Artistic License (23 page)

I love you. I’m sorry. And I’ve broken my ankle.

He broke all speed records in calling her back.

She had just ended a rapid-fire interrogation over the phone as to her location, the extent of her injuries and why the hell hadn’t she called him earlier, for God’s sake, Sophy, when her dinner tray arrived.

She stared at it in disbelief.

It was the same bloody quiche.

Literally, for all she knew. Its appearance couldn’t have worsened much even had it been left to age for a few weeks.

Grimacing, Sophy left it untouched on the tray and reached for the dessert bowl. It was unidentifiable in specifics, but appeared to contain chocolate and her leg was sore. She was watching reality TV again, her mouth full, when the door was shoved open without ceremony and Mick stood there, looking in dire need of a shave and a cold beer.

“
For Christ’s sake
,” he started to say, his disbelieving gaze on her suspended leg, and then he caught sight of the plate of quiche.

He stopped, blinked, and the tiniest hint of a smile turned up his lips.

Suddenly, his eyes holding hers, he reached out and knocked deliberately on the door.

“Miss James?” he said, completing the full circle of déjà vu. “May I come in for a moment?”

Despite the increasing pain running up her calf, Sophy found herself returning his grin.

How the times did change.

“You can come in for good,” she said firmly and a bit nonsensically. She reached out a hand to him and he took it, pulled it up around his neck and bent to lean his forehead against hers. They stood that way for a time, eyes closed, just breathing in the scent of each other’s skin. Mick felt warm and solid and he smelled faintly of sunshine and thyme from the outdoors. She suspected that she was emitting more
eau de
disinfectant, but he didn’t seem inclined to let her go.

Tilting her chin with the side of his thumb, he pressed his mouth to hers in the gentlest of kisses before he pulled back far enough to examine her injury. His large palm covered her knee, just above the cast, in a feather-light, comforting hold.

“Honey,” was all he said, and renewed tears stung her eyes. She was like a leaky tap; they just kept coming. Prior to that week, the last time she’d really cried she had been wearing braces and watching an ice-spangled Leonardo di Caprio bob around in the ocean like a cork while Kate Winslet hogged a perfectly sizable chunk of boat.

“Don’t be nice to me,” she ordered, “because my ankle is killing me and I’ll cry again.”

“No worries. Wide shoulders right here.” Mick tapped a finger to one of the shoulders in question, his eyes warm and concerned on her face. He was smoothing her hair back from her forehead, stroking it carefully. A hint of a dimple appeared through his five o’clock shadow. “Although if you’re determined to keep chucking yourself headfirst into the floor, we might have to invest in some kind of stunt gear. Otherwise I’m going to be completely grey in about a week.”

Sophy planted the tip of her forefinger between his eyebrows and pushed his head away in mock-annoyance.

“Did I say to come in and stay in?” she asked. “Because I’m re-evaluating.”

Mick grabbed her stabbing finger and brought her hand to rest against his chest. Her thumb, apparently acting under its own volition, stroked the fabric of his shirt, tracing the outline of muscle. Her sneaky fingers were likewise creeping toward his buttons, finding a gap, nestling in a sparse scattering of hair. She could feel his heart pumping beneath the pulse in her wrist, the rhythm quickening just a little. He ran his own thumb over her lips, stroked the line of her nose and the curve of her cheek.

“How bad is the pain?” he asked, and he caught sight of the little cup containing her pills. “Is that the next dose? How long until you can take it?”

“Um…” She couldn’t dissemble to save herself. If she were ever tortured for information, she would cave the moment her interrogator entered the room and cleared his throat.

Mick held the pills and a glass of water under her nose with an uncompromising expression.

“I wanted to say things first,” she protested. “I have a very low tolerance for medication. You’ll have about five minutes of lucidity before I start holding a conversation with my toes.”

“I’ll risk it,” he said, unwavering, and she reluctantly swallowed the meds –
not
because he was bossing again, but because her pain threshold wasn’t all that impressive either and physical discomfort tended to make her cross. The more she hurt, the more irritating she found the people around her. It wouldn’t bode well for making heartfelt declarations if he started to grate on her nerves because he was breathing too loudly or she decided that she didn’t like the colour of his shirt.

“At any rate, you should be resting,” he said, putting the empty cups to one side and picking up her hand again. He bent forward and brushed a kiss over her mouth that turned into a second and then a third much more interesting encounter. When he tried to pull back, she resisted, holding him to her and leaning into him. Her breath was coming in quick, uneven bursts when he finally managed to lift his head, her hands clutching around either side of his neck. “Like I said,” he said huskily, his forehead still pressed to hers. “
Resting
. Dangerous woman.”

Silently, she traced her fingertips over his face, following the lines of features she had carved so intimately in stone.

“What actually happened?” Mick was sitting still and quiescent under her touch, for once unflinching and unsuspicious of a direct gaze. He frowned. “It was an accident in the studio? Did you trip?”

“Hmm.” Sophy brought her hand to her mouth and bit pensively at her thumbnail. “Loose floorboard; fatal attraction for gravity. Same old story.” She hesitated. “I was talking to Dale.”

“Gallagher?” He had gone very still and watchful. “What was he doing there?”

