Page 27 of Daring to Love

7

Amelie

Idon’t hear from Finlay for four days.

The days feel long, cold, and grey. It’s completely irrational, but it’s as if he’s left his mark on me.

More than once, I stop to wonder if I dreamed the whole thing, but then the tingling in my lips remind me of our kiss, and I remember every delicious lick of his tongue against mine. I know I can’t have imagined the whole thing.

And then the text came this morning, and I definitely know he isn’t a figment of my imagination.

I rub my lips in quiet wonder. I’ve never been kissed like that before – it felt as if he savoured me all the while he tried to swallow me whole. The warm tightening between my legs makes me rub my thighs together…the achy need to find my own release a-bloody-gain sends my breath stuttering between my lips.

“Merde.”

I need to stop daydreaming about him. I have to focus on my career, on dancing, and on my degree as a criminologist as well. I can’t be mooning over some stranger despite the way he makes me feel. When he told me that he couldn’t date me while he’s spending time with me for the sake of his story, I admit the rush of disappointment that pierced straight through my needy heart was close to crippling – again, hello, irrational brain! – but now that I’ve had time to process my encounter with him, I have to agree.

Nothing muddles up things like romance.

Even I know that.

Okay, so maybe my knowledge about such things is dismal and comes purely from romance novels, but even so…he’s right. We have to keep professional even if it’s the last thing on my mind when I’m near him.

I groan when I think back on our evening together. Not for the first time, I hate my lack of confidence, and my inability to just act like a normal young woman around a man she fancies.

But, wait…I’m not supposed to fancy him, right? It’s too soon for that.

For the thousandth time, I ignore the needy throb and shake my head. I’m not making any sense, so instead, I pick up my phone from my nightstand and purse my lips. Since he didn’t give me his number the other night, I didn’t know the text came from him when I read it.

Two things – 1) Save my phone number at once. 2) The contract is ready. Text me where you want our legal department to send it? Thanks. /Finlay.

I snort again. He sounds bossy, not something I’m usually into, but then again, I don’t exactly have much to compare him to. I did as he asked, though ended up with Sexy Scot instead – because he bloody well and truly is, and I might not have him, but that doesn’t mean I don’t see him like that – before I sent him a quick text with the contact details of my family’s solicitors.

That was three hours ago, and I haven’t heard a peep from him since. And since I’ve already finished my studies for the day, I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon cleaning my flat.

When the phone rings in my hand, I yelp, before I chuckle at my own silliness. But the chuckle comes stuck in my throat when the words Sexy Scot flash on the screen, and it takes me almost a full verse of my favourite song to unglue me.

“Hello?”

“Why do I get the feeling you weren’t going to answer?” he murmurs low in my ears.

I shiver at the sound, almost having forgot the timbre of his voice, but now, all my feelings come rushing back, and I forget to breathe.

“Are you there?”

“Yes,” I gulp. “Sorry, I was just, errrm, coming out of my shower so didn’t hear my phone at first.”

I cross my fingers behind my back, hoping he buys my lie.

The line grows silent between us and I quickly remove the phone and glance at the screen, wondering if I’ve lost him.

“Finlay?”

He clears his throat. “Still here. Sorry about that.” He sighs and then mutters, “I had to get rid of that visual.”

Confused, I sit down on my bed and scoot up to lean back against my mountain of pillows. Monty, no longer worried I’ll start vacuuming again, comes out from his hidey-hole and lies down next me. Absently, I scratch him underneath his chin, and his purring provides the calm I need to not make an epic fool out of myself as I focus on the hotter-than-sin man on the other end of the line.

“What do you mean?”