BTW: I Love You (Mills & Boon M&B) (One Hot Fling - Book 1) (12 page)

‘A
BOUT
damn time you turned up, man.’ Zack Boudreaux clapped Rye on the shoulder, then pulled him into a one-armed hug. ‘What kept you so long? We haven’t seen you in over a year.’

‘The slight matter of a bike pile-up and three months in hospital,’ Rye replied dryly as his friend released him.

‘Yeah, right, heard about that,’ Zack said, apparently not the least embarrassed by the gaffe. ‘But that was months ago. I happen to know ‘cos we sent you …’ he paused for a second ‘… something.’

Rye laughed, grateful to see not a trace of pity or discomfort on Zack’s face. ‘You mean Kate sent me something,’ he shot back, mentioning Zack’s wife of four years.

‘Kate. Me. Same difference. The point is, you waited six months to come and thank us for it. Whatever it was.’ Sitting in one of the armchairs beside the French windows that looked out onto the resort’s cliff-top gardens, Zack motioned towards the armchair opposite. ‘So maybe you’d like to explain that. Kate was pretty hurt.’

‘No, she wasn’t.’ Rye eased himself into the chair and rubbed his leg. His thigh had stiffened up, thanks to an
eleven-hour flight which, even in a First Class bed, had felt a lot longer than before, and the two-hour drive down Highway One to get to the resort. ‘I happen to know your wife is made of sterner stuff than that. She’s put up with you for four years.’

‘Can I help it if the woman’s crazy about me?’ Despite the humour in Zack’s voice, Rye felt a funny little stab of envy.

Weird? While he’d always admired the constancy and companionship Zack and his wife shared, he’d never wanted the same thing for himself. A marriage like theirs required promises he wasn’t interested in making, to any woman.

‘And don’t change the subject, pal.’ Zack slung his ankle over his knee, his smile flattening. ‘What took you so long?’ He pinned Rye with a hard stare. ‘I called you, emailed, countless times. Even had to speak to that dumb jerk, Clements. You dropped right off the face of the earth. What the hell happened to you?’

Rye simply stared, stunned by Zack’s outburst and the emotion in his friend’s voice. The sudden surge of guilt had blood rising up his neck. It had never even occurred to him how his self-imposed purgatory in the last few months might have affected his friends. And Zack was a guy who knew him better than most.

They’d met years before in Vegas, when he’d made the mistake of trying to hustle Zack at the poker table. Zack had bluffed him out of every last penny, but somehow they’d connected. One debauched night at the Bellagio later and they’d been nursing the world’s worst hangover together and telling each other their life stories.

He knew Zack and Kate hadn’t just sent flowers to his hospital bed. Zack had tried to contact him but he’d refused to communicate with anyone, busy wallowing in his self-pity, and this was the result. He’d managed to upset one of the few people in his life who mattered.

‘I didn’t know you cared,’ Rye said, the lame joke a desperate attempt to cut through the tension.

Zack swore under his breath. Scraping his fingers through his hair, he sent Rye a weak smile. ‘Kate’s going to kill me. She told me not to lay it all on you the minute you walked in the door. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s okay. Seems I’m the one who should be sorry,’ he said, the guilt intensifying.

Zack huffed out a breath, the smile dying. ‘Why did you leave Clements in charge, Rye? Why put some bean-counter in charge of a business you’ve spent years pouring your life into?’

‘Good question,’ Rye said, and one he had no answer for any more. ‘Don’t worry; Clements’s days are over. As soon as I get back to the UK, I’ll be moving back to London, taking over the reins full-time.’

The statement brought with it a sense of rightness, but also triggered the picture of Maddy that had been lodged in his brain ever since he’d walked away from her two days ago.

He hadn’t bothered to contact her since, hadn’t even told her that he’d left for California. He didn’t have to answer to her; that was already understood. But, more than that, he hadn’t wanted to risk a repeat performance of the foolish way he’d behaved that night, when she’d turned down the chance to come with him. He’d convinced himself that his anger, that curious desire to claim her, had been nothing more than hurt pride.