“He came to…talk. Apologise.” She tried to think of how best to explain, torn by a desire to protect at least Dale’s privacy if she couldn’t save his feelings.

Mick started to speak, then stopped. His eyes were narrowed and something flickered in their depths, but eventually all he said was, “I see,” in even tones.

Feeling compelled to change the subject and quickly, Sophy cast around for anything of interest and suddenly realised, “God, I should call Mum and Dad. And Melissa.”

“Your dad knows.” Mick made the jerky, abbreviated movement that was, for him, the equivalent of a full-on fidget. It was Sophy’s turn to eye him suspiciously. “I was actually with him when your text came through. He and your mother are going to call in later tonight before the end of visiting hours.”

“You were
with
him?” Sophy repeated. She arched a brow. “Ran into each other shopping, did you?”

He seemed to be weighing up the advantages of truth versus enigmatic hedging.

She groaned.

“Please tell me you didn’t storm the police cells in some kind of Shakespearean showdown.”

Mick looked faintly amused for a second.

“Like father, like daughter,” he said inexplicably and then squeezed her hand reassuringly. “I can safely promise that nobody set foot in the cells.”

“Why do I feel like there are volumes to be read between each word in that promise?” Sophy sighed. “You know what, never mind. I don’t think I want to know. As long as my dad’s not in imminent danger of arrest.”

“Not unless things took a dramatic turn after I left him alone with Sean.” He intercepted her appalled look. “If they don’t show up in the next hour, I’ll check in and make sure everyone’s still free and functioning.”

“Sean?” Sophy shook her head. “I
really
don’t want to know.”

“He’s angry on your behalf,” Mick said, and all humour had faded from his voice. “We’re
all
angry on your behalf.”

She looked down at her bitten nail, playing with a peeling flake of pink polish. The sun was still beaming intensely across her bedcovers and the pain pills were starting to dissolve in her stomach, casting the very edges of her awareness into a faintly spongy marshmallow sensation. She felt quite relaxed, all things considered, quite surprisingly positive, and the ugliness of the previous day was the last thing she wanted to talk about. But there were parts that needed to be discussed and explained. Things that needed to be forgiven.

“Mick, I’m so sorry,” she said, unable to meet his gaze, pulling hard at a loose thread in the quilt. “That I…shut down. That I pushed you away like that. I wasn’t thinking about what you needed. And I think that you needed to help me.”

“Sophy.” He cupped her jaw, waited until her eyes rose reluctantly. “You have nothing to apologise for. After what happened, you needed to be able to deal in whatever way worked best at the time. I had no business laying all that on you at that time. It was bloody selfish.” He looked uncomfortable. Streaks of red slashed up his cheekbones. “I just – I didn’t want to lose you. I panicked.”

It crossed her mind that if that had been Mick panicking, he even lost his cool with an air of capable stoicism.

“I still shouldn’t have run,” Sophy said, also flushing. “Because I
was
running. I wasn’t just freaked out because of what happened at the bar. I was just…escaping to what seemed safe, instead of accepting what I…what I want.”

There was a muscle jumping in his jaw.

“And what’s that?”

She swallowed hard, managed a slightly misty smile, held onto his fingers like he was all that stood between her and a precipice.

“You,” she said simply, and if it was the drugs that were giving her the courage to speak her mind, openly and seriously, she supposed she could only be thankful. “I want to be with you. I don’t know quite what that will look like or how it will work, but I want you. I want…I want
us
.”

He held both her trembling hands between his own large, steady ones.

“I meant what I said, Sophy.” Pure, undiluted relief was beginning to touch his eyes, deepen the lines at their corners, soften the harsher grooves around his mouth. “I love you. In a way that I never expected to love anyone.” He gave her fingers a quick shake. “I’m not going to crowd you,” he said firmly. “I understand the need for space.” His mouth twisted ruefully. “I might be a bit overprotective at times.”

“No,” she teased through a film of tears. “You? Mister “Don’t you think you should carry a third inhaler in case the first two accidentally explode?” I never would have guessed.”

“Don’t be cheeky,” he said, grinning. He tugged her face closer to his. “I’ll try not to be an overbearing prick about it,” he said against her lips. “If I’m getting on your wick, you can just tell me, you know. I was career Army. I can take direction.”

Sophy huffed a laugh through her nose, her mouth being otherwise occupied.

“I’ll risk it,” she said as they parted to breathe. It was a light-hearted parroting of his earlier phrase, but she recognised the truth of the sentiment deep in her gut. She would risk it – and she would bet high stakes that she wouldn’t regret it. Her elbows were loosely linked at the back of his neck, her fingers dangling against the top of his spine. She held his gaze bravely. “I love you such a lot,” she said, and her voice was a husky whisper.

He closed his eyes briefly, but not before she saw the intensity of his response. It was humbling, almost frightening.

“It won’t always be easy,” she felt compelled to warn him. “I can be absolutely awful.”

He snorted, and she glared at him.

“We’ll argue. Possibly right now, in fact.”

“What, argue with such a conformist, humourless, biddable person as you? Never.” Mick punctuated the likelihood of such future arguments by tweaking her on the nose and receiving an irritable poke in response. “If you’re going to pinch at me like that, at least take it in a more interesting direction,” he added, with a mock leer that made Sophy laugh as she soaked up his happiness.