better.
“Nice. The hoodie now?”
“I don’t have anything on underneath it.”
“No?” Is that a gleam of lust in his eyes?
“Well, just a vest. A bit too skimpy.”
“Is it decent?”
“Of course.”
“Well then, take off the hoodie. Now please.”
I have absolutely no idea why I obey him, but I do. Every nerve ending I possess is screaming in protest, but under Harry McLeod’s warm scrutiny I take hold of the hem of my dark blue sweatshirt and pull it up over my head. I set it on the spare seat next to me. The strappy vest top underneath is decent but only just. It’s a pretty thing, though—one of my favorites in an eye-catching shade of cerise. Too late I remember that I didn’t bother with a bra today. I don’t bother most days, to be fair, and of course my bulky tops usually cover everything up perfectly well.
“I may have been wrong. About this being decent, I mean. Perhaps I should…” I start to reach for my sweatshirt, but Harry stops me with a word.
“No.” He looks at me, makes no attempt to hide his admiration of my nipples, erect and prominent and threatening to take someone’s eye out if I make any sudden movements. What am I thinking? What am I doing?
Harry’s voice is soft and low and very, very sexy as he leans across to murmur to me, “You weren’t wrong. It’s decent enough, just about. You’re beautiful. I knew it before. Now everyone can see it. But you’re with me. Do you want another coffee or shall we get moving again?”
I’m surprised to realize we’ve both finished our coffee. Our one hour break isn’t quite up yet but it’s near enough, and I don’t fancy another drink.
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Harry stands and picks up my discarded cap and hoodie, perhaps to make sure I can’t scuttle back into my comfort zone the moment his back is turned. I have to admit, in the warm June sunshine the light vest is more comfortable. He waits for me to get to my feet, then we stroll back to my car. He doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s adjusted his speed for me. It’s not that I can’t walk as fast as anyone else, I just prefer not to because that makes my uneven gait more obvious. A sedate pace suits me, and Harry just fits in with it and not a word is said.
* * * *
We stop for lunch at a motorway services on the outskirts of Newcastle. I’m not that hungry given the huge breakfast we shared at the Queens Hotel but Harry insists we both need a break. It’s clear he’ll insist on a one hour stop-over so I excuse myself for a wander round the shops. There’s nothing spectacular here, just the usual travelers’ fare of magazines, paperbacks and confectionery, none of which excites me much. Harry has grabbed his iPad from his case and brought that in with him to take advantage of the Wi-Fi. I can see him across the mall, seated at a table with a cup of his favorite black coffee, tapping away at the screen. He pulls out his phone and makes a call. I wonder who he’s talking to, but of course it’s no concern of mine. It’s probably business. As far as I know, he has no social or family contacts in the UK. I have to acknowledge, though, and despite his protestations on the subject, that what I actually know about Harry McLeod would fit easily on the back of a stamp.
Still, it hasn’t stopped me so far. I watch him from my vantage point beside a passport photo machine. No doubt about it, he’s a treat to look at. I’m not the only woman who thinks so—I spot more than a few female heads turning as they pass on their way to the ladies’ loos. A tiny little girl totters toward him, her harassed mother busy with a tray of juice and sandwiches, and an older child intent on pestering for the cash to spend on a vending machine peddling small rubber balls. As his mother juggles her purse and the tray, the tiny tot, with that unerring cunning even the youngest children seem to be blessed with, sees her opportunity and makes a beeline for
“Nice. The hoodie now?”
“I don’t have anything on underneath it.”
“No?” Is that a gleam of lust in his eyes?
“Well, just a vest. A bit too skimpy.”
“Is it decent?”
“Of course.”
“Well then, take off the hoodie. Now please.”
I have absolutely no idea why I obey him, but I do. Every nerve ending I possess is screaming in protest, but under Harry McLeod’s warm scrutiny I take hold of the hem of my dark blue sweatshirt and pull it up over my head. I set it on the spare seat next to me. The strappy vest top underneath is decent but only just. It’s a pretty thing, though—one of my favorites in an eye-catching shade of cerise. Too late I remember that I didn’t bother with a bra today. I don’t bother most days, to be fair, and of course my bulky tops usually cover everything up perfectly well.
“I may have been wrong. About this being decent, I mean. Perhaps I should…” I start to reach for my sweatshirt, but Harry stops me with a word.
“No.” He looks at me, makes no attempt to hide his admiration of my nipples, erect and prominent and threatening to take someone’s eye out if I make any sudden movements. What am I thinking? What am I doing?
Harry’s voice is soft and low and very, very sexy as he leans across to murmur to me, “You weren’t wrong. It’s decent enough, just about. You’re beautiful. I knew it before. Now everyone can see it. But you’re with me. Do you want another coffee or shall we get moving again?”
I’m surprised to realize we’ve both finished our coffee. Our one hour break isn’t quite up yet but it’s near enough, and I don’t fancy another drink.
“I’m fine. Let’s go.”
Harry stands and picks up my discarded cap and hoodie, perhaps to make sure I can’t scuttle back into my comfort zone the moment his back is turned. I have to admit, in the warm June sunshine the light vest is more comfortable. He waits for me to get to my feet, then we stroll back to my car. He doesn’t say anything, but I know he’s adjusted his speed for me. It’s not that I can’t walk as fast as anyone else, I just prefer not to because that makes my uneven gait more obvious. A sedate pace suits me, and Harry just fits in with it and not a word is said.
* * * *
We stop for lunch at a motorway services on the outskirts of Newcastle. I’m not that hungry given the huge breakfast we shared at the Queens Hotel but Harry insists we both need a break. It’s clear he’ll insist on a one hour stop-over so I excuse myself for a wander round the shops. There’s nothing spectacular here, just the usual travelers’ fare of magazines, paperbacks and confectionery, none of which excites me much. Harry has grabbed his iPad from his case and brought that in with him to take advantage of the Wi-Fi. I can see him across the mall, seated at a table with a cup of his favorite black coffee, tapping away at the screen. He pulls out his phone and makes a call. I wonder who he’s talking to, but of course it’s no concern of mine. It’s probably business. As far as I know, he has no social or family contacts in the UK. I have to acknowledge, though, and despite his protestations on the subject, that what I actually know about Harry McLeod would fit easily on the back of a stamp.
Still, it hasn’t stopped me so far. I watch him from my vantage point beside a passport photo machine. No doubt about it, he’s a treat to look at. I’m not the only woman who thinks so—I spot more than a few female heads turning as they pass on their way to the ladies’ loos. A tiny little girl totters toward him, her harassed mother busy with a tray of juice and sandwiches, and an older child intent on pestering for the cash to spend on a vending machine peddling small rubber balls. As his mother juggles her purse and the tray, the tiny tot, with that unerring cunning even the youngest children seem to be blessed with, sees her opportunity and makes a beeline for
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