But pictures of Maddy had been crowding into his head ever since. Her bright emerald eyes glinting with pleasure when he teased her. Her wayward curls mussed around her head first thing in the morning when she cooked them breakfast. Her reddened nipples, stung by his stubble, peeking over the quilt as she slept. Even the blush of colour on her cheeks when she told him she didn’t want to sleep with him.
The memories were so damn vivid they even came with her scent attached, that intoxicating mix of herbs and spices and summer flowers. He damped down the instant surge of reaction, struggled to dismiss the thought.

He wasn’t through with Maddy yet; that much was obvious. And that was a problem—one he hadn’t figured out yet. But he would. Although he’d have to figure it out sooner rather than later, now he’d committed to returning to London.

‘Rye, you scared me, man,’ Zack said, accusation heavy in his voice. ‘I knew the accident was bad, but when you wouldn’t return my calls, when you put that jerk in charge, I figured you’d damaged a lot more than just your leg.’

I did, but it’s not damaged any more.

‘Truth is, Zack,’ Rye said carefully, ‘I went a little crazy there for a while.’ More than a little crazy. ‘In the last few weeks, though, I’ve come to my senses.’

‘Well, good,’ Zack said, his smile returning. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what turned you around? Six months is a long time to cry over spilt milk.’

Rye chuckled. Zack’s offhand assessment of what had been one of the most difficult periods of his life seemed oddly appropriate. ‘I met someone,’ he said without thinking. ‘She made me realise I hadn’t lost as much as I thought.’

‘Oh, she did, did she?’ Zack’s eyebrows winged up. ‘So the Playboy of the Western World finally got snared.’

‘Don’t be daft.’ Rye backtracked furiously as clammy sweat pooled under his arms.

Maddy was a problem. No question. But that would be a catastrophe.

‘It’s not like that,’ he said emphatically.

‘Who are you trying to convince here, buddy?’ Zack coughed out another laugh. ‘Me or yourself?’

Zack had always had a cruel sense of humour. But Rye
couldn’t see the joke as the old scars that had festered inside him ever since he’d been twelve opened like a fresh wound.

He didn’t feel like that about Maddy—or anyone—and he never would. Because he knew what the consequences were. To love someone, you had to depend on them, to trust them to be there for you when you needed them. And he was never falling into that trap again.

Maybe Maddy had got under his defences, had become an addiction which he was finding it hard to break. But there was nothing more to it than that.

‘Y
OU’RE
absolutely positive? You don’t have anything?’ Maddy’s fingers squeezed the mobile. ‘I’ve got a lot of experience and I can provide excellent references.’

The woman on the other end of the phone, the last employer on the list she’d jotted down from the Internet last night, apologised again and hung up.

Maddy dropped the phone into her apron pocket. She’d lost count of how many people she’d rung in the last week, begging for a job. But all the winter work had been snapped up ages ago.

‘Still no luck on the job front, eh?’ Phil placed two frothy cappuccinos on her tray.

She shook her head, tried not to look as dejected as she felt. She should never have indulged herself with Rye for so long, that much was obvious. She wiped the thought. She couldn’t think about him now. He’d been away for over a week and she was in a worse state now than when he’d left.

She’d spent that first day, her day off, scrubbing the cottage until her fingers had been raw. She’d washed the floors, scoured the hob, cleaned out the kitchen cupboards, reorganised her wardrobe and laundered all the bedding in a vain
attempt to put him out of her mind, but it hadn’t worked. The empty feeling inside her, the aching sadness when she had to cook alone, the well of tears that caught her unawares hadn’t gone away. But worse had been the nights and those wildly erotic dreams which woke her in a cold sweat, every cell in her body throbbing, the phantom scent of his skin and the need to have his arms around her so strong the loss felt like a physical blow.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. She’d never been the clingy type. She had to stop obsessing about this. She’d already decided that if Rye returned she would have to be firm and tell him their affair was over. She couldn’t go through all this a second time. A clean break would be best, for both of them. But as hard as that was to contemplate, even harder was the creeping suspicion that Rye had decided not to return to Cornwall after all.

Her bottom lip quivered and she bit into it. Balancing the tray on her arm, she squared her shoulders. ‘I’m sure something will come up.’

Phil laid a hand on her shoulder. ‘Hey, Mads.’ His brows drew together. ‘Are you about to cry?’

‘No, of course not.’ She tried to tug away but he held her easily, plucked the tray off her arm.

