My first month with Alex was filled with frantic kisses and stolen moments. With hot, sweaty sex and middle of the night conversations that seemed to take on a rhythm of their own. With his shift work and gigs, along with my crazy hours in the City, Alex turning up at 2:00 a.m. and pushing me against the wall as I desperately tore at his clothes wasn't an uncommon occurrence.
It was enticing, it was sexy; I had no idea where it was going.
One night, about five weeks after that first gig, I was lying on my side, staring at him as he slept. Dawn was trying to force her way through the cracks in the blind, casting little shafts of light that illuminated the ink etched across his body.
I was captivated by his tattoos. It was one of our main topics of conversation at the time. I traced them with my fingers, asking him what each one meant. When he got them, why he got them. Was he planning on having any more?
In return, he questioned me about my job, my family and the private girls' school I attended until I was eighteen. Wanted to know if I wore a short skirt and tight shirt. Was I as beautiful then as I was now?
I basked in the warmth of his attraction. Loved the way he would look at me from the corner of his eye. He'd stare at me for long minutes, the smallest smile on his lips, and it made my stomach lurch every time.
Between the desperate sex and the questions, and the stupid hours we both worked, there didn't seem time to talk about us. Where this was going. Was it going anywhere? Were we in a relationship or messing around?
Alex rolled in his sleep, breathing softly. I traced the line of his jaw with my eyes. It was razor sharp, darkened by stubble. I wanted to trace it with my tongue.
I was about to do just that when the shrill ring of the phone cut through the early morning silence. Groaning, I rolled over, feeling the bed dip as he did the same.
“Hello?”
“Lara? It's Dad.”
My father never called me. Never. We would talk on the phone very occasionally, but only after my mum had called first.
“Dad?”
Alex sat up, the sheet falling to his waist, and ran a hand through his messy hair. When he looked at me, there was a question in his eyes.
“I'm at the hospital. Mum's had a funny turn. The doctor said I should call you.”
“What kind of funny turn?” I reached up to wipe the sleep dust from my eyes. “What's happening?” They'd only recently come back from holiday. Mum hadn't even called to tell me about it yet. “Is she okay?”
My dad sobbed, and it made me queasy. He never cried. Not my career-focused, go-getting father. Shouted, yes. Ranted, all the time. Cried? Never.
“Dad, you're scaring me.”
“She woke up in the middle of the night and couldn't breathe. She was coughing up blood. They said it could be an embolism. I'm waiting for someone to tell me what's going on.”
“But she's going to be okay, right?” I asked. “I mean, she's in the hospital now. She's going to get better?”
Silence. I glanced to my left to see Alex staring at me. He reached out to take my free hand, squeezing it tight. The look of compassion on his face took my breath away.
Then my dad finally broke the silence. “She wasn't breathing by the time we got here.”
I started to cry; big sobs that wracked my chest and echoed in my throat. I could hear my dad doing the same down the phone line, and that frightened me more than anything.
Gently, so carefully, Alex took me in his arms, stroking my hair and whispering comforting words. Then he took the phone from my hand, lifting it to his ear. Clearing his throat before speaking.
“Mr Stanford? My name's Alex Cartwright. Can you tell me what hospital your wife is in?”
I didn’t hear the rest of the conversation. The next few hours were a blur. Somehow we got dressed, left the flat and climbed into my car. Then Alex drove us to Dorset, one hand on the steering wheel, the other holding my hand securely in his as I fretted and cried. Every now and then he'd glance across at me, his face soft, and his eyes gentle.
Though I didn't realise it then, I was starting to fall in love with Alex Cartwright. Not because of his sexy body, or the hot tattoos. But because when it came to a crisis, he was there for me.
He held tightly to my hand when we walked into the hospital. He stroked my hair when I sobbed as they lowered my mother’s coffin into her freshly-dug grave. Three months later, when I left my high-paying, high-flying job, he pulled my body to his and told me everything was going to be okay, that I’d made the right decision, and life was too short to stay in a job that made you miserable.
He was a keeper, he was everything.
I miss him like crazy.