Page 46 of Losing Control
She turns to look at me and I realise I haven’t answered her.
‘Yes,’ I say.
The simple word is gruff, and I wonder if she can spy the cause. I can sure feel it. The tension building, the anticipation of where this night could be heading...
‘A bit James Bond, don’t you think?’
She cocks a mocking brow, but I know she’s teasing—and, hell, she’s right. What boy didn’t want to grow up to have a Bond house? I sure did.
‘Built into the craggy cliff face...dark and sleek...fully pimped-up.’
‘Does that make me double-oh-seven or a villain?’
‘Why don’t you tell me?’
She runs her teeth over her bottom lip and I swear she’s flipped from sad to flirtatious. I want it to be the latter. I want her to flirt with me.
Her eyes flick back to the spa and there’s a definite longing in her gaze that I can’t miss.
‘You’re welcome to come here any time you like,’ I say thickly, without thinking, and now that the offer is out there, I can’t take it back. ‘There’s an indoor pool downstairs too, protected from the onslaught of the Irish coastal weather.’
‘A pool?’ She lets out a hushed laugh and it feels wistful, distant.
‘What is it, Lexi?’
She doesn’t speak. I don’t even feel like she’s heard me. I walk up to her, about to ask again, when she takes a breath and turns to me.
‘So, about that real drink...?’ she says.
There’s a sudden strength to her voice, to her smile, but I know it’s all front.
‘A Jameson’s?’
Her lashes flutter and I know she’s remembering. It was our drink, our whiskey. On a night after all was said and done, when I’d pulled her away from work—from Liam—we would lie back on the sofa, switch on the TV and crack open a bottle.
‘Perfect.’
It rasps out of her. There’s so much we aren’t saying, so much that needs to be said, and I feel like we’re dancing around it, neither willing to go first.
I turn and head back into the kitchen. The clip of her footsteps follows me, beating in tune to the pulse in my ears. I take out two crystal-cut glasses and place them on the side, the sound of them hitting marble loud in our silence.
I lift up the whiskey that’s already there, waiting, as if it’s always been waiting for this moment, and I pour a healthy measure in each, the slosh of the liquid echoing around us.
As I lift both glasses I turn to face her and she’s even closer than I expect, her proximity stunning me still. Then she offers a small smile, her hand reaching out for one, and I smile with her.
‘Cheers.’
She clinks her glass against mine and takes a sip, her eyes closing, her hum of appreciation almost provoking the same from me.
‘Cheers...’ I murmur, my eyes locked on her as I raise the glass to my lips.
She gives a small sigh of pleasure, her eyes opening and glowing against the pink creeping into her cheeks.
‘Still like a real drink, then?’ I ask.
‘It has its place.’
We stay like that, our eyes hooked on one another, our drinks halfway to our lips, and say nothing. The silence is heavy, weighted.
