Chapter Thirty-Seven

What he liked about Libby was... pretty much everything. In the last hour, she'd made him revaluate every other woman he'd fucked. Fucked. Certainly for the last two years that's all he'd done. With Libby it had been a whole different experience. They'd gazed into each other's eyes, for Christ's sake. He'd not done that before. He also quite liked that she wore the heels the whole time. How he'd lasted as long as he did was a complete mystery.

But what he really liked about Libby was they'd spent the last twenty minutes, lying on the rug in front of the fire, talking about anything and everything, but she didn't feel the need to discuss their relationship or what would happen next. And for that he couldn't be more grateful, because no matter how fantastic she was, he had no idea what would happen in the morning.

He ought to be going to bed, to get some sleep since he was on call in the morning, but instead, he lay beside her, scattering kisses up her spine and neck, unable to believe how flawless she was. She wasn't asleep, but she had her eyes closed, her head resting on her folded arms, giving him the opportunity to study every inch of her. He pushed her fringe to the side. It was the little things he liked, how her eyes weren't ostentatiously blue and her lips weren't a bee-stung pout. She was just ordinary, but ordinary worked on her. Christ, she was pretty.

His erratic heart rate was back. When she'd first kissed him in the kitchen, he seriously worried for his health. His heart had beat way faster than could ever be natural. He'd put it down to nerves. He'd not been nervous before shagging a girl since he was about twenty, but then again, she'd been to bed with Rob and Andy. He'd heard some tales about those two. Now, after the event, he had no doubt he knew his way around this girl better than either of them, so why was his heart beating overtime again? Maybe he did have some kind of arrhythmia. He kissed a freckle on her shoulder. No, he was nervous.

Breathing in the scent of roses and sweet peas, he tried to relax. This was Libby, the girl whose garden he'd sat in, talked with, drank with, laughed with. She ridden down a hill for him, she'd been there when he needed her and she'd cooked him a perfect steak. Was that why he was nervous, because she was perfect and maybe she'd find a reason to hate him?

'Is there any part of you that isn't perfect?'

'I have no boobs.'

He rolled her over, stroking one small, but faultless breast. 'Have to disagree. Perfect.'

'And... my feet are awful. Ballet dancers have fugly feet.'

He shifted to sit by her feet, running his hand down her calf, laughing when she tried to pull away. 'Relax.'

'Please don't.'

In the rosy firelight, he could see her blushing, but he didn't let her escape, instead he began massaging his thumbs into her sole. 'So that's why you kept the shoes on.'

'To stop you running away in horror.'

'Idiot.' He lifted her foot, looking her in the eye as he kissed her big toe.

'I hate them. When I was in the Company, it was fine. Everyone had battered feet, but when I left, the world seemed full of girls in flip flops with perfect toes. This is as good as they get after years of remedial pedicures.' Her resistance to his hands lessened and she closed her eyes, sighing. 'God, that's nice. Paolo used to call them hobbit feet.'

'Paolo's an arse you should stay away from. Your feet are you. They're like battle scars. They show your dedication to dancing.' He smiled at her doubtful frown. 'Besides, I'll take your squashed up toes, and raise you...' He lifted his right foot.

'Oh my god, you only have four toes. Where's the little one?'

'Never ride a bike barefoot. A lesson I learned age seven. Sam's fault.'

'Your brother?' She smiled, her leg completely relaxed.

'He bet me I couldn't beat him down to the river. I could and I did, but I crashed, completely out of control, into the rocks.' He settled down to give the best foot rub ever. 'They're just feet.'

After ten minutes, she lay with a stupid smile on her face and he finally put her second foot down.

She blew him a kiss. 'Thank you.'

Christ, when she looked at him like that, with those pretty grey eyes gazing up at him, he couldn't breathe and her familiar perfume wasn't working this time.

Do I love her?

Oh fuck. Was that it? Was that why he was nervous?

'Who've you been shagging?' she asked.

'Jesus, where did that come from?'

'I'm just curious.'

'What makes you think I've been shagging anyone?' He tipped his head, amused to hear her answer.

'I can't imagine you not. I bet you've got some bored housewife who's very discreet.'

He laughed. 'I don't, but nice idea. I should get one.'

Libby nipped his leg.

