THE INTERNET WAS littered with articles about her, and photographs too. As Amelia Ashford had said, Amelia Jamieson had been in every broadsheet newspaper several times. But Amelia had also been modest. She’d told him some of her story without revealing many of the things others might have bragged about. Such as the scientific breakthrough she’d made as a ten-year-old that had led to a whole wing of a university in Texas being named after her. Or the research she’d done that had added a new dimension to the way scientists viewed star formation. She hadn’t told him about the awards, the accolades, the grant money.
Her life, up until she’d made the decision to branch off from her scientific work and become a teacher named Amelia Ashford, had been completely different.
While he was in awe of her genius, he was even more in awe of her courage. To disregard the accolades and praise that was part and parcel of her success, to disappoint her parents and start a whole new life completely on her own, took guts and bravery. While he’d known she was special, seeing the full picture made him appreciate the full extent of that. Photographs of a young Amelia did something to his heart, layering cracks into it. She looked so young and so intensely vulnerable.
It also made a whole heap of sense when it came to why she’d turned up on his doorstep at Renway Hall like a lioness preparing to defend Cameron. She hadn’t had anyone to stand up for her interests as a child, and she hadn’t been prepared to let that same thing happen to Cameron.
It was hard not to feel a sense of affection for someone who was prepared to go in to bat for your own flesh and blood—and who’d single-handedly salvaged the relationship. Without Amelia, he didn’t want to think about where he and Cameron would be.
‘Working?’ He propped one shoulder against the door of her office, scanning the whiteboards. Each was covered with incomprehensible mathematics. The first time he’d come in here and seen it he’d felt as though he were landing in a parallel universe. He was by no means intellectually lacking but his skill set was totally different from this. Mathematics was useful to him when it came to bonds, and profit and loss schedules, not these kinds of complex equation.
‘Mmm...’ She was scanning a piece of paper on her desk. She lifted her eyes to him, then a finger. ‘Hang on one second.’ Without turning away from him, she spoke again. ‘Bishop to E7.’
Santos scanned the desk and saw that there was a tablet propped to her left. A man’s face filled the screen. Handsome with blond hair, overly white teeth, a swarthy tan and green eyes. ‘You’re sure?’
She rolled her eyes but there was a wink in them for Santos. ‘Absolutely. I have to go. I’ll talk to you tomorrow?’
‘No worries. Later, Millie.’
Millie? Heat shifted inside Santos. It wasn’t jealousy so much as surprise, he told himself. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected her friend Brent to be like—surely that was who she was talking to—but it hadn’t been this.
‘Playing chess?’ He covered his unexpected response conversationally.
‘I’m three moves away from check mate. He doesn’t realise it.’
‘You don’t have a board.’
‘It’s in here.’ She tapped her head.
He laughed. ‘Of course it is.’
‘Did you need something?’
Another burst of flame exploded inside him. It was the middle of the work day; it was unusual for him to be here, in her office. But the sense that he was unwelcome sat ill around his shoulders.
‘You’re busy?’
‘I’m—no. Not really. Just familiarising myself with the class list for this year, starting to plan some lessons.’
This year. Term began soon; she’d be leaving. And, while it was strange to imagine what life on the island would be like without Amelia, he was also glad that their time together was almost drawing to a close. He wasn’t foolish enough to pretend their forced proximity hadn’t threatened to complicate his usually straightforward approach to relationships.
When Amelia left, he and Cameron would move to Athens and he’d return to a normal sort of life. He’d meet other women, and before long he’d forget about Amelia.
No. He’d never forget about her, and he didn’t actually want to, anyway. But, once she left, his life would return to normal; he wouldn’t crave her like this. It was simply a question of proximity and habit.
‘I’m going to stretch my legs on the beach. Want to join me?’
She blinked, the offer apparently not what she’d expected. ‘Where’s Cameron?’
‘He’s napping.’
Amelia’s brows shot upwards. ‘Napping? Is he ill?’
‘He’s exhausted,’ Santos admitted sheepishly. ‘I took him to the fishing village this morning. We hiked, swam, ate. I gather I wore him out.’
Her heart felt as though it were being gently warmed. Santos spending time with Cameron made her feel an intense wave of relief. When she’d first arrived she’d had no idea how Santos would ever fill the father role in Cameron’s life but the pieces were falling into place. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask about that—how come there’s a village on an otherwise private island?’
