At Last (5 page)

To: Courtney Phillips
yapalot@g
...

Date: 17 May 2010

Re: So much better…

Distant memory, babe. You sure you’re a virgin? Virgins shouldn’t know about stuff like that.

From: Courtney Phillips
yapalot@g
...

To: Ryan Klark
rudejoker@h
...

Date: 28 May 2010

Re:  Implosion

Selene just picked one of my dresses for the Autumn/Winter collection. AAAARRRGGGHHH!! Love you! I’ve had champagne so I can say it! Squeal!!

From: Ryan Klark
rudejoker@h
...

To: Courtney Phillips
yapalot@g
...

Date: 29 May 2010

Re: Awesome

Really proud of you, Court. I know how hard you’ve worked. Congratulations. I’ve put a present in the post for you. Should turn up in a few days. Selene obviously sees what I do. That you’re incredibly talented and have great musicality. Sorry, that’s an X-Factor thing. She’s lucky to have you. Like I’m lucky to know you. You know you’re my best friend, don’t you? And…well, I’m glad you didn’t delete that email. Because it’s all true. I thought you should get a handle on that before I turn up on your doorstep. Yep, I’m coming back. Breathe, Court, breathe. Call me later if you want. Ryan xxx.

From: Courtney Phillips
yapalot@g
...

To: Ryan Klark
rudejoker@h
...

Date: 30 May 2010

Re:  SAY WHAT?!

What…you’re…and you. What? So you. With the email. And. What? What do you mean you love me?

From: Ryan Klark
rudejoker@h
...

To: Courtney Phillips
yapalot@g
...

Date: 29 May 2010

Re: I love a simpleton

Flight lands this time in two weeks. It’s all very simple, my dear Miss Phillips. It’s that thing that normally happens to computer nerds, but it’s happened to me. From your email, it looks like you can’t cope. So I’ll leave you be for a little bit. Fran will probably be sacrificed in the wake of a complete lack of communication, but I’ll cope. Somehow.

From: Courtney Phillips
yapalot@g
...

To: Ryan Klark
rudejoker@h
...

Re:  Who are you calling simple?

Date: 31 May 2010

What time’s your flight? I’ll come and meet you.

Mr Ryan Klark S. Preston, Esquire

Camps Bay Apartments

Cape Town

South Africa (not for much longer)

Miss Courtney Phillips

31 Kings Palace Road

My Home Town

UK

31
^st
May 2010

Dear Court,

Still love you.

Ryan xxx (if you let me)

I was so scared. I was vibrating, trembling so much. How I was able to drive to Heathrow airport, let alone have a shower, I have no idea. The idea of even shaving my legs was a no-no, because I would have scarred myself in ten different places.  Ryan and I were going to meet. Face to face. We had been emailing each other for four months, talking on the phone for three and talking about what we would do to one another in the privacy of a bedroom for… Well, not long enough to make me feel less worried about seeing him. I didn’t understand why he liked me so much. Other than my newly acquired skill in describing sex.

He had been true to his word about leaving me be. There was only that lone letter he’d posted to me, and his present, which had rocked up—a hefty book on Christian Dior. There was no way that man would know how much I loved Dior unless he paid attention to every single word I ever said to him. All I had was our emails, which I read over and over again obsessively. Then he sent a short one telling me his flight details and saying if I wasn’t able to come to the airport, he would get a taxi. I told him off for that, then told him I had taken the day off work to meet him.

So there I was, wearing a pure white
broderie anglaise
summer dress that tied on my shoulders and flat sandals (I couldn’t drive in heels). Halfway to Heathrow, I realized I looked like a sacrificial virgin.

I checked the flight times again and again and everything was all right, nothing delayed, no horrible crashes. I had written a sign for him: “The Queen Vic is waiting for you.” Our mutual adoration of
EastEnders
didn't really mean he'd actually step foot inside that pub. It was the scene of much carnage over the years. I'd be scared drinking in there.

I wish I had written something simpler, like “Welcome Home, Ryan.” The mass of old wrinkly men who came up to me, staring hopefully at my chest, were turned away apologetically at first, then with irritation. My stomach started to twist itself into knots, and my foot beat a relentless tattoo against the floor. Then came a flood of passengers who had to be Ryan’s plane compadres.