'Ow.' He lay next to her, toying with the ends of her hair, wrapping a lock around his finger. 'Honestly? No one.'

She raised her eyebrows.

'I'm as shocked as you.' He kissed her, gently biting her bottom lip. 'But I fully intend to make up for it. What are you doing tomorrow?'

She shrugged. 'Zoe couldn't decide if she'd be here or not, so there's a compromise chicken in the fridge. Rob and Van invited me to theirs, but then I got uninvited after Xander's birthday. Are you going to your parents?'

'Supposed to be, but I'm on call and I'd much rather spend the day with you.'

'Making up for the last six months?'

He nodded.

'Then we'd better pray no cows need urgently castrating.'

He was on call from seven. It'd be just his luck to be called out at five past. He really needed to get some sleep. 'Come on, bedtime.'

Nodding, she stood up, pulling on his shirt which swamped her. Cute as. He stayed on the rug, propped up on his elbows, smiling at her. The fringe didn't matter and he no longer noticed the black crap. This was Libby, as classy and beautiful as a girl could be.

'What?' she asked, blushing again.

He stood up, not answering her, but took her hand, leading her into the hallway. The hallway? Unable to resist the joke, he pushed her up against the wall, slipping his leg between hers. To his surprise, her eyes glinted as she pulled him closer.

'You're insatiable,' he said, pushing open the shirt.

She shrugged and wound her arms around his neck. 'It's been a while.'

'Halloween was two months ago. Insatiable.'

'We didn't actually...'

'Too much coke?'

She nodded, turning six shades redder.

'He's such a loser.' Christ, he loved her arms around his neck, her tiny body against his. 'Just so I don't get my hopes up, only to end up disappointed, you do still have that Alice in Wonderland outfit, don't you?'

He hoped to God, she did.

She nodded and like a magician produced a condom from behind his ear. Where the hell had she hidden that? Patrick sent a smile of thanks to the Big Man.

*

It was Christmas Day. It was Christmas Day and she was in bed with Patrick. Libby stayed absolutely still in case she ruined this very perfect moment. Patrick still slept, face down, but his arm lay across her. She'd woken a few times in the scant hours they'd been asleep, but each time, he'd have an arm wrapped around her and once, his whole body.

Clearly, he liked her and more than clearly, she liked him. The sex alone would keep her addicted to him for decades - the sofa, the hallway, the bed. God, the hallway. When Andy suggested it, it'd turned her on because it was bad, but with Patrick it'd turned her on because they'd shared the joke. Initially they'd giggled; eventually, she'd been unable to talk.

But now what? Hot or Cold? After the sofa, they'd lay, chatting about nonsense - her work, his work, anything, everything, but nothing about them. It was as if neither of them dared. Ninety percent of her head said, This Is It. She'd work at Low Wood Farm, teach at the ballet studio and she'd go out with Patrick. They'd go on dates, she'd meet his parents, he'd tell her he loved her.

The other ten percent said, But What If? What if she could dance again? She really was tougher now. If she could dance professionally, would she really want to settle for the tumbledown farmhouse? Could she have both? They had cows in Surrey. Would he come with her?

But those weren't questions for Christmas Day.

'Happy Christmas,' she said, toying with his curls.

'It's not Christmas for another five hours sleep.' He didn't open his eyes.

'Not a morning person then?' She wriggled next to him, stroking his neck. 'Hot or Cold?'

'Warm, but getting hotter if you keep doing that. Time is it?'

'Ten past nine. Shall I make tea?'

'No, it's too early. Go back to sleep.'

She nibbled his neck.

'Okay,' he said, fighting a smile, 'but tea's pointless. I'd prefer coffee.'

'I'd prefer tea.'

'Let Isla into the garden?'

'Will do. You can have ten minutes more sleep.'

Grabbing his shirt from the floor, loving that it still smelled like him, she pottered off to the bathroom, admiring his taste. The black and white tiles, perfectly suited the bachelor pad, but the clever lighting and rich green feature wall, created a cosy haven. Sadly, the lighting wasn't cosy enough to hide how appalling she looked.

Her hair resembled a birds nest, with her fringe moving in varying angles and the bags under her eyes weren't helped by smudged mascara. She made do with plaiting her hair and wiping away half her make-up with a wet tissue, but in her rush managed to leave black marks on one of his thick white towels. Arse. She flipped the towel over, hoping he wouldn't notice and ran downstairs.

