SEVEN – Two's Not a Bad Number
Grace wakes with a start, and not because she's not alone in the narrow single bed. She wakes with a start because she doesn't really believe she's been asleep, despite incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. Even with the curtains closed, the room is now light in a hard, insistent sort of way that suggests it must be late morning, or perhaps even later. It doesn't seem possible, feels as if it's only been a few moments since she first closed her eyes. She can't contest what she can see for herself, however, and she reluctantly accepts that no matter how weary she still feels, she's had several hours' uninterrupted sleep at the very least. Beyond the walls of their room, a door slams somewhere not too far away, and she can hear people talking, the words themselves muffled and indecipherable.
There's no room in the bed to move, to stretch. Boyd is by no means a small man, and it seems he's taking up far more than his fair share of the restricted space. Lying on her side, Grace can feel the entire length of his body pressed up warmly behind her, and she's oddly touched by the limp, heavy arm that's draped over her waist. Maybe it's an unconscious thing, but it's intimate and reassuring, and she appreciates it. It wouldn't exactly be a hardship to wake up in the same position every morning – if in a much bigger bed – she sleepily decides. Against her better judgement she allows herself the brief luxury of imagining the novelty of once again regularly sharing a bed with someone else.
She jumps at the unexpected sensation of someone gently nuzzling the back of her neck. No mistaking the soft bristle of his beard, much less harsh than the heavy stubble alongside it, or the surprising softness of his lips. No mistaking the pleasant, illicit shiver that runs up and down her spine in response, either. His voice is deep and sleep-roughened, a quiet, sensual growl. "Good morning…"
It shatters all her preconceptions, that throaty, tempting tone. Shatters any vague, disconsolate ideas Grace might have been beginning to unconsciously form about how things will inevitably unfold in the daylight hours to come. More, it sends tiny exciting shocks through her body, all of which seem to head straight for the pit of her stomach and lower. The deep, warm ache of need and growing arousal starts to really take hold, and she swallows hard, closing her eyes tightly for a moment. It doesn't help, not at all. It simply allows all her other senses to run riot. Trying to sound at least half-composed, she manages, "Shush. I'm asleep."
Boyd chuckles, low in his throat. "Whatever you say, Grace. Whatever you say."
The hand attached to the arm looped over her waist slips easily under the hem of the shirt he loaned her seemingly a lifetime ago, and starts to wander in a lazy exploration of what it can easily reach. Grace feels every nerve in every inch of skin that he touches jump in response. It takes her by surprise, the strength and eagerness of her body's instinctive reaction to his touch. Delights her, too, in all sorts of ways. Maybe she's never given quite enough credence to the popular idea that age is merely a number, that it's never too late to unselfconsciously embrace all the heady pleasures of love and lust. Far too tired earlier to do much beyond collapsing into bed, there are a lot of new frontiers for them to discover and enjoy, and – God help her – she's looking forward to exploring every last one of them.
It's not easy in the restricted space, but with a little effort she manages to turn over to face him. Boyd looks tousled, sleepy, and gently amused, a very appealing combination, one that encourages Grace to seek his lips with her own. It's a brief, gentle kiss, restrained, and yet somehow wonderfully erotic because of it. There's absolutely no need for more words – everything necessary has already been said – but staring deep into his eyes, she finds just a few more. "God, I want you…"
-oOo-
The sun has started its slow descent in the sky, and Boyd is drawing lazy patterns on her stomach with just the very tips of his fingers when he suddenly says, "Do you know what I'm going to do the minute I get home?"
Relaxed and languorous, Grace waits for him to answer what she assumes is a completely rhetorical question. When he doesn't, she reaches out to idly run her fingers through his hair and inquires, "No; what?"
"I'm going to have a bath. A very long, very hot bath."
"Heavenly." She means it, too. They've done their fastidious best, but after more than thirty-six hours stuck in the small hotel room sharing the woefully inadequate facilities in the even smaller bathroom, with no fresh clothes between them, the idea of a warm, leisurely bath is akin to being offered a fleeting glimpse of paradise.
"A long, hot bath," Boyd repeats, a covetous note in his voice, "and a shave."
"Clean clothes," she says, imagining the simple luxury of it. Tempting visions – not of a carnal nature – chase through her mind. "A comfortable bed. Alcohol. Decent food. Coffee. Not necessarily in that order."