‘Come for a walk with me and I’ll answer.’
She tilted her head a little. ‘Bribery?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Fine.’ She dropped her pen and stood. The sight of her in a pair of linen shorts and a simple T-shirt made him want to forget his suggestion of the beach and instead drag her to his bedroom. He swallowed hard and spun away before he could do just that.
The sand was warm beneath their feet. He took her hand on autopilot as they approached the shoreline, and felt her eyes jerk to his in response, but she looked away again almost immediately.
‘So the fishing village?’
‘Right. That was my grandfather.’
‘He built it?’
‘No.’ Affection ran through him. ‘My grandfather was a great man, Amelia. I wish...’
I wish you could have known him.
He cut himself off from saying the overly sentimental line, wondering where the hell the words had even come from. ‘I wish he was still here, but he died when I was in my teens.’ He kicked at the water; it splashed ahead of them. ‘He was close friends with Daniel Konopolous, who was apparently renowned for his skill as a fisherman. In stormy weather and at any time of the day he could return with full nets. He lived on this island, but the village was losing its numbers, with people moving to the mainland. My grandfather bought the island, including the village, and allowed the fisherman to live and fish rent-free. There’s been a fishing community here for a very long time; he didn’t want to see that heritage lost.’
‘And you still support the village?’
‘I like having it here.’ He reached down, picking up a piece of pale blue sea glass and handing it to her. She studied it as though it might have secret properties.
‘So you don’t charge them anything?’
‘Why would I? I don’t need the money.’
‘I thought you lived and breathed business. Such generosity isn’t routed in commercial principles.’
‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed. ‘But it’s born of decency. Besides, I have no doubt my grandfather would come back and haunt me for ever if I made the slightest attempt to alter the arrangement.’
She was still looking at the sea glass. After a moment, she lifted it towards his face. ‘This is the exact shade of blue as your eyes.’
The observation was simple, and perhaps it came from a scientific perspective, but that did nothing to stop the sharp blade that seemed to be drawing along his sides. And if he’d been wondering if she was reading something into that, or being sentimental in her own way, she lifted her hand and tossed the sea glass out to sea, smiling at him in a way that showed how wrong he was. What had he been afraid of—that she’d treasure the gift of sand-softened glass for ever?
She had done nothing to worry him on that score. Everything was going just as he would have wanted—simple, easy, no emotional demands. It was perfect. As if to cement that, he caught her around her waist and lifted her to his chest, so she tipped her head back on a laugh as he carried her out to sea.
‘I’m fully dressed!’ she warned and he arched a single brow in response.
‘Is that an invitation?’
‘Cameron could see.’
‘He’s fast asleep.’
She searched for something else to say but he didn’t give her much opportunity. Striding deeper into the water, once it was halfway up his chest he dropped her into it and she squawked, spinning round and instinctively splashing him. He laughed, dropping into the sea himself, reaching for her, bringing her thrashing body closer and kissing her through the saltiness of the ocean.
She stopped moving and stood still, pressed to him, her body wet, their clothes clinging to them. When they kissed, nothing else seemed to have light or meaning; the world ceased to have a purpose beyond them. He deepened the kiss, his tongue duelling with hers, and she retaliated, using his body to move higher, her mouth pressing to his, her hands driving through his hair, her breasts flat to his chest. He groaned, moving deeper in the water until she was floating and he was keeping them standing, and only here in the safety of that depth did he push her shorts down, so he could cup her naked buttocks and hold her against his hardness.
The sun baked down on them, hot and unrelenting on the back of his head as he kissed her, his erection jerking between them, his body alive with a desperate hunger that only she could meet.
How could it still be like this between them? For weeks he’d been waiting for desire to wane, yet it hadn’t. Every night together brought them closer to the end, making him aware of the temporary nature of this. And that served to increase his urgency, to make him yearn for her even at times like this—when they’d been together only the night before.
‘You are so perfect.’ He spoke the words in Greek, safe in the knowledge she wasn’t fluent in the language and wouldn’t understand them. ‘This is perfect.’
Her response was a soft moan into his mouth and a roll of her hips, a silent invitation that came from her own overwhelming need for him.
