The night air was mild and soft on his face as he crossed the car park to his Aston for the short drive home. Back at the Gatehouse, he kicked off his shoes, turned on the TV and poured himself a generous finger of whiskey. He resisted the urge to send her a goodnight text. He’d left it too late. He wouldn’t disturb her, though she was disturbing his thoughts again.
He eased his legs out onto the leather sofa, nudging aside one of the four terriers who’d joined him there. His own dogs and Hettie’s two, waiting for her to come back, as he was.
A shoot-em-up movie played on TV, irrelevant noise ignored by all in the room. A lamp glowed in the corner, and the heavy drapes were drawn to hold out the night. He rested the tumbler of whiskey on his chest and let his head drop back. He didn’t fight the pictures of her that floated into his mind and stirred his body with longing. He shut his eyes and accepted the ache that settled low in his belly. Images drifted through his insomnia. He steered his thoughts back, focused on the distraction of his plans for tomorrow – a morning run through the grounds of Draymere, Sunday dinner at the Hall with his brother and the family. Another day faced and ticked off.
She was coming home, but would she stay?
Click Follow to receive emails when this author adds content on Bublish