Oddly, in a neat pile on the bottom stair, were their discarded clothes. Patrick tidying up during the night seemed highly unlikely, so how-

A drawer banged shut in the kitchen. That couldn't be Isla. Hastily, Libby fastened a couple of buttons on the shirt just before the kitchen door opened and Patrick's mother appeared. Oh god. In the land of mortification, Libby reigned supreme, but Elizabeth gave a pleasant smile, beckoning her into the kitchen.

'Please don't be embarrassed. I've found much worse in the living room than clothes before now. Two boys, nothing shocks me. Merry Christmas, by the way.'

Libby hovered in the doorway, her arms wrapped around herself. She was naked bar Patrick's shirt, and his mother was chatting as if she did this every day. Maybe she did?

'Merry Christmas.'

Elizabeth put the kettle on. 'Coffee?'

'Tea, if that's okay.'

'I'm sorry for being here. He's nearly thirty. You'd think I'd learn to let go, but he's my baby son and I can't help looking after him. Patrick has a nasty habit of going a little wild at black tie events. I like to make sure he's still alive the next day.'

'He is.' Libby crouched down as Isla came scampering in, loving the distraction. 'But he didn't go wild. I think he only had three glasses of wine at dinner.'

'I loved your dress. Very classic. Did you have a nice time?' Elizabeth asked, rummaging in the cupboards.

I've spent the night with your son, what do you think? Nice doesn't cover it. 'Yes, thank you. The food was incredible. Did you?'

Elizabeth nodded, holding a red spotted tea pot. 'It's funny. I feel like I've known you since November. You've been hanging in my dining room for a month.'

'Excuse me?' Libby frowned, ready to run away.

'I have your painting,' Elizabeth explained hastily. 'Patrick bought it from the charity shop. He thought you'd regret giving it away. Grace introduced me to Paolo last night. I'm now a huge fan.'

'Oh.'

Patrick had bought the Broken Ballerina and he'd given it to his mother. Was that just a bit odd or way beyond odd? Libby hadn't a clue how to react, but Elizabeth busied herself making tea and putting toast on. She dug out butter, marmalade and jam, arranging them on a tray.

'Well, I'll get out of your hair. The toast will be ready in a minute. Will you ask him to let me know if he's still coming to dinner?'

Libby nodded, hoping he still planned not to be. Or ideally he'd invite her to go too. She could meet his brother, Sam, and Charlotte, the wannabe psychoanalyst.

Elizabeth paused as she put on her coat. 'My grandfather used to call me Libby.'

'My middle name's Elizabeth and my little brother couldn't pronounce Livvy for years. Libby just took over. Thank you for making breakfast.'

'Look, you seem a nice girl. Jane has nothing but praise for you and Patrick adores you, but... Well, let's just hope Michael Wray doesn't find out. Have a lovely day.'

'Happy Christmas.'

Elizabeth left.

Utterly perturbed, Libby popped the toast onto the tray and dashed back up to Patrick, desperate for his reassurance. Happily, the bizarre conversation with his mother faded from her head as Libby took in the sexiest thing she'd ever seen on a Christmas Day. Lying on his side, propped up on one elbow with only his bottom half covered by the duvet, Patrick looked her over, his smile growing.

'I come, bearing gifts.' She put the tray on the bedside table and knelt over him. 'Tea, I'm afraid. I don't like coffee in the morning, but there is toast.'

Patrick began unbuttoning the shirt. 'That can wait.'

'Have you any idea how very, very pretty you are without the black crap and the fringe?' Patrick handed her a mug of stewed tea.

Thirty minutes of breathless, intense shagging had left her hair bedraggled and her face sweaty. Pretty wasn't the term she'd have used.

'You might have mentioned the pretty thing once or twice, but I like the black crap. I don't like looking pretty. I like looking edgy.'

'Libs, you don't look edgy. You look like seventeen year-old trailer trash.' He sipped his tea. 'Christ, really strong tea might actually be worth drinking. Where on earth did you find a teapot? I didn't know I had one.'

'I didn't, your mum did. Ugh, it's cold.' She put her cup on the side. 'Tea really has to be hot.'

'Hang on, my mum did?'

