“And that’s when I knew it was over. Not because she’d had an affair and I was angry, but because I wasn’t angry. It was a relief. That’s what I felt. I was relieved it was over, and that it wasn’t because of something I did or didn’t do. And I was glad Kirsty had found happiness elsewhere, because I didn’t have to feel guilty that we didn’t force a solution neither of us would have been happy with. They’re still together. I don’t hate or blame either of them. Actually, Mark comes to sevens now and then, so you might meet him at some point. He’s honestly a stand-up guy.
“So, we decided together to get divorced, and we decided on joint custody. Kirsty kept the house, and I moved back to the neighbourhood I grew up in.”
“You grew up in Mudford-upon-Hooke?” he asks, his head tilted to the side as though he’s trying to absorb as much information as possible.
“Yep, in The Old Tithe Barn. It’s right at the end of this lane. Tom and Bryn live there now,” I say. Mathias frowns at me, his question unspoken. “My parents retired to Cornwall.”
“It must be weird having other people living inside the places you used to live. First The Old Tithe Barn and now this cottage.”
“I guess so. I hadn’t thought about it until the other day when you moved in and I brought you some food over. I love this place, though. It’s full of happy memories, even if it’s freezing in winter.” The central heating system really is no match for the twelve-inch-thick stone walls.
But Mathias won’t be around long enough to experience the winters here.
“I want to help,” he says. He pushes his toe against my knee. “With the thatch problem. I think I’ve said it before, but I want to help you figure out some ways to raise funds.” He’s watching me and there’s a curious expression on his face, one I can’t place. Not pity, or mockery, but something . . . softer.
“I would love that. What are you thinking?”
Mathias shrugs. “Fuck knows, but I really want to research some things. I’ll get back to you with some proposals.”
I snort with laughter at the formality of his words. Luckily, he seems to understand I’m not taking the piss.
“I love researching stuff.”
“It’s a very Mathias hobby,” I say, and he beams at me.
On the screen, Bella’s dad is talking to Jacob’s dad.
“I lied earlier,” he says. “I’m not team Edward.”
“Oh? Switched sides, have you?”
He laughs, and my insides turn to goo. “I’m team Charlie.”
“Charlie? Bella’s dad? The police guy?” I’m laughing too. “Fair play. I suppose he’s what the girls might call a dilf.”
“Much more my type,” Mathias says, and his gaze drops to my lips.
The smile is instantly wiped from my face. My heart careens towards my throat, pounding hard against my airways, making it impossible to take a breath. Not that I’m breathing any more.
Did he just . . .
I have no time to react. My body switches to autopilot, and any questions and doubts I might have had parachute out of my brain. There is nohe’s too young, orhe’s leaving soon, orthis could end in unendurable heartbreak for me. There is only Mathias Jones and the rapidly narrowing gap between our bodies as I lean over his crossed legs and bring our mouths together.
It’s not a surprise to him. He doesn’t jolt or push me away or tell me to “fuck off.” He simply steadies me with a firm hand over my shoulder, another on my face, fingers slotting into my beard, and whines into the touch.
The kiss is gentle at first—lips brushing against lips, shared breaths as we figure each other out—but like my own, his sensibilities also seem to have taken a leave of absence as he opens his mouth and strokes his tongue against mine.
And then we’re making out. Snogging like teenagers behind the school bike sheds. It’s wet and a little sloppy, and utterly perfect. My hands wrap around the back of his neck, wander to his shoulders, his ribs, his abdominals.I scrutinise the shape of him. The dips and curves of hard muscles, and the silky cotton-lycra blend workout tee sliding over soft skin.
We pause so he can straighten his legs, and I’m kneeling between them. His warm fingers loiter around the hem of my shirt. I want him to slide them underneath, to take my flesh in his hands, grab me, get rough with me, but he doesn’t go any further and I don’t want to move things too quickly. I have a habit of rushing into situations too fast, too soon, so I need him to be in charge, of everything—the pace, the pressure, how far this goes.Ifit goes any further.
I’d be devastated if he stopped the kiss right now, but I’m also acutely aware he’s the only one of us whocanstop this.
“Wait,” I say, breaking apart. I’m not stopping, in fact I’m making us comfier. I’m in this for the long haul.
I catch my breath and manoeuvre myself into the tiny gap between Mathias and the back of the sofa. It shunts him along the cushions, dangerously close to toppling onto the rug, but I secure him with an arm around his waist.
He shuffles down until his face is in line with mine again. We’re lying on our sides, chest against chest, forehead to forehead. Mathias slips his ankle over mine, his hand brushes down my arm, and his fingers slot between my fingers. It’s such a tender and soft moment, I’m dumbfounded. I have no idea what to say or do next, except to study the lines of his face at such an extreme close up that they’ve blurred and I’ve probably gone cross-eyed.