‘Please...’ The word was one she said often when they were making love, begging for him to quench her needs, and he never needed to be asked twice. He had no protection—a foolish oversight, but they had only been coming for a beach walk—he hadn’t expected this. Why? Why hadn’t he, when their needs were always paramount? And what had he wanted, then—simply to walk hand in hand and talk? Who the hell was he turning into?
In rejection of that, he moved his hand between her legs, his eyes on hers as he found her most sensitive cluster of nerves and strummed it, his fingers knowing exactly what she liked, how to pleasure her, how to drive her wild and then hold back, to extend her fevered need.
‘I want you,’ she insisted, tilting her head back, her eyes scrunched closed.
‘I don’t have a condom.’
‘I do.’ Her cheeks were already pink from the heat of passion but he suspected there was a blush in there too. ‘It seemed like a wise precaution to start carrying something,’ she explained with a shrug, reaching behind her and pulling a foil square from her back pocket.
‘You have no idea how good that looks to me right now.’
‘To both of us,’ she assured him, using her teeth to open the square. Her hands found the tip of his cock and expertly rolled the protection over his length, if somewhat teasingly, so a hiss burst from between his teeth.
‘Christos.’
Her response was to lift up and wrap her legs around his waist, taking him deep inside her, an inaudible curse escaping her lips as she lay back in the ocean. His hands gripped her hips and he moved her, pulling her back and forth at first before his hand shifted to her femininity, strumming it as he moved so she whimpered and pulled to sitting, pressing herself against him and moving up and down his length, using her feet wrapped around his back for purchase.
Her first orgasm almost brought his own from him. He ground his teeth together, refusing to succumb to that temptation, needing more of this before he brought an end to it. Her breathing was frantic and he kissed her, sucking her panic and pleasure into his mouth, holding her against his body as her feminine core spasmed around his length.
Before she could find her equilibrium, he began to move again, pushing into her and pulling out, his hands roaming her body, his mouth devouring hers; or was it the other way around? A fever had gripped them both, making it impossible to tell who was pushing and who was taking; they were a jumble of hands and limbs and frenzied movements.
‘God, Santos!’ His name was tormented. She cried it out but the ancient ocean swallowed it away, the elements surrounding them making this all the more powerful. When her body was at its breaking point once more, he went with her, releasing himself with a guttural oath, burying his head in her shoulder, breathing her in, feeling every breath of hers in his lungs, his own lungs barely able to inflate his chest sufficiently.
The waves rolled with an audible gush; the ocean breathed alongside them and the sun beat down, the elements fierce and organic, and Santos stood there pressed to Amelia, holding her against his body until the world had tipped neatly back onto its axis.
‘Your shorts are floating away.’
He lifted his head from her neck, confused at first before her words made any kind of sense. He angled his head to their left where, sure enough, his clothing was floating on top of the water.
‘Mine too, come to think of it.’ She laughed a little unsteadily.
‘Stay here.’ He pulled away from her with genuine regret, free-style swimming to their clothes and catching them in his palm.
‘Thanks.’ She took them from his outstretched hand when he returned. He put out an arm of support and she gripped it while she pulled on her shorts, smiling at him as though she was waking up from some kind of dream.
‘That’s not what I expected when we came out here.’
‘Me neither, though I suppose that shows we should always expect it as a possibility.’
‘That’s true. One week a rooftop in Athens, the next a private beach in the Aegean.’ She shook her head, her mouth curved in amusement.
‘Tonight, a roof-top garden in Paris?’
‘What?’
Her smile dropped, showing surprise. His tone was nonchalant, casual. ‘I offered to take Cameron there, to measure the Eiffel Tower. I’m sure he’d enjoy it a lot more if you were there too.’
‘Oh.’ Uncertainty shifted in her expression. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘It’s just... Paris.’
He waited.
‘You know, city of love?’
He burst out laughing. ‘And you think this holds some danger for us?’
Heat stole into her cheeks. ‘No, that’s silly.’ She laughed, but it was shaky. ‘But I’ll have to get back to England soon. Paris might be better kept until after I go.’
‘Paris is next door to London. Why not stop in on your way home?’
The finality of his offer filled her head with doubts. It was so casual, so carefree, as though ‘the way home’ was simple. As though a little detour would mean nothing. And it shouldn’t. It wasn’t the fact it was Paris, per se, but that it was yet another shared experience, something they were doing together. The night they’d spent in Athens had already begun to transform her dreams. Falling asleep in his arms beneath a starlit sky had seemed to weave her past and present together—fears and grief from her childhood, encapsulated by the heavenly spectre of glistening particles in the sky, had acted as some kind of balm. And ever since then she’d found it impossible not to think about that—and about him.
