Chapter 13

13

Weston

I watch as she peruses the range of baking produce on the shelf in the only grocery store in the nearest village.

A woman walks behind me, "Excuse me," she says stiffly. I move aside. Hell, the aisles of this place are so narrow I have to flatten my back against the shelf to ensure I am not blocking the route. And the ride in the car over here? Why the hell had I agreed to that torture? Probably because, by the time I’d realized that the only means of transportation available to get to the village was in her dinky car—a bloody Volkswagen—it was too late. When was the last time I’d been a passenger in anything other than my chauffeur driven car…? I don’t even remember.

So why had I done it now?

Why had I told her that I’d take her out shopping?

When what I’d wanted to do was eat her out right there on the dining table…for breakfast; and if I had my way, for lunch and dinner too. One taste of her sweet cunt had not been enough. The blood rushes to my groin.

Is that why I’d brought her here…? Because I’d wanted to get away from the cabin and the intimate atmosphere that seemed to be building between us. I lean a hip against the shelf. My shoulder brushes the stocked cans; one falls off of the top shelf, bumps me on the head. I throw my arm out, catch the can before it hits the ground, even as stars flash behind my eyes.

The fuck? From the time I’d met her I seem to be getting rather well acquainted with heavenly bodies, especially hers… Jesus, what’s wrong with me? Next, I’ll be spouting poetry, comparing her to a summer’s day… No, not Shakespeare now. I’d loved poetry in school, had not hidden my love for the Bard, even acted in school plays. Then the incident had taken place. I’d been enroute home from a rehearsal for a play. And that had changed my proclivity to take part in extracurricular activities. Other than hanging out with the Seven… Not that we’d spoken much. We’d preferred to take our frustrations out on each other… You could say we’d spent a lot of that post-incident time beating each other up. It had been our own personal coping mechanism.

I wonder, have I channeled my love for the spoken word into the nursery rhymes I recite with my nieces? Is that why the fairy tales I read to them have etched themselves into my subconscious mind?

It had been hot though… That entire series of events at the breakfast table… I’d wanted to take her right then. Tempt her into spreading her legs open for me, so I could bury myself inside her sweet cunt. Would she have resisted me? Was the money so important to her that she’d continue to deny herself the release that came from only the most intimate act, of my cock enveloped within her wet channel? Is that why I can’t stop myself from tempting her to cross the line? Is that why I’d set such an impossible-to-uphold term to the agreement?

Does she really think she is going to get through the next six days without giving in to me? And if I want her to fail, why hadn’t I moved in when I had her ready and willing this morning? Fuck. I drag my fingers through my hair. She is not the only one getting in too deep. The difference is, I know how to turn the tide so it won’t drown me. Hopefully.

I stare at the can—it’s chocolate. Figures. The one thing in the world I hate more than the thought of losing her. Hold on… Hold on… I meant losing to her. Yep, that’s what it is. Bloody fuck. I rub at the rapidly forming bump on my head. Did the run-in with the can knock my brains out of whack too?

I prowl up the aisle to where she stands in front of a display of frozen treats.

"How much longer will you take?" I growl

She squeaks, then shoots me a sideways glance. "You startled me," she mutters, then turns her attention back to the display. I follow her gaze to the Sticky Toffee Pudding she’s salivating over. I reach for it, but she grabs my arm. "What are you doing?" she scolds.

"You want this?"

"Of course, not."

"Why do you deny yourself?"

"I’m going to be baking enough, as it is. If I also buy these goodies, I’ll turn into a Christmas butter ball," she mutters.

"Don’t you mean buttercup ball?" I chuckle.

She shoots me a sideways glance. "Knew I could count on you," she snarls, then turns and pushes her loaded shopping cart forward.

"Hold on."

She doesn’t stop. No matter. I catch up with her, drop the tin of chocolate onto the heap of shopping. "You sure you have enough there?"

She frowns. "You mind your own business."

"But you are my business."

"Whatever." She speeds up, turns the corner and crashes her cart into a man. Some of the items fall out.

"Oh, I’m sorry." She bends at the same time that the man she’d run into says, "Excuse me." The stranger grabs a can of chocolate—motherfucker, it’s the same can I’d placed there earlier. I scowl. He snatches up a few of the other items, then straightens at the same time as her. Their heads bump. Something explodes inside of my chest. My vision narrows. I stalk forward.

He places the items in her shopping cart. "I’m Hunter," he holds out his hand.

"I’m Amelie." She raises her arm, and I plant myself between them.

"And she was just leaving." I thrust my hand in his, squeeze the motherfucker’s palm.

The expression on his face doesn’t change; he doesn’t flinch. I scowl at him.

He glances from me to Amelie. "Uh, a pleasure to meet you," he says.

"Can’t say the same," I grunt.

Amelie huffs, "Don’t mind him." She grumbles, "He was born with a lemon in his mouth."

