‘It’s why I mentioned Dad—you loving him like you did.’ He sucked his cheeks in then blew out a sigh. ‘At the funeral I behaved very badly towards you and I’m deeply sorry for that.’
What to say?
But then he was continuing, saving her the trouble.
‘I don’t know what got into me.’ Something checked in his gaze. ‘Actually, that’s not true. I do know.’ He rubbed a hand over his face. ‘Dad was there for you, Quinn, so you loved him, and because you loved him you could show your sadness easily. I couldn’t do that because...’
She held her breath. Was he about to give her the inside track on what was behind his tricky relationship with Anthony, something she could maybe offset with some small hint from Anthony’s letter?
But then he was shrugging, spreading his fingers on the table as if in defeat, sending her hopes plummeting. ‘Let’s just say that my feelings for Dad were—are—less clear cut.’ Another shrug and then his eyes came to hers, a little bit hopeless. ‘Truth is, I envied you at the funeral because you were feeling all the things we’re supposed to feel, and I wasn’t. When you put your hand on my arm it felt like, I don’t know, you were expecting me to cave, or cry or something, because that’s what you were doing, and it just made me feel worse. Lacking...’
So he’d shrugged her off for the guilt and shame of not being able to muster the appropriate feelings. Her heart twisted. If only she could tell him that Anthony had gone to his grave feeling guilty for not being the father he had deserved—that if he had felt ‘lacking’ at his father’s funeral then Anthony was as much to blame for that as he was, if not more.
But how could she tell him that now? Trickling in warm hints from Anthony’s letter was one thing, but revealing wholesale that Anthony had shared his guilt and anguish about him with her might spark his envy again—that, and everything that went with it—and that could set them back by a mile. Bad enough that her plans for the hotel might do that anyway without adding fuel to the fire.
‘I’m not trying to make excuses, Quinn.’ His hand touched hers briefly, sending a tingle through her. ‘I just wanted to explain, say sorry.’
Always saying sorry when so much of what he was apologising for wasn’t his fault.
Enough!
She aimed a smile into his eyes, loading it with all the light she had inside. ‘And now you have, and I appreciate it, and I’m okay about it. And now I think we should move on.’
His gaze softened then brightened. ‘Literally or figuratively?’
‘Both!’
His eyes crinkled. ‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Seafood! I’ve heard there’s an excellent little place down the hill there. Want to check it out?’
He grinned. ‘I think it’d be a crime not to.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘SO THIS IS Rua Augusta. And down there...’ Quinn was sweeping her arm out like a circus ringmaster, turning her head to follow its line ‘...is the famous arch!’
He followed her gaze to the end of the street, felt his breath stilling. Pale...towering...magnificent. As if someone had just plonked down a version of the Arc de Triomphe. It drew the eye, then led it all the way through itself to the blue sky and the wispy clouds beyond. Stirring, but utterly present, utterly accessible. Quite something!
He pulled in a breath to dispel an unexpected quiver. Had Dad stood here on these same ornate cobblestones feeling this same surge of emotion? Must have. Because he’d come back to Lisbon time and time again, hadn’t he—bought a fricking ruin!
He pushed the thought away and looked at Quinn. ‘Impressive!’
Smiling eyes. Warm light. Sunglasses perched on her head, or rather buried in those gorgeous dark curls, curls that were lifting a little in the faint breeze.
He felt the tingle he couldn’t stop feeling tingling harder. What was she doing to him? He didn’t do relationships, didn’t go deeper than a night or two with anyone, but he wanted more of this, of her. How could simply being with her, talking to her, feel so liberating, like balm for the soul, when it was also so hard, taking him perilously close to difficult edges, stirring old resentments?
Seeing her eyes welling over Dad in that Carmo place had been tough, twisted the knife inside, but in the next moment she had been welling up looking at him, thanking him for that one time in his miserable life that he’d been decent to her, actually apologising to him for not springing up out of her grief to welcome his effort at comforting her. He had felt surprised she remembered—touched. Although, for some reason, he’d never forgotten it either, so maybe it was just one of those memories that stuck...