Libby nodded. 'She was downstairs, tidying up. She'd already done the living room.'

'I wonder what she thought when she found the cut up dress.'

'It was possibly the most excruciating five minutes of my life. I look awful. She must think I'm an awful tramp, but she was very blasé. Has she had many chats with girls making tea?'

'It's usually coffee.' He tugged her plait. 'No, not to my knowledge. And you don't look awful. In fact you look cute as fuck in my shirt.'

Libby grinned. She might wear it all day. 'She said she likes to make sure you're still alive the morning after.'

'Bullshit. She most likely heard we'd left together and came for a nosy. Sorry.' He leant back against the headboard, frowning up at the ceiling. 'I wonder if she'll tell Dad.'

'I know you don't want to let him down, but you're nearly thirty. Surely, you're not worried what he thinks about who you're shagging?'

'Of course, not.' The tiny twitch in his eye was back.

Libby sat up, frowning at him. 'Liar. He doesn't like me, does he?'

'Why do you think that?'

'The way he looked at me last night.'

A huge frown took over his face. 'I'm sorry, Libs. He doesn't know you. He'd like you if he did.'

'At least, you're honest.' Libby hugged her knees. 'Your mum asked if you'd let her know if you were still going to Christmas dinner. Are you?'

If he invited her along, she could meet his dad and hopefully win him over.

'I thought we'd agreed.' He ran his thumb along her thigh. 'We'd pray my phone didn't ring, while I sit watching crap on TV and you make dinner like a good little wench.'

She laughed, gently punching his arm. 'You have to help. And I'm nobody's wench.'

'Okay, but if Zoe catches us shagging in the kitchen, it'll be your fault.'

'I can live with those terms.' Libby smiled. Who wanted to go to his parents anyway? 'Your mum also told me something else.'

'Go on...'

'The painting?'

'Christ, I'm starting to look a little obsessed, aren't I?'

Libby held her finger and thumb an inch apart. 'Just a bit. I went to get it back the next day, but it'd gone. You weren't even speaking to me then.'

'Do you want it?'

'No. Yes. Maybe one day. How much did you pay for it? I'll pay you back.'

'It's fine.'

'How much?'

He shook his head. 'That's between me and Haverton Animal Rescue. The irony isn't lost on me. I already work for free on Monday afternoons, now I've paid for the drugs too.'

One day, she'd pay him back, but in the meantime, he'd have to make do with a million thank you kisses.

'Enough,' he laughed, fending her off.

Libby sat smiling at him for a moment. I love him. It's absolutely official. 'Your mum said something else too.'

'I'm going to throttle her when I see her.'

'She said we'd better hope Michael Wray didn't find out.'

'And? I hope he doesn't.' Patrick stood up, pulling her with him. 'Shower?'

Libby let him drag her to the bathroom, fully aware he was distracting her. 'What does it matter?'

'If we have a shower? I'll smell a lot better.' He opened the vast glass door to the shower, turning on a deluge of water. 'You still smell of roses and sweet peas, but come on.'

'I'll have one at home. I need ridiculous amounts of conditioner.' And industrial make-up remover or she'd look like Alice Cooper. Roses and sweet peas?

'Spoilsport.'

She leaned against the wall, blatantly perving at his naked body. Crikey, he was confident, but then, he had no reason not to be with his long muscular legs and perfect arse. Maybe she could dive in with him. No.

'What does it matter if Michael Wray finds out?' she asked. 'We have nothing to be ashamed of. Let them read all about it. Hell, we really should send him a photo.'

The glass steamed up, hiding all but his silhouette. He washed his hair, scrubbed his skin, but still didn't answer her. What if this was a one night stand? A Christmas fling. What if he'd got cold feet?

'You're doing it again,' she said. 'You're ignoring me.'

Again, the silence descended, this time magnified as he shut off the shower. She wrapped her arms around herself, the wait unbearable.

'This isn't a scandal,' she said.

He rested his forehead on the glass. 'But he'll make it a scandal and I can't afford for that to happen.'

'Why?'

Finally, he came out, tying a towel around his waist. A wet Patrick, droplets running down his flat abdomen, down to the dark hair half covered by the towel was more distracting than the naked one. Oh god, she should've showered with him. Maybe she should stop wearing the black crap.

'You had your chance, princess,' he said, flashing a cheeky grin.