I frown, "What does that mean?"

"It means that you have a terrible attitude and you are the most impolite person I know."

"Good," I mutter. "You done here?"

Hunter chuckles, "How long you guys been together?"

"We’re not—" Amelie starts.

"Long enough." I thrust out my chin at Hunter. "What kind of a bloody name is that anyway?"

His expression hardens, then he barks out a laugh. "You're refreshingly candid."

"That’s not all I’ll be if you don’t get out of my face," I shoot back.

He holds up his hands, "Not intruding on your patch, buddy." He glances around me, "Bye Amelie."

"Bye," she choruses back.

The man squeezes past me; my shoulder bumps his. He shoots me a narrowed gaze over his shoulder.

I glare back at him.

He frowns.

I glower.

His shoulders tense, then he jerks his chin.

Good, he got the message.

He pivots, walks away.

"What the hell was that?" Amelie huffs.

"None of your bloody business."

"Why are you so angry?"

"Why were you talking to him?" I snap.

She gapes, "What do you mean? He helped me pick up the groceries. What did you expect me to do? Ignore him?"

"Yes."

She shakes her head, "You’ve lost it." She pushes the cart forward, muttering, "Of all the crazy, asinine things you could do, this one takes the cake."

I stare after her. The hell is wrong with me? So maybe I did overreact, but hell, when he’d bumped into her, all I could think was, mine. She’s mine … For the next few days, at least.

She struggles with the shopping cart, and I stalk forward, grab at it. "Gimme that."

"Fine." She raises her hands. "For being such a crazy-ass jealous man?—"

"I’m not jealous."

She rolls her eyes, then snorts, "No, I forget that’s your CRGPF."

I frown. "Excuse me?"

"Your chronic resting grumpy pants face," she clarifies.

Only when I’m around you. She does something to me. Yeah, she confuses me… I blow out a breath. Jesus, now I am going all googly-eyed over some chick who’d dropped in on my life and turned it upside down. You can’t let her get to you; no way.

I jerk my chin.

She frowns.

I glare at her.

She pales, then juts out her chin and walks forward and out of the shop. I join the queue. When it’s my turn, the woman at the checkout counter opens her mouth.

"Don’t—" I growl.

"But, Sir?—"

Bloody fuck, is the entire population of this village out to get me? I pull out my wallet, then separate a large stack of bills…and prop them on the counter. "Keep the change."

Her gaze widens, then she proceeds to check out the items.

Thank fuck. So, this is how it is to shop for yourself? What a nightmare. I pull out my phone, depress the buttons on the keypad. When my driver comes on the line I tell him, "I need a few things delivered to the cabin." I give him the list.

Arms full of shopping bags—I had to leave the shopping cart behind at the store—I step out and stalk toward the Volkswagen. Of course, she’s nowhere to be seen. Where the fuck is she?

I place the bags next to the car, look around. A familiar figure in tight jeans, coat buttoned to show off those curves, catches my eye. She’s talking to the man from the store—Hunter. What the fuck! My feet eat up the distance between us.

She reaches up, pats him on the shoulder, and a hot sensation stabs in my chest. I lengthen my strides, reach them. "Get away from her."

Hunter looks between us and frowns. "I didn’t mean any harm."

"Of course, you didn’t," she interjects.

I glare at her.

She pales.

"Go to the car."

She frowns.

"Now."

"But," she pouts, "I was only…"

I bend my knees, thrust my face into hers. "Do it," I command.

She opens her mouth, then seems to change her mind. Turning, she stalks off.

Thank fuck.

Can't let her out of my sight; got to keep her safe from anything untoward, and that includes strange men sniffing about her.

Hunter glances after her, "Everything okay?" He frowns.

"Shut the fuck up." I growl at him.

He turns to me, "You’re Weston?"

I stiffen.

"Dr Weston Kincaid, I presume?"

"How the fuck do you know my name?"

"I’m a friend of Damian’s."

"Hmph," I glare at him. "And you know him, how?"

"Our fathers are good friends."

"What are you doing here?"

"The same thing as you, I assume."

I frown.

He chuckles, "I am home for the holidays. I am also the MP for the area."

"Right." I roll my shoulders, "That why you were here? Campaigning?"

"Among other things." He smiles, "Anything you need." He holds out his hand, I ignore it.

"Stay away from her."

"You got it." He keeps his hand extended, "Take it, you never know when you might need help."

I ignore his hand while I stare at his face and something clicks, "You’re Hunter Whittington?"

He tilts his head.

"You’re standing for the upcoming elections."

A genuine smile splits his face, "Whew." He mock mops his brow. "My PR isn’t that bad then."

I jerk my chin. So, he’s a well-known politician, albeit one who’s being tipped to be the next Prime Minister. We’ll see.

I turn to leave.

"Make sure you stock up for the next few days."

"Why's that?" I ask.

"The weather," he says. "There’s a cold spell coming on."