"First night back in London, I'm going to take you out to dinner," Boyd announces in a tone she can only describe as decisive and business-like. The sort of tone she's heard him use a thousand times or more at work. "There's a pub near my place that does the best beef Wellington you've ever had. The Temeraire, just off Trafalgar Road; near the park."
"Very exotic," she teases, but the thought of proper food eaten off proper plates with proper cutlery isn't just mouth-watering, it's absolutely, ridiculously sublime. "Beef Wellington in a pub, eh?"
The grin he gives her is enchanting in its easy, unaffected mischievousness. It suits him, hints at the jaunty, free-spirited young man she imagines he once was before time and tragedy took their bitter toll. "Never let it be said that I don't know how to treat a lady, Grace."
His good mood is both contagious and uplifting. She smiles back, traces her fingers lightly across the nearest bare shoulder, still mildly intoxicated by the new, exciting freedom to touch him how she wishes, whenever she wishes. "You do know that within twenty-four hours of crossing the M25 we'll be fighting like cat and dog again, don't you?"
"Think of the fringe benefits."
"Such as?"
Boyd's reply is prompt. "Make-up sex, for one."
"At our age?"
"Why not at our age?"
A question she can think of no answer to. "True. Mind you, that could end up being a lot of sex, Boyd."
His reply is solemn. "It's a burden I'm willing to bear."
Chuckling, Grace shakes her head. "If you're this bad now, what the hell were you like as a randy teenager?"
"Incredibly frustrated, mainly."
"No willing young ladies naïve enough to fall for your charms?" she inquires, hiding a smirk.
"For most of my teenage years I was firmly corralled in an all-boys boarding school to keep me out of trouble, Grace. It was either that or Borstal, according to my father."
"Poor Peter. You're breaking my heart."
Boyd growls in retort, then stretches himself out full-length alongside her again. "What about you?"
She pretends not to understand the inference. "What about me?"
"All those earnest young male undergraduates panting over their very first sight of a bra strap…?"
She could so easily lie. Leave the past where it belongs and continue trying to keep it half-forgotten in the shadows at the edge of her memories. Instead, she opts for a succinct, "Before then."
Boyd's dark eyebrows rise in obvious surprise. "Really?"
"Really," she confirms, wondering if he'll be shocked. Despite the edge of wildness in his character, despite his eccentricity and individuality, Boyd has an oddly conventional side to his nature that always manifests itself when she least expects. Oh yes, he could very easily be perturbed by her admission.
It seems that he's not. "I'm impressed."
"And a little scandalised?"
He laughs. "God, no. Good for you, Grace. Equality for all in the sowing of wild oats, I say."
She regards him with lingering suspicion. "Don't tell me you weren't brought up with all those middle-class double-standards about what's considered acceptable behaviour for girls and boys, because I won't believe you for a minute."
"Oh, I was," he agrees, "but I was never very keen on being told what to do or what to think."
Another dichotomy. "Yet you chose a career in public service where you had to get used to doing both."
He nips her earlobe gently, murmurs, "I'm just naturally contrary, Grace."
Contrary. That word again, wrapped in painful memories. Perhaps it's the sheer contrariness her father always accused her of that makes her say, "Colin Bulmer. In answer to the question you're diplomatically not asking."
Boyd moves to look down at her. "The lad with the Lambretta who didn't quite live up to expectations?"
"Indeed." She holds his gaze without blinking. "He did it for a bet, apparently. Asked me out, I mean. Anything else he got before I found out was just an accidental bonus. For him."
"Jesus Christ." He looks both angry and affronted on her behalf. "Seriously?"
She sounds harsher than she intends as she says, "Oh, I really know how to pick my men, trust me. No offence."
Boyd sits up, a controlled quietness about him that's extremely uncharacteristic. He takes her hand, his fingers interlacing with hers. She can feel the sinewy strength there, latent but obvious. "So that's what all this arguing and soul-searching has been about."
"I suppose so," she admits. Somehow it's a relief to share some kind of explanation. "In part, at least."
He's silent for several long, deliberate seconds. Then he asks, "Am I man of my word, Grace?"
Bemused, not sure what he's leading up to, she nods. "Yes."
"And have you ever known me deliberately break my word?"
Grace doesn't need to think about it. She shakes her head. "No. Not once in all the years I've known you."
Intense dark eyes study her with unflinching sincerity. "I'm not going to make any rash promises that I might not be able to keep, but I can tell you here and now that I will never intentionally hurt you. Never."