And I saw him. My sign nearly slipped from my hands, and my knees trembled. Wearing a worn hooded gray top and fitted jeans that showed just how long his legs were, he was pushing his case on a trolley. He caught sight of me; then he saw my sign and grinned, much to the bemusement of the people around him. I folded up the sign and tucked it into my bag. He pushed the hoodie from his head, his hair scattering wildly, catching the sheen of the electrical lights. It made him look almost angelic, one of God's haloed favourites, obviously before he was clearly arse kicked out of heaven for being a dirty-minded sex pest.

My eyes were round trying to take all of him into view. Ryan was looking me up and down lazily.

“Well,” he said, “Courtney Phillips in the flesh, and not a machine in sight.”

I gave a nervous chuckle. “Can you manage without? Or shall I go outside and call you on your mobile?”

“I’m not sure British Airways would condone such behaviour,” he said primly, before laughing with me. He held out his arms toward me and I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him tightly to me.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hey you,” I whispered back. He pulled back a little and tucked a lock of my hair behind my ear.

I took in his staggeringly vivid green eyes, flecked with the smallest amount of gold around the pupils and surrounded by floor-sweeping lashes. Before I knew what I was doing, I was tracing the stark white scar beneath his right eye, shuddering helplessly at the thought of two-year-old Ryan being in pain.

“What? Scars are sexy,” he defended, a small smile edging his firm, full lips. “You are so small!”

“Oi! I’m wearing flat shoes.”

He laughed, his arms tightening around my waist. “You’re perfect. Come here.”

“What?” I blinked, suddenly nervous again. “Why?”

“Because, Miss Phillips, I want all those little x’s you promised me at the end of your emails.”

I tried to curb the immediate burn of excitement that flashed through my whole body. I eased myself closer, and he lifted me so I was eye level with him, hard against the length of his torso, his forearms braced just under my bottom. I caught the smile in his beautiful eyes as he leaned closer and brushed his mouth over mine, watching me the entire time. It was just a touch, but it set me on fire, and my hands tightened on his shoulders.

“Close your eyes, Court,” he commanded softly. I did as he asked, then gasped as his mouth collided with mine. His tongue traced the seam of my lips, and I again did as he silently asked and parted my lips. I moaned a little more loudly as his tongue stroked over mine, one hand at my back pressing me to him, soft stubble rubbing over my skin. I felt the tips of his fingers delve between the buttons at the back of my dress as he angled his head to take more of me, kissing me even deeper. Oh God, I thought, trailing my fingers through his soft curls, why weren’t we near a bedroom? What would we get done for if we just went to the toilets and just…

“Get a room!” someone yelled.

Ryan lifted his head and gave me one last kiss, then set me down on the ground. I just stared at him. Poor Fran. I would have chased him too. My skin felt as if there were electrodes running up and down it. What was I doing before he touched me? “Okay, umm, do you want to get going?”

“How about we stay and put on a show? Like
True Blood
, just a bit more explicit.”

I stared at him in horror, only to realise that he was joking. I couldn’t say a word. “You know,” he said as he hooked an arm around my shoulders, pushing his suitcase trolley with one broad hand, “you were more talkative with several thousand miles between us.”

The warm weight of his arm didn’t help with the breakdown of my vocal cords. “Well, that’s different. I mean, I had time to think and you hadn’t just…”

Ryan stroked his fingers through my loose hair. “Just what, babe?”

Kissed me like you were going to take my virginity on the floor of Terminal Five.
“Arrived,” I finished lamely.

Ryan stopped the trolley and gathered me into another hug. “You’re still you.” He kissed me again, then released me. “Okay, where’d you park your car? Do you mind playing chauffeur for a bit?”

“Yes sir.” I saluted. We walked toward the car together as I asked him how the flight was and how weird it felt being in England.

“Not bad, weather’s pretty much the same.”

We reached my little golf, and he bundled his cases into the back. He returned the trolley, then folded his big body into the car. He pulled my seatbelt across me, his knuckles brushing over the swell of my breast, before he did his own. He leaned his head back against the seat.

“Jet lag,” he explained before I could even start to complain.
I love him
, I thought dreamily, then nearly backed into another car because of the shock of such a thought.

“Phillips, it does help to look in the rear-view mirror.”

