Limerence (6 page)

The week seems to go much the same. Oliver is continuously late home from work, and each day seems to bring him home later than the previous. The circles under his eyes are growing deeper and darker, I notice. He seems lost in thought when I do see him, or he’s falling asleep on the sofa and coming to bed late. He’s restless when he’s sleeping, tossing and turning all night. I know this because I’m struggling to sleep also.

I lie awake for hours on end. Worrying for Oliver, worrying for us, and thinking of
him
. I feel like I am in a Harry Potter movie: 'he who shall not be named.'

We don’t talk of
him
, and if I bring up Oliver’s work on the Island, he mumbles a few words to me but never goes into much detail. I can’t help but be curious as to how my garden is coming along, I daren’t ask him though. I know I shouldn’t care, but some wicked part of me does.

Oliver doesn’t seem angry with me or hurt by what happened with Mr Breckt. But he seems confused and perhaps lost. He has to know that I wasn’t myself, that I wouldn’t intentionally do anything to harm our relationship. Or I hope so, anyway. I could be wrong though, and inside he could be a volcano of anger just waiting to erupt. Maybe.

I am finding the whole situation bizarre; this should be a happy time for us. We both love our jobs, have great friends and social lives, and more than anything else, we have each other. We love each other. Nevertheless, this week seems to have changed us both, somehow, into people neither of us recognises anymore.

Things have changed so much and so quickly between us that I cannot seem to get my mind around it. I can only hope that the weekend ahead will cheer us up. We can go out dancing, have fun, and make love until the sun comes up. I sigh, or that’s my plan, anyway. I need—no, I
want
to correct some of the damage I have done to us. Intentional or not.

When Thursday rolls round, I feel the weight lifting from my shoulders.
The end is nigh’
.

After my morning classes, I decide to head over to my parents’ coffee shop for some pie. I have some work to prep for an upcoming trip, and I always think better on a full stomach.

“Hey, Mum,” I shout, shutting the door behind me. The smell of coffee and fresh baked pie wafts over to me, making my mouth waters in response. Mum is pouring coffee and looks up at me with a smile.

“Hey, honey.” She gives another quick smile to the customer she’s serving and moves back around the counter, giving me a quick peck on the cheek while she puts the pot down.

“You’re looking lovely today,” I remark on her new haircut.

Marie, my mother, pats her hair with a grin. “It’s date night. Your father’s taking me to that new restaurant down the block,” she confides with a giggle.

I smile at my mother. “Woooo, fancy,” I laugh. I slide onto one of the stools at the counter and look around the coffee shop.

My parents bought it five years ago. It had been a rundown building, falling apart, more or less. But they put in the hard work and got it up and running again. It is never going to make them millionaires, but they both love it and it has its regular customers to keep it afloat. Plus, my father makes the best pies around. You want it, he bakes it.

“Looks busier.” I notice.

She looks up from her orders. “Yes, well, there’s a lot more people in town now, what with the work going on at the Island. It’s very exciting all these new faces. Milly—you remember Milly, who owns the Lagan Hotel? Well she says that the hotel is completely booked up for the first time in over a year. Can you believe it?” Her eyes widen. “The rooms are being paid for by the new owner as well. How kind is that?” My mother beams from ear to ear; this is the most gossip that she has heard in a long time, clearly. I smile.

“Has Oliver met him yet?” she asks, and then moves over to serve a customer, leaving the question hanging in the air for the moment.

My smile falters. I realise that everyone seems pleased by Mr Breckt’s arrival. The whole town is benefitting from his presence. What’s not to like? He’s drumming up more business than the town has seen in years.

A
nd, he is supremely attractive,
my subconscious pipes in.

My stomach does a tumble when I think of his face. His smile when he decided to build me a garden in my favourite colours. It’s weird and creepy but I can’t help but be flattered that he would change all his plans for me—someone he had only just met.

I groan.
This is bad
—
really bad. What the hell is wrong with me?

Mum comes back from her customer, pinning the order up at the hatch window for the cooks to take, and turns to me.

“Well? Has he?”

“Pardon?”

“Has Oliver met him yet? I bet he’s a wonderful employer.” She notices my disheartened look. “What’s wrong, sweetie?” She slides on to the stool next to me, taking a break from her waitressing duties.

“We met him on Monday, actually. He’s…” I struggle to find the words.

What is he?

“He’s charming and charismatic, but a little overbearing, I think.” I am hesitant on the words, still not ready to let on to my guilty thoughts of him.

“Well, that doesn’t sound so bad. Overbearing, though . . . how so? He comes from a very rich family, so I’ve heard. He’s a very powerful man, whatever that means…from what everyone is saying. I’m sure he just knows his own mind. You know what these businessmen are like—they know what they want, and it’s generally their job to go get it.” She makes a weird ‘tough’ face as she says this last bit and then goes back to the till to take some cash from a customer.

I stifle back a chuckle and then frown. I guess that’s it, then: he’s just used to getting his own way. Probably doesn’t even realise the effect that he has on people.

On me.

My stomach takes another tumble, and I realise that I feel disappointment that maybe he hadn’t meant to be so charming and flirty and most likely didn’t even realise that he’d come across like that. What was it that Oliver had said about rich boys leaving a trail of broken hearts in their wake?

Oh god, I am such a bad fiancée
. I resign to put him out of my mind for the last time.

I slide off my stool. “Can you bring me some Banoffee pie over, Mamma bear?” I ask, making my way to a booth. I need to get him out of my head.

She looks up with a smile. “Sure thing, sweetie.”

