Conflicted

“I know it’s none of

my business—”

I snort and she glares at me. Since when has any subject been off limits for her?

“As I was saying,” she continues. “Have you told her how you feel?”

“It’s complicated. Too complicated to go into now,” I mumble.

She stands up and grabs my hands, pulling me to my feet.

I sigh. Too tired to argue, I let her.

“Let’s get out of here. Give me your keys.”

I toss them to her and climb into the passenger seat. She gets into the driver’s seat and puts the key into the ignition. Mumbling to herself, she sets herself up while I watch, my eyes narrowing.

“You can drive a manual, right?”

“Sure,” she replies, revving the car to life. She slams her foot on the accelerator and flies out of the lot. “I drove you around the other week, remember?” She laughs, her eyes dancing. “I mean, I don’t have a license to drive over here, but back home I grew up on a farm. I can drive anything.”

“Hold up,” I say, cutting in. “You don’t have an international license? Pull over up here. I’ll drive,” I say, pointing to a rest area ahead of us.

“As if,” she scoffs. “You look like you’re a second away from bursting into tears. You’ll probably drive us off a bridge or something. Besides, I know how to drive. So I don’t have a little bit of paper that says I can—”

“Plastic,” I correct her.

She looks at me.

“Licenses are plastic here,” I explain.

“You are infuriating,” she exclaims with a grin.

“And you need to pull over.”

She groans, and pulls over into a rest area. She jumps out of the car and I do the same. I walk around to her side, holding my hands out for the keys. She leans over to try and hit me and I laugh, restraining her by the arms. She squeals, struggling against me until I let go, letting her fall into my arms. Laughing, she turns around, until our lips almost touch. My heart beats faster as her eyes lock on mine.

“Keys,” I say, my lips twisting into a grin. She presses them into my hand and laughs.

“Where are we going?”

She grins at me. “My house.”

Her house turns out to be an apartment in a pretty expensive area, and not the three-bedroom brick home she took me to last week. She walks me inside and I let out a low whistle. This place is nice. Floor-to-ceiling windows and a huge balcony. The view of the bridge alone would make this place worth a packet.

“Nice,” I comment. “You did well to move house in the space of a week.”

“It’s not mine,” she laughs. “Neither is the other place. I house-sit—a good way to get free accommodation, and it’s fun. Plus, every now and then I end up with a place like this.” She grins and walks over to the bar, which is packed full of every kind of alcohol you can imagine.

She pours a scotch and hands it to me.

“Want to watch a movie?” She points to a huge cabinet full of hundreds of DVDs. “Pick one.”

I wander over and choose a Clint Eastwood classic. Turning around, I walk back over and toss it to her. She looks it over, laughs, and then throws it on the couch.

“Typical male choice of movie,” she says, swaying towards me.

She reaches me and sets her drink down on the coffee table. I do the same. My heart pounds as she takes my hands, wrapping them around her narrow waist. She moves closer to me, tilting her face up to mine. Her lips meet mine, soft and gentle, as she rakes her fingers through my hair. I breathe in, her sweet floral perfume filling my lungs as my mouth envelops hers. Her hands find the centre of my chest and she pushes me down onto the couch. She moves over me, hitching her skirt up, her legs either side of me. She rocks her body against mine, her fingers toying with the buttons on her shirt, undoing them one by one. She reaches down, pressing the palm of her hand against the bulge in my pants.