Santos had been clear about his wishes for this from the start, and she wasn’t stupid enough to hope for more from him, but nor could she deny that she was starting to want more. The idea of returning to England was no longer one she faced with any degree of pleasure. Nor was her teaching job—though that seemed impossible to believe. Her village and school community were the first home she’d ever known but they weren’t the only place she felt at home. Now, there was this island and this mansion, and even his place in Athens. It was anywhere Santos was.
A foreshadowing of disaster curdled her blood so that, as the Anastakos jet came down to land over the city, even the sight of beautiful Paris didn’t arrest the worry inside her. Perhaps the real Greek tragedy of her life was still ahead of her.
‘It’s not getting bigger.’
Amelia met Santos’s eyes over Cameron’s head and smiled. It was a smile that hurt a little—everything hurt at that point. She knew she had to leave but that didn’t stop her from feeling every single emotion.
‘Not recognisably, no,’ she answered, her voice a little raspy. ‘It’s a very gradual process that takes days of intense heat.’ She tousled her fingers through his hair then reached down for his hand. His small one fit inside hers and she squeezed it.
‘It’s still beautiful.’
She smiled at Cameron again. ‘Yes.’
‘Mummy used to talk about the Eiffel Tower,’ he confided as they began to walk along the Seine. Santos held Cameron’s other hand in his and the three of them walked in a line.
‘What did she say?’ It was Santos who asked the question, his voice gruff.
‘That it was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen.’ His smile was tinged with sadness. ‘She told me there’s a very fast train that travels here and that we would take it one day.’
Sadness flooded Amelia. She glanced at Santos. His expression was steely. ‘I’m sorry she isn’t here to see it with us.’
She knew him well enough to know that he genuinely meant that. Her heart trembled a little.
‘Me too.’
They walked in silence for a few hundred metres. ‘Can I get some ice-cream?’
‘No, darling,’ Amelia murmured.
At the same time Santos said, ‘I don’t see why not.’
Cameron looked from one to the other and then leaned closer to Santos. ‘Thanks, Dad.’
Santos couldn’t help his reaction; his eyes flew to his son’s face first and then to Amelia’s. Her eyes sparked with his. They’d both heard it; they understood it. Dad.
Such a small word but the meaning... It ricocheted around them, exploding like a pinball inside Santos. Emotions he hadn’t known he possessed welled inside him.
Dad.
He was a dad.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them Amelia was smiling gently, her gaze warm on Cameron’s little face. ‘I’m out-voted, then.’
‘Definitely.’ Cameron licked his lips. ‘Can I get two scoops?’
Santos laughed, a laugh that was so full of joy and pride; he was almost euphoric. Something about that moment felt utterly perfect. ‘Don’t push it.’
Santos’s penthouse wasn’t far away and, after picking up their ice-cream, they walked towards it, surrounded by the ambient noise of Paris. As they turned into his street, they were confronted by a night market. In the time they’d been out, it had been completely set up from scratch. Tents were side by side, lights had been strung from one side of a narrow walkway to the other and the stalls boasted all sorts of treasures. Jewellery, books, art, more books. She lingered at one for a moment then kept walking, reaching for Cameron’s hand.
An artist with an easel stood perched at the end of the street. Amelia smiled—he was so quintessentially what she might have imagined a Parisian street artist to look like. Silver hair at the temples, slender, dressed in corduroy trousers with braces over a loose shirt, and a beret on the top of his head, the angle of it charming and jaunty. A family sat before him, their picture being faithfully and quickly mined from the blank page.
‘Amelia, look!’ Cameron pointed at the portrait, drawing the attention of the little girl in the picture.
‘Don’t move, Angela,’ her mother instructed in a broad American accent. The girl’s eyes remained focussed on Cameron, with that curiosity children instinctively have for other children, before she turned back to the artist.
‘Can we do one?’ Cameron squeezed Amelia’s hand, looking up at her and smiling. ‘Please?’
Something stuck hard in Amelia’s throat. ‘Oh, I don’t think so.’ She bit down on her lip, because even as she issued the refusal a part of her wanted to agree. ‘It’s late.’
