Nearly Almost Somebody (33 page)

‘Libby?’ he called softly, not wanting to freak her out. ‘Libs?’

In the living room, she lay curled up and unconscious on the sofa, her hair covering her face. Trust Xander to do a half-arsed job of taking a girl to bed. Hyssop sat at her feet, watching over her as Patrick lifted her hair off her face. Still breathing. Still wearing her biking gear. Christ, that seemed a week ago. He should go, but he rubbed Hyssop’s chin. Libby didn’t look very comfortable. He could put her to bed.

This had to be the lamest tactic ever. When he picked her up, would she wake up?

‘Libs?’ He gently shook her shoulder. ‘Libs, you need to go to bed.’

No response. She wasn’t waking up. He sighed, disappointment coursing through him, but scooped her up. She was as light as a feather. Carefully, he picked his way around the furniture and headed upstairs. Her head lolled against his shoulder. How the hell did she still smell... pretty? She hadn’t had a shower after the ride. Neither had he, but he bet he didn’t smell like an English summer’s day. There was something odd about the roses.

A stair creaked and she stirred, wrapping her arms around his neck. Oh, this was a bad idea. Her fingers laced into his hair at the back of his neck. A very bad idea.

‘...must be dreaming...’ she mumbled.

‘Yes, you’re dreaming. Go back to sleep.’ Was this the kind of dream she had? He quite liked it.

It wasn’t difficult to tell which bedroom was whose. The first one he came to smelled of that bloody awful, cloying perfume Zoë wore and high heels were scattered around the floor. In the other room, several books were piled up on the bedside table, photos of horses were stuck to the dressing table mirror and it smelled of roses and sweet peas.

He laid her down, drawing the line at even the idea of removing any clothes to make her more comfortable. Gently he stroked her hair back.

‘Night, princess.’

He kissed her, barely brushing his lips against hers. But sleeping beauty didn’t wake.

She was a habit. An addiction.

Wrapped in a thick ruby red cashmere blanket her mother had sent for her birthday, Libby curled up on the new wicker sofa in the garden, trying to read
The Crucible
by the light from the kitchen window, but her only real mission was to survive until bedtime. Her headache had gone, but her slightly queasy stomach remained despite a bowl of Zoë’s all-curing chicken noodle soup. Eight o’clock, surely she could go to bed at nine.

‘You have a message.’ Zoë came out, carrying Libby’s phone.

Libby struggled not to giggle, or die of relief. After over a month of malaise, her Zoë was back. She’d cocooned her hair in a conditioning treatment, her face was smothered in a mud mask – it was as if the emerald had worked some kind of magic.

‘It’s from your boyfriend,’ Zoë added, blatantly reading the message.

‘I haven’t got a boyfriend.’

‘Okay, your friend who’s a boy, you know the one you don’t get to shag, it’s off him.
Need a drink. You busy?
’

Libby snatched the phone. Crikey, it really was from Patrick. What was wrong? What on earth had happened the day before? All day, she’d not been able to dismiss a silly thought that he’d carried her home. But it was wishful thinking. Xander had carried her home. She vaguely remembered that.

Just in garden. Come round?

How many minutes did she have? Two, ten, twenty? She sprinted into the house already stripping off her tatty old exercise clothes, her comfort clothes. What to wear? With no idea how long she had, she couldn’t waste time choosing. Jeans, a snug black jumper, a squirt of perfume and two layers of mascara on top of the three she’d applied that morning. Sadly, the oversized beanie she’d been wearing all day had made her fringe stick out at seventeen different angles. She clipped it back and pulled the hat back on. She’d have to do.

With only seconds to spare, she sat back down on the bench and picked up her book.

‘Why are you sitting out here? It’s freezing.’ Patrick stood leaning on the gate, a bottle in his hand. ‘You do realise that book’s upside down.’

Arse. ‘Come in. I have a new, super warm blanket.’

‘This...’ he said, holding up the bottle, ‘is totally against the rules, but I’ve had a very, very bad day.’

The bottle wasn’t wine. It looked like whisky. ‘What’s up?’