She gave a little laugh, but couldn't ignore the dread building inside. 'What didn't you tell me last night?'

He swore quietly, as he leaned against the shower door. 'The Miss Haverton story, did you ever see it?'

She shook her head.

'Front page, shagging in the park. My mum actually said she was ashamed to call me her son. I'll never forget the disappointment in her eyes. Libs, they've already tried to make out that you're a prostitute. What will they say if I'm involved, that I'm your pimp?'

'But it'd be made up nonsense.'

'But it'd still hurt my parents.'

'So...' She dared to look up at him. 'Is that it? You're protecting your parents? Don't get me wrong, it's admirable, but they are grown-ups. They could handle the truth.'

'It's not just that.' He let out a slow sigh. 'I can't break the rules.'

'Why? What happens if you do?' She closed her eyes, not wanting to hear the answer.

'They'll kick me out. Disowned. Sacked. Bye, bye house, car and my life in Gosthwaite.'

No. Tears stung her eyes, but she hung her head so he couldn't see. 'Do they mean it?'

'My name being linked to your escapades on Halloween cost me two weeks wages. They mean it.'

'I'm so sorry.'

'Don't be. It's not your fault. It's mine.' He gave a brave smile and pulled her to him, wrapping his arms around her. 'Look, so we can't go out in public, but we'll work it out, Libs.'

'How? I know what it's like to lose your job and your family. You can't risk it.' Her cheek rested against his damp shoulder as she inhaled his fresh-from-the-shower scent. I love you and I won't ruin your life. She glanced down, spotting the smudge of mascara on his towel. 'I got the black crap on your towel, sorry.'

He gave a small laugh, relaxing his hold on her as he glanced down.

She darted out.

By the time he yelled her name, she was already running down the stairs. She dashed past their neatly folded clothes, an excited Isla and out the back door, hoping to god no one saw her leave. Who would see her? The rest of the world would be checking under the tree to see what Father Christmas had left them. For a brief moment, she'd thought all her Christmases had come at once, but in reality, she'd spent six months earning her place on the naughty list.

The bitter winter air ripped through the shirt, but Libby ignored it as she ignored the stones cutting into her bare feet. They were her penance for betraying her better judgement. She should never have slept with Andy on a first date, or even remotely flirted with Jack, and god, did she need another reason to regret her affair with Robbie?

She strode into Maggie's garden, wiping in vain at the tears falling down her cheeks, the white shirt cuffs now streaked with black. London was her only option. She'd book a ticket on the first train south.

'Libby, stop,' he called from behind her.

She did, but only to put an end to their odd relationship once and for all. He crossed the gap between them, still pulling on his sweatshirt, his nine toes as bare as her ten.

'Please, don't cry,' he whispered, using his sleeve to wipe away her tears.

'It's not worth it, Patrick.'

'Isn't it?' He still held her face.

'I don't want a half-arsed, secret fling.'

'It'll be fun.'

'Fun?' Seriously, did he say that. 'It's not fun. I've done secret. It's horrible.'

'It's just for six months.'

'I want more.'

His hands fell away. 'What do you mean, more?'

I love you. 'You know what I mean.'

'Jesus Christ, what are you expecting? We haven't even been out on a date.'

'And with your genius plan, we never will.' Libby folded her arms, shivering against the cold wind. 'Anyway, it doesn't matter.'

'Why?'

'I'm leaving.'

'I knew you'd do this.'

'Do what?'

'Run away.'

'I'm not running away.' She took a deep breath. 'I have a meeting with the English National Ballet on the twenty-ninth. I'm going to discuss going back to work. I arranged it after you messed me around again at Xander's party.'

Patrick shoved his hands in his pockets. 'And were you planning to tell me, or to just fuck me then fuck off?'

'Of course I was going to tell you.'

'What about teaching ballet to the little kids and working at Rob's?'

'Distractions.'

He stared at the ground. 'And us?'

She mustn't cry again. 'What us? You want a fuck buddy who's not going to get in the way of your idyllic life in the county. You might be a bloody good distraction, but let's face it, you're not ballet.' And I won't ruin your life.

His forehead creased as he looked up, his eyes blazing with hurt, anger, frustration. 'I guess not. Happy fucking Christmas, princess.'

And he walked away.