnome off the patio steps and strode away. The worst day ever had got infinitely worse, but he'd left the whisky on the table. Why could no one see that he'd changed?