‘Shall we walk on so you can see it up close?’
She was dropping her shades now, raking the curls back into place—curls he’d felt against his face the day she’d nearly fallen...soft, fragrant, abundant...
He smiled to break the spell. ‘Sounds good.’
She smiled back. ‘Okay.’ And then she was turning, setting off, stepping out like she did.
He fell into step beside her, adjusting his stride to hers, trying not to smile like a total goof. It felt ridiculously good to be walking with her, breathing in little bursts of her perfume. Such a lovely street too—wide, airy, pedestrianised. No high-rises here, no modern city skyline. The pale buildings running either side of them were four storeys high at most. He let his eyes skip along the narrow first floor balconies, then over the tables and parasols of the street cafés they were passing. Glinting glasses. Happy holiday faces. But then his eyes were skipping back to Quinn, because not looking at her every few seconds seemed to be impossible.
Quinn...
Spinning the very air into gold, bringing light to the dark—realisation! To think he’d only ventured into ‘Dad territory’ with her as a prelude to apologising for his behaviour at the funeral. But by the time he’d finally got back to it after all the detours, it had all become clear in his mind, that what had pushed him over the edge that day was envy. Because he didn’t feel as she did, didn’t feel as he had at Pete’s funeral—insides wringing, heart breaking with every struggling breath—and not feeling like that had put the guilt hex on him, inflamed the rest—anger...respect...love...hate—strands he couldn’t twist together into manifest grief, strands that were still tugging him a million different ways.
No wonder he was all over the place. With himself. With Quinn. Flirting with her one moment, holding her hand the next, wanting to soothe her heart. And then it had been her hand, her palm turning over so that it was scorching his, making his blood rush and his heart pound. Turning over her scorching palm like that after quite pointedly declaring them to be friends. Subtext: and only friends, so stop flirting with me, Will. Which was exactly right and probably a very good idea. Except it didn’t tally with the warm twinkly vibes she was giving out all the time, vibes he couldn’t get enough of. And so here he was again, glancing over, and here she was again, catching him out, flooring him with another of those smiles.
How much easier this would be if he could see her purely as a friend, but something was happening here, something he couldn’t control. And he was tied now, couldn’t simply bolt as he used to, as he had a million times before. Car shows, when he had gone along expecting it to be just Dad then found she was there too, stealing the show in her trim jeans and smart wellies. Family gatherings when the sight of her with Dad was too much to stomach.
Dad’s sixtieth! Looking like some silver angel so he couldn’t take his eyes off her. How he’d wanted to go over and spread her wings, touch her, taste her. And then she’d looked up, right into his gaze, catching him in flagrante with his tongue hanging out. He couldn’t stay after that. The kicker was, he’d felt bad about Dad, worried that he would feel hurt that he’d cut out, but he’d never said a thing. His stomach clenched. He probably didn’t even notice.
Oh, and now here he was again, seething about Dad, grating himself raw over what Dad did or didn’t notice. If Dad had spent less time noticing what he chose to do with his leisure time and more time noticing that his actual sphere of interest at Thacker was commercial development, not commercial suicide, then he might have thought twice about lumbering him with a crumbling folly, one he couldn’t wait to—
‘Hey, you!’ Quinn was eyeing him through her shades, frowning a little. ‘I’ll give you a penny for them.’
He felt his muscles loosening, a smile coming. ‘Believe me, they’re not worth that much.’ He aimed a finger at her forehead. ‘And definitely not worth wrinkling your brow over.’
‘Hmm.’ Her lips curved up. ‘I’m not convinced but I’ll let it lie.’
Just as well. When it came to the millstone, she was firmly in Dad’s camp. He was on board, true—committed—but being on board didn’t make the whole thing a good idea.