“Kiss my arse,” I snapped. I hated backseat drivers.

“Whenever you like.” He grinned, closing his eyes. I sent him a matronly look of disapproval, which he completely missed. I caught him up on recent events, political, environmental, and most importantly,
EastEnders
. I realised I had been talking for ages. “I watch too much TV,” I added apologetically.

“You’ve got to find something to keep you occupied,” he suggested with a quirk of his dark eyebrows.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner!”

He chuckled, giving me such a bright smile, all sensation in my body went into overdrive. How on earth was I in a car with this guy? How did I even know him? I couldn’t believe or understand my luck, but something told me to stop complaining and enjoy.

Ryan fell asleep about twenty minutes later, but I had to wake him up to know where the hell to go. I stroked the back of my hand over his cheek. “Ry, I need to know where to go. Chauffeur needs direction.”

He struggled through layers of sleep to rub his fist over his eyes. God, that was way too gorgeous to tally.

“Know where you are?”

“Hmm. You need to turn left here, then go straight through.”

“To Knightsbridge?”

“Yeah.”

“You live in Knightsbridge?”

“’Fraid so.”

My eyebrows left the stratosphere. “You live with your parents?” I stated on a questioning note. I felt silly for asking; it made me realise just how much I still didn’t know about Ryan. He had no go areas.

“No,” he said slowly, then yawned.

“So wait, you live alone in one of the most expensive areas of an already ridiculously expensive city?”

Ryan looked at me with those jade eyes, and another yawn. “Yeah, I do.” He turned his gaze toward the window. “Guilt gift from said parents.”

I swore as I missed my turning. Ryan quickly directed me through a shortcut to put me back on track. I turned down the radio. “Can I ask why they bought it for you?”

Ryan made a sound in his throat, which vibrated annoyance. “Court, I don’t want to have this conversation with you. Turn here.”

“Why not? I mean it’s come up, so let’s talk about it. I like to think that we’ve been pretty blunt with each other, and I don’t see why that should stop because it’s a little awkward.” I glanced at him briefly.

“I get your point,” he admitted quietly, then started chewing on his thumb. “Okay, look, my parents have been pretty absent most of my life. I’ve spent more time with friends and relatives than with them. A couple of years ago, I was trying to finish my degree when my granddad died. He didn’t agree with the method of parenting my folks went with, and he was always my backup. When I got a first, to my immense surprise, my parents celebrated on a job well done and bought me the flat in an area they rarely go to.”

“That could have been somewhere crappy, like Acton,” I muttered.

Ryan’s smile was weak. “Yeah, but not as fancy. It’s big enough to have decent parties in. Makes up for a complete lack of parental support.”

He was waiting for me to apologise, but I didn't work like that. “Why didn’t you tell them what you wanted?”

“To get more guilt gifts?”

“No, to get the attention you obviously needed. Was it that hard to ask?”

“Ask them for something? Fuck that.”

“You know you wouldn’t have degraded yourself by doing that. Asking for something isn’t that difficult, really.”

His eyes narrowed. “Really.” He drawled, “Then why didn’t you ask Chris out?”

I so knew that was coming to bitch slap me. It was Ryan’s only defence mechanism against me. “I didn’t want him to say no to me.”

“He might not have,” he replied carefully.

“He would have,” I insisted. “And I would have lost his friendship, and I would never have met you. And despite being a secretive bugger, I quite like you.”

His face brightened with a smile that should have taken all strength from my legs. “Only because you know I’d say yes to you for anything.”

I lifted my chin regally, until Ryan nodded to a door. “That one.”

I parked, and Ryan said he would go upstairs and check that the residence permit had arrived so I wouldn’t get a ticket. Clever boy, I thought. He jogged down the stairs and stuck the permit on my window. He then gave me the keys and the smallest case so I could go in ahead of him. I walked inside and tried to keep my jaw level with the rest of my face.

The flooring was black painted wood, matched with monochromatic furniture and bright white walls. He had a real fireplace in the living room—who needed a real fireplace? I put down the small case and wandered into the kitchen, which carried on the mono theme with dark marble on the counters and cream wood cabinets. I opened his huge fridge to beer and the end slice of a loaf of bread. I figured one of his mates had regularly checked on the place. Or used it to impress girls.