He’s messing with my head. Shaking him out of my mind, I pull out the ingredients to prepare a chilli for dinner. Ordinary. Real life. As I fry the beef, I stare out of the dirty kitchen window at the grey sky and small yard covered in rubbish and weeds. I’ve never been pursued by a man before, and this one happens to be more than just a man. Throwing spices and beans into the mix, I push down everything Bryn evokes in me.
Two weeks. How can something intense take over my heart and head in a short space of time? No, four weeks if I count December too. From the moment, I tipped soup in Bryn’s lap and his surprised eyes met mine, I was lost. The star-struck teen who never lusted over rock stars pushed herself to the surface as he slowly appraised me. Every word he said, each time we looked at each other, I was dragged further into his spell.
When Bryn walked outside into the snow and asked if I was okay after losing my job, I wanted to kiss him there and then. How many men like him would follow to ask if I was okay? Few, if any. Bryn did, and he didn’t know me.
Then the weird situation where he arrived pretending we were a couple. Why would he do that? Now I know Bryn better, I suspect this was one of his random, bright ideas he didn’t think through. He pissed me off at the time, but thinking back, I relish the idea he chose to do it. Bryn chose me. He kissed me. I may’ve headed straight to his bed, had the cocktails and unconsciousness not interrupted, but we connected.
Then I slipped into a friendship that I foolishly thought became more and he broke my heart.
Just a small fact I need to remember.
The phone buzzes. Bryn. My stomach lurches but what did I expect?
“Cariad.”
One of the reasons I hate him calling me this is because I love he remembers to, as if I’m his only ‘sweetheart’, even though I know damn well I’m not. I pull my fantasies into line.
“Mountain man.”
“Ah, I like that you called me that.”
“Why?”
“Better than ‘piss off, Bryn Hughes, and leave me alone’.”
I sigh at him dragging me back to him with humour. “What do you want?”
“You. Here. With me.”
I swallow against his abruptness. “Why?”
“I miss you.”
“When are you back in England?” I ask.
“End of the month.”
“If you still miss me then, we can catch up?” I suggest.
Silence.
More silence.
Has he ended the call?
“No,” he says eventually. “I need to see you. I’m serious. I’ll come and get you.”
“What? Club me over the head and carry me over your shoulder back to your cave?”
The sound of Bryn inhaling then exhaling loudly is my immediate response. “Why so defensive, Avery?”
“I told you; you hurt me.”
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