I slip into a booth in the corner with my coffee and try to think about what to do for next week’s lesson. It is the year twos, so they are getting up to a good standard now. This year’s topic is on Monet. There’s going to be a celebratory show of his life sometime in October, and we’re going to be having a class trip out. I take out my notepad and start to jot down ideas. Mum brings over my pie and I mumble a
thanks
, but I am deep in thought writing out names of his paintings and ideas.

The coffee shop door is ringing constantly as people come in and out, but I’m so absorbed in my work I don’t take too much notice. I try my coffee and I gag, realising it has gone cold.

“Would you like another?” His voice is deep and delectable and my heart races at the sound of it. I daren’t look up, knowing the affect his voice alone has on me, I don’t need to see his face.

“Erm, no thanks. I’m nearly done now anyway.” I say politely.

“Looks important.” I feel his eyes watching me, the air stirring as he leans closer.

“Just lesson plans for college.” My voice is quiet and shaky, I realise with annoyance. My heart beat thundering a million miles an hour in my chest.

“Monet,” he states, looking over my shoulder again. His breath tickles at my neck. “What a wonderful painter he was. He was never supposed to be an artist, you know. He was supposed to go into the family grocery business. Made his father quite mad,” he chuckles sincerely.

I look up at him, my jaw slack from his small revelation. Of course
I
knew that, but that isn’t something just anyone would know. Mr Breckt looks down at me. He is dressed in his usual style: a fitted black suit and a green tie to match his dazzling green eyes. His ink black, tousled hair frames his handsome face in a dishevelled style, and there is a hint of amusement on his full lips. I realise I am gaping up at him and quickly close my mouth, a blush spreading across my cheeks in embarrassment.

“Well, yes…of course I know that,” I stammer.

He looks down at me, his steady gaze drinking me in. I wish I hadn’t worn this blouse now; he must be able to see right down it. I sit up straighter and clear my throat.

“Is there anything I can help you with, Mr Breckt?” G
ood girl, don’t let him unnerve you
.

“Please, Mia. Call me Robert.”

“I’m not sure that’s appropriate, Mr Breckt,” I say stubbornly.

“It is if I say it is, Mia.”

I stammer over my words, not sure how to take him. “What are you doing here?” My words come out blunt and perhaps a little harsh, but I think we should just get straight to the point. I have made a promise to Oliver to stay away from this man, and I am trying my hardest to keep it.

“I was passing in the car.” He nods outside and I look, seeing a smart black car, the windows tinted to block anyone from looking in. “And I noticed you sat here deep in thought.” He’s still looking at me as if waiting for me to say something. “You look quite beautiful today, Mia.”

My mind fumbles around for a coherent thought. Oliver does not want me to speak to Mr Breckt; in fact, he wants me to have nothing at all to do with him. However, what am I supposed to say to that?

“Umm, thank you.” I mumble, looking away with a blush. Several moments of silence pass between us and it becomes apparent that he’s clearly waiting for an invitation to sit with me. It’s wrong, I know, but he’s not taking the hint to leave by my silence, and I can’t outright ask him to leave.

“Would you, erm… would you like to join me?” my words are a whisper and I bite down on my bottom lip, praying that he’ll say no.

His eyes blaze in wild anticipation at my invitation. “That would be lovely, Mia.” He smiles wolfishly and slides in next to me. I jump at the close contact of him. He smells delicious just like the last time I saw him; like vanilla and musk. I didn’t expect him to sit next to me, and I shift over what little I can in the small confines of the booth. His broad shoulders brush against my slender ones. I haven’t realised until now how huge he is.

The space between us seems too small for two people, and when I look, I notice that he’s still watching me, as if waiting for me to say something profound.

“So how’s the move going?” I cannot believe I am making small talk with him. “And, err, the renovations?” I ask tentatively.

I mean my garden
—
how’s my garden?

I flush under his watchful gaze. I look around and notice that we are attracting a lot of attention, mostly from the women, and I frown, knowing that Oliver will now find out about me sitting with him. Not that I was going to keep this a secret but…

He smiles. He has a lovely smile; it’s both masculine and sweet, with perfect straight white teeth and full lips that are begging to be kissed. My blush deepens at the thought.

He looks to the slice of pie my Mum has brought over. I’ve forgotten all about it. The corner of his mouth turns up.

“May I?” he asks, ignoring my earlier questions.

He wants to try my pie.
“Erm…well yes, of course, help yourself.” The thought of that beautiful mouth wrapped around my fork is too much for me to bear, and a shiver of anticipation runs through me.

He reaches over, takes my fork, cutting a small bit with it, and raises it up. I swallow instinctively when he turns to me, my eyes widening in surprise.

Oh, he wants
me
to eat it.

He raises the fork to my lips, and I open my mouth automatically. I feel a strange mix of eroticism and embarrassment as he slips the pie between my lips and I begin to chew. He is watching me intently and I nearly choke, my mouth is so dry. I cannot even taste the food, I can only chew, and stare at him wide-eyed, like a rabbit in headlights.

Jesus, what is happening to me?
He smiles a knowing smile at me and thumbs a crumb away from the corner of my mouth, gently cupping my cheek with the palm of his hand as he does.

“More?” he asks, licking his own lips as if tasting the food himself.

My legs move under the table, tapping an uneven rhythm, and I mumble a
no
and swallow. I look away and see my mother at the till; she is looking at me in surprise and shock, her mouth wide open like a black hole. She makes to come over to our table, but I shake my head and she stops in her tracks in confusion. Guilt flames through me and I hang my head in shame.
What am I doing?

His strong hand grips the bottom of my chin and lifts my face up so that it is inches away from his.

“Don’t do that,” he says firmly, his dark green eyes staring at me.