The Day She Came Back by Amanda Prowse

Author:Amanda Prowse [Prowse, Amanda]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-07-06T16:00:00+00:00

EIGHT

The atmosphere in Rosebank the next morning could best be described as charged. Victoria could not deny that to lie with Flynn in a double bed, lost in the moment, had been a glorious awakening. And yet in the cold light of day, the sight of his head on her pillow, his body taking up a lot of mattress space, had been enough to evoke something close to irritation. It was only the second morning that he had been here, but looking at him right then she felt as if he’d been there for an age. It felt intense, too intense, and she wanted a chance to gather her thoughts and ponder the letters without interruption.

‘Flynn!’ she had shouted, jumping from the bed. ‘You have to get up! I’ve got stuff to do!’

‘What stuff?’ he had asked, one eye closed, his head half lifted from the pillow and with the faint outline of dried drool on his chin.

‘Just stuff!’ She wanted nothing more than to take a long, hot bath, alone. He chuckled and laid his head back on the pillow, as if what she wanted was of no consequence.

‘Stuff can wait. It’d be a shame to waste the morning.’ He reached for her, taking her by the hand. ‘Come back to bed, just for a little while.’

The sight of his beautifully formed, semi-naked body was enough to melt her resolve. His skin and the novelty of sexual contact was a magnet. With the pull of her arm, she felt her body slide back on to the mattress. After some intoxicating, hypnotic kissing, the rush of blood to her head and the feel of his hands on her skin – her body overruled her decision to get up and start the day. The question for her was: would sex be any better the second time around? Maybe it was like anything else, only going to improve with practice?

And she supposed it was a little better, but still a whole world away from fireworks.

Flynn showered as she loped around the kitchen, pouring the last of the orange juice into two glasses and rattling the empty carton before lobbing it on the floor next to the bin and filling the kettle with water. She did her best to ignore the rubbish that had accumulated in such a short space of time: egg boxes, empty plastic milk bottles and biscuit wrappers, not to mention the sink piled high with used tea-stained cups, dirty coffee mugs and plates with crumbs and indeterminate smears clinging to their edges.

Flynn filed into the kitchen eventually, his hair flopping over one eye and his lids heavy, but dressed and with his backpack in his hand, seemingly ready to go. The sight of him preparing to leave made her stomach flip with dread. Instantly she regretted her earlier thoughts of wanting to be alone.

‘What time is it?’ He propped his head on his hand on the table and looked like he might nod off again.

‘Latish. More brunchtime than breakfast.’

‘Cheers!’ He raised a glass of orange juice in her direction, and it made her laugh.

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