Santos watched, as surprised by his son’s suggestion as Amelia evidently was.
‘But please,’ Cameron insisted. ‘So I have a picture of you. For when you...go.’ The last word was little more than a whisper, but it screamed through Santos. The pleasure of a moment ago disappeared like a popped balloon.
Amelia’s eyes lifted to his and Santos held her gaze, his expression impassive even when his mind was firing. The bond between Cameron and Amelia was unmistakable. It was why he’d insisted she come to Agrios Nisi, and he’d seen evidence of that bond again and again. But hearing Cameron ask for a picture because Amelia was leaving made Santos feel two things: irresponsible, for not properly having appreciated that there was risk in this step—risk that Cameron would become too attached to a temporary part of his life; and excluded, because Cameron’s love for Amelia was so apparent. Santos didn’t know if their connection was something he’d ever have with his son. He wasn’t sure he’d ever have it with anyone.
Amelia had been trying to help him—but that wasn’t the answer. Santos had told her that repeatedly. He needed to focus on his relationship with Cameron. It was no good to feel excluded from their bond—he had to focus on being the father Cameron deserved. Fear had driven him to employ Amelia—fear of being alone with Cameron, of not being what the little boy needed, but that wasn’t acceptable. Santos had never run from a challenge and this was the most important of his life. He would conquer it—he had to.
‘What do you say, monsieur?’ the artist called, taking payment from the mother of the family he’d just drawn and giving his full attention to Santos. ‘Let me draw your beautiful family. Your wife and child should be captured on paper, no?’
‘Yes,’ Cameron agreed with a grin.
‘Another time,’ Amelia demurred gently then, to Cameron as she guided him away, ‘We have plenty of photographs together on my phone. I’ll send one to your dad to print.’
Cameron, though, was unusually determined. ‘Why can’t we get a picture, though? Like that other family before?’
‘Because we’re not a family.’ Santos’s words cut through them all, like the shockwave from an earthquake. His eyes met Amelia’s and held her startled gaze for a moment before he crouched in front of Cameron. ‘You and I are a family, Cameron.’ His words were throaty and guttural, filled with an emotion that surprised him with its strength. ‘Amelia is just a friend. It’s different.’
No one spoke for the rest of the short walk to his apartment. Even Cameron was quiet.
But Amelia’s mind had been flooded by his words. Amelia is just a friend. It’s different. We’re not a family.
The silence filled her with a sense that she was drowning.
She felt as if she was on the outside looking in on something incredibly beautiful and warm but being lashed by snow and ice. She was their ‘friend’, except she wasn’t. Her place in both of their lives was temporary.
They were a family. She didn’t belong.
The next day, she’d leave. Soon Cameron would start a new school, make new friends and have a different teacher; and, while he might—for a time—think of Miss Ashford, before long she’d be a tiny figment of his imagination, slipping through the recesses of his mind until she was gone for ever. As for Santos?
At the door to the building that housed his penthouse, she looked at him without meaning to, only to find his eyes were resting on her face. Her heart stuttered. Would he think of her when she was gone? Would he miss her?
‘Let’s go upstairs.’
She nodded her agreement, but her insides were awash with doubts. She hadn’t been stupid enough to think saying goodbye would be easy but she’d had no concept of just how damned hard it would turn out to be.
He was used to Paris. Used to the Eiffel Tower, used to the city, used to its sounds and smells, but being here with Amelia on their last night together somehow made it different. New all over again, like the first time he’d come here.
‘You were annoyed by him?’ Her words reached across the room and he fixed his gaze on her face intently, as if committing it to memory. Maybe he should have let the artist draw the damned picture. He didn’t have a photo of himself with Amelia. What a childish thing to care about! Since when had he wanted photographs of his lovers? Boxing her neatly into that shelf filled him with satisfaction. Amelia was no different from anyone else he’d been with. Even as he told himself the comforting fact, he acknowledged it for the lie it was.
‘Who?’
She sipped her Scotch, her expression morphing into a grimace as the unfamiliar alcohol assaulted her. ‘The artist.’
He searched for the right words. He had been annoyed. Jealous? Excluded? Worried? None of those things particularly did him credit. He focussed on the small part of his response he could claim without a sense of shame. ‘I was annoyed for Cameron. He doesn’t need to hear that kind of thing—that we’re a family when it’s patently untrue.’