She believes him. Unequivocally. "I know, Peter. I know."
"If it goes wrong," he says, still quiet, still sincere, "then it goes wrong, but with you I'm a better man, and maybe a better man can make it work against all the odds."
"It takes two to make or break a relationship, not just one," she tells him.
His fingers tighten a fraction around hers. "Two's not a bad number, Grace."
-oOo-
With the early-afternoon winter sun shining brightly, the first hint of a real thaw is causing a flurry of activity outside. Standing by the hotel room window, Grace watches as the very first cars attempt to leave. A couple of the large four-wheel drives try first, their big tyres helping to turn the snow to a thick, dirty slush, and their eventual success urges a few of the more adventurous – or just plain foolhardy – drivers in less robust vehicles, ones that struggle, wheels spinning furiously, to also try their luck at escaping. When they, too, finally disappear from sight, she estimates that by the evening most, if not all, the stranded vehicles will be gone from the big blocks of parking. The thick blanket of snow will linger for days where it remains undisturbed, no doubt about that, but unless more falls, she guesses that the main roads will quickly clear, allowing a gradual but steady reduction of the chaos the bad weather has caused throughout the region.
Maybe they'll be back in London before the evening. It's a strange thought. Forty-eight hours later than they expected to be, but finally home. Her in Finchley, him in Greenwich, the Thames between them the way it's always been.
She needs to start trusting him. Really trusting him instead of merely paying lip service to the idea. She has to put aside her cynicism and her bad memories and believe in his sincerity, really believe in it. If she can't…
Giving herself a firm mental shake, Grace turns away from the window and walks across the room to halt by the closed bathroom door. The sound of running water and enthusiastic splashing makes her raise her voice to announce, "People are starting to leave, Boyd."
His voice replies with an immediate, "What?"
"I said – "
"I can't bloody hear you, Grace. Come in – the door's not locked."
She eyes the door warily. "It's okay. It can wait."
"Eh?"
"Oh, for…" she mutters, and reaches for the door handle. Opening the door only a fraction, she says, "People are starting to leave."
"Why are you hovering out there?"
"You're in the shower, Boyd."
The sound of splashing does not abate. "And…?"
Some things, she reflects, take a bit of time to adjust to. In lieu of a more detailed explanation, she offers a vague, "Well… you know…"
Boyd seems to understand, however, because even over the noise of the water, his derisive snort is perfectly audible. "Stable bloody doors, Grace. That horse has well and truly bolted, believe me. Just get in here, will you? You're causing a draught."
His deliberate brusqueness is a minor blessing, saving her from herself. He's probably just as uncomfortable as she is, in his own way, as they test entirely new boundaries. Boyd being Boyd, however, he is simply charging headlong into the metaphorical minefield instead of cautiously picking his way through it the way she's trying to do, but, Grace decides, that's all right. She'd rather have him blunt and fearless, the way she's learnt to accept him, than watch him struggle and fail to be something he's not.
The high level of humidity in the bathroom is extraordinary, the small extractor fan clearly not able to cope with the demands being made of it, but she barely notices, her attention completely captured by the tall figure standing under the running water. In that moment he looks so graceful and so striking in all his perfect imperfection that she's briefly captivated, unable to do anything but stare. Weathered and battle-scarred, a little too stocky here, a little too lanky there, there's nonetheless an elegant symmetry to all the mundane curves and angles of his body that quite literally steals her breath away – just for a fleeting second. A detached part of her mind is amused beyond measure by her ridiculous foolishness, but she's self-aware enough to acknowledge it with a wry acquiescence that soothes away any trace of embarrassment.
Indeed, she's serene enough to smile at him when he turns to look at her, and bold enough to say, "Need any help…?"
Boyd actually looks surprised for an instant before a wide and wolfish grin breaks through. He doesn't say a word, just extends a hand beyond the edge of the glass shower screen. Only when she slips off her borrowed shirt and reaches out to take it does he say, "There's not a lot of room in here, you know."
"Oh, I'm sure there's enough."
"You think?" he asks, his hands moving to her hips as she edges under the cascading water with him.
Absurdly happy, Grace smirks. "Maybe not for what you've got in mind… but I have some bad news for your over-enthusiastic libido – it's time we got a move on and got out of here. Before the temperature starts to drop again."
-oOo-
Continued…