‘Sit down.’ He studied her face as he nudged her onto one of the bar stools. ‘And stay put; I’ll take these over. Then we’re going to have a little chat.’

He was back before she had a chance to do more than sigh. ‘Did you ask Rye about working at the hotel? Lover boy owns the place; the least he could do is get you a job.’

‘No, I didn’t,’ she said, folding her arms over her chest. The last thing she needed right now was to be interrogated by Phil. ‘He’s away.’

‘Where is he?’

‘California,’ she replied curtly. She really didn’t want to be
talking about Rye. And she absolutely refused to start whimpering in front of Phil.

‘For how long?’

‘I have no idea.’ She threw her hands up, exasperated. ‘And, as we’re not seeing each other any more—’ she paused, swallowing to shift the idiotic constriction in her throat ‘—I don’t really care.’ She tried to climb down from the stool, but Phil took her upper arm.

‘You guys broke up? Since when?’ he asked.

She huffed out a frustrated breath. Why couldn’t he let this go? ‘We didn’t break up. We were never together. It wasn’t that sort of thing.’

Phil swore. ‘So what sort of thing was it?’ The incredulity and annoyance in Phil’s tone brought a cold rush of shame. Why did their affair suddenly sound so compromising?

‘He was here every damn night behaving as if he owned you,’ Phil continued. ‘And now suddenly he’s gone? I knew he’d do this. That son of a …’

‘Phil, I know you mean well,’ she interrupted, tugging her elbow out of his grasp, ‘but this really isn’t any of your business.’ She climbed off the stool.

‘It is my business when you look dead on your feet and on the verge of tears and one of my friends is the cause.’

‘You’re not responsible for me,’ she said, her spine straightening and the tears drying in her throat.

She’d been a total wimp. And more of a pushover than she ever wanted to admit. But she’d made the decision to have a no-strings affair. And it was her own fault the strings had ended up strangling her. It was way past time to cut loose. ‘And neither is Rye. I’m responsible for myself.’ Pulling her pencil out of her apron, she shoved it behind her ear. ‘Now, I’ve got a shift to finish, if you don’t mind.’

She marched off, her head held high and her back ramrod
straight, ignoring the panic that had been clutching at her throat ever since she’d watched Rye walk away a week ago.

She needed to take control of her life again—a control she now realised she’d ceded to Rye, and her hormones, over the last month.

No more avoidance. No more self-indulgence. Today had officially become Pull Yourself Together Day.

She did remarkably well, considering. She got through the rest of her shift without becoming tearful once. She made another round of calls to prospective employers, but didn’t let the round of fresh rejections get to her either. She even managed to eat all of the dinner she’d cooked in the stillness of her silent kitchen. Or nearly all of it. It wasn’t until she was running herself a hot bath, determined to get her first restful night’s sleep in over a week, and flung open the bottom cabinet to get the bath salts she kept for a special occasion, that Pull Yourself Together Day fell apart at the seams.

There on the shelf was the spare razor and men’s shaving gel Rye had left behind. She stared at them for the longest time, before picking them up and placing them carefully in the bin. But then she caught a whiff of the woodsy scent of pine forests and her legs buckled.

She gripped the basin to stay upright and stared at herself in the mirror, her arms and shoulders screaming with tension, the dark shadows under her eyes almost ghoulish.

What was happening to her? How had cool, calm, sensible Maddy turned into a basket case? And why had Rye, of all men, been the trigger? A man who knew her body better than she knew it herself, but cared so little for her he hadn’t even bothered to contact her since saying goodbye?

She drew a jerky breath.

Face it; he’s not coming back.

She frowned at her bloodshot eyes. She couldn’t even cry,
the huge black hole opening up inside her making her feel as if she were totally numb and disconnected from reality.

She slumped back down on the toilet seat, pressed her knees together to stop them shaking.

Stop it. It’s over and there’s nothing you can do about it.

She grabbed some toilet paper, blew her nose, her hands shaking. She’d foolishly believed she was immune to love. And she’d found out in the most devastating way possible she wasn’t.

The misery pressed against her chest, the tears she refused to shed making her throat burn.

Not only had she fallen hopelessly in love for the first time in her life. She’d fallen for a man who didn’t feel the same way about her and probably never would.

Because he had sealed off his heart at an early age—and was determined never to expose it again.