He shifted his gaze across the room, his eyes landing on the door that led to Cameron’s room. They’d left Talia on the island—it was just a short trip, and easy enough for Santos to manage Cameron on his own. Truth be told he was, in some ways, looking forward to being alone with the boy. It was a double-edged sword, though, because that would only happen once Amelia had left.
‘It was a natural assumption,’ Amelia murmured, but her eyes had fallen away, her expression frustratingly shuttered from his.
‘Just as it’s natural for Cameron to wish he were part of a family. It’s something he’s never known—even with his mother. But allowing him to indulge an illusion will only hurt him in the long run. We’re not a family and it felt important to explain that to Cameron. Do you disagree?’
It felt good to say the words, as though they were important somehow. Her expression flickered slightly but then she tersely moved her head sideways. Her dark hair was glossy in the evening light. ‘No. I...think you were right.’ But it was a soft statement, swallowed by swirling emotions. Her concern for Cameron was obvious.
‘He’ll be fine,’ Santos assured her after a quiet moment. ‘Don’t worry about him.’
‘I’ll always worry about him,’ she said simply, her smile melancholy.
‘You don’t trust me?’
‘I care for him,’ she clarified. ‘I think loving someone and worrying about them probably go hand in hand.’
He stiffened, her easy use of the word ‘love’ sparking inside him. She was talking about Cameron, not him, but it nonetheless felt as though danger were surrounding him.
‘I was a little...surprised too. I hadn’t realised what we would look like, from the outside.’ Her smile was awkward. ‘It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything even remotely resembling a family.’ Her cheeks flushed pink. ‘I know we’re not. I just meant what people might have thought...’
Her loneliness opened a huge hole in his chest. He tried to cover over it, to ignore it. He’d made a choice to stay single, to avoid emotional commitments, but she hadn’t. Not really. Her parents had devastated her, and she’d gone into a mode of self-protection ever since then, but she deserved to be a part of something; she deserved to be loved. The certainty rolled through his gut. She deserved to be loved. The idea of that stirred something uncomfortable within him but also brought him a wave of happiness because, more than anything, he wanted her to be happy.
He couldn’t make her happy.
Offering her weekend assignations when it suited him would be a bastard’s move and she deserved better. Once she left, he’d never see her again; setting her free was the best thing for her.
He resolutely changed the subject. ‘Who won your chess game?’
‘I did.’ Her features relaxed. ‘I almost always do, though.’
Santos narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. He had to set her free—and perhaps she wouldn’t even mind that much. ‘So why do you suppose he continues to play against you?’
‘He’s a far better player now than he was when we first started competing,’ she said simply, taking another drink. This time, her face didn’t contort with the hit of alcohol.
‘You don’t think there could be another reason?’
‘Such as?’
‘Such as he’s attracted to you?’
‘Brent?’ She pulled a face. ‘No way. He’s definitely just a friend.’
But Santos wasn’t so sure about that. It seemed unlikely and impossible.
‘Honestly, there’s nothing between us—and never has been.’
‘Maybe you should revisit that.’
‘Why?’
‘He seems nice. You obviously have a lot in common.’
‘You don’t mean he “seems nice”. You mean he’s handsome, and therefore I should feel attracted to him,’ she challenged.
‘I wouldn’t really know what you find handsome,’ he responded lightly, drinking his Scotch.
She rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve had very lovely looking men ask me out in the past, thank you very much. That’s not what I’m into.’
‘You don’t like attractive people?’
Her easy smile morphed into a frown of deep concentration. ‘The fact you’re attractive isn’t why I was attracted to you.’
‘So why were you?’
He leaned forward, his need to hear her answer surprising him.
‘Why after living as a nun or a social isolationist did you decide you wanted me to be your first?’
She stared at her drink so he wanted to reach across and lift her chin, tilting her face towards his, but he didn’t. He waited, impatience making his gut clench.
‘I can’t really say,’ she said a little breathlessly. ‘I think my stardust and your stardust just aligned.’
It was such a romantic thing for a scientist to say that her expression was self-conscious, and then she laughed. Only to his ears the sound was slightly brittle.
‘Sorry. That’s a load of nonsense. I bet you can’t wait to see the back of me tomorrow.’