‘I’m prepared to drink straight from the bottle, but since it’s a thirty-one year-old Laphroaig, we ought to give it the dignity of a glass.’

We? Libby couldn’t bear the thought of a glass of wine. Neat whisky might actually make her sick. She didn’t like the stuff at the best of times. As Patrick wandered across the lawn, she ducked inside for two tumblers, hoping to avoid drinking any of the rancid stuff.

‘Sorry for just turning up,’ he said, ‘but I don’t drink at home and with a thousand pound bounty on my head–’

‘
Our
heads. You’re only worth five hundred by yourself.’

He gave a hollow laugh as he added an inch of amber liquid to each of the glasses. ‘I’m fairly sure you’re hung-over to hell and really don’t want this, but as hair of the dog, it kicks arse.’

‘I’ll give it a go, but I’m not promising anything.’

He remained leaning forwards, his elbows on his knees. ‘Do you ever just watch TV?’

‘Never have. Too busy dancing or thinking about dancing or talking about dancing. I’d rather read a book out here.’ She curled up. ‘What’s up?’

‘Once, you asked if I liked being a vet. Well today, I don’t.’ He rubbed his forehead.

‘Did something die?’

‘Baxter, my dog.’

Oh, the friendly collie.

‘I was sixteen when I got him as a puppy. He was my dog, but he ended up living with Mum and Dad when I moved back here. I was too busy having fun to look after him.’

Libby put a hand on his back, comforting him. For a second, he glanced back at her, his eyes sparkling with tears.

‘I put him down this afternoon, Libs.’ He took a deep, shaky breath. ‘He was old and in pain. Dad was in Kendal and Fergus was on call, so I told them I’d do it. There’s no way Mum could have. I said it wasn’t a problem; I said I could do it. I could and I did, but I shouldn’t have because it
was
a problem. I feel like I’ve murdered my own dog.’

Without stopping to think, she pulled him to her, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. His head rested against hers, his eyes firmly closed. Silence filled the air, but he didn’t pull away. For minutes, he let her hug him and she mindlessly twirled one of his curls around her finger. God, he had lovely hair.

‘Have you tried the whisky yet?’ he asked, apparently not worried by her obsessive twirling.

‘Is it compulsory?’

He nodded. ‘It’ll warm you up. It really is freezing out here.’

She laughed, throwing the blanket over their legs. It was like being in bed together – a massive step forward. ‘Okay, I did say I’d give it a go.’

The neat alcohol burned, but the taste was smoother than she’d expected and even with her raging hangover, not unpleasant.

Patrick smiled at her then stretched out his legs, relaxing back, his shoulder resting against hers. ‘Christ, it’s been a fucking awful day, and not just Baxter. That was just the icing to finish it off.’

‘Grace?’ Libby asked, braving another sip for something to do.

Patrick nodded.

‘Jack told me what happened last Christmas.’

Patrick knocked back the rest of his whisky. ‘Yeah, so this is partly my fault, but I had no idea that all this time, she’s… Anyway, she wants to take the practice manager job at the Haverton surgery, Fee’s old job. It’s the right thing. She’ll get the promotion she deserves and they’ll get the person who should’ve been doing it for a year. The downside is I get stuck with Hannah, who can’t make coffee to save her life.’

Libby laughed and pulled her feet up to sit cross-legged. It didn’t sound as though he was seeing Grace. If he was, he’d be sitting in her garden, not Libby’s. Why was he here? Why come here when he had a bad day? She shifted slightly, her knee now almost touching his thigh. He refilled his glass.

‘What happened last night?’ she asked.

‘I’m sorry she ruined your birthday.’

‘It wasn’t ruined.’
But it would’ve been a million times better with you there
. ‘I had a great day. I loved the bike ride. Thank you for looking after me.’

He smiled down at her, her knee now touching his leg. Had he moved his leg, or she her knee?

‘You should be very proud,’ he said. ‘You had your eyes open the whole time.’

Thank God, it was dark and he couldn’t see her blushing. ‘Maybe not the whole time.’

‘I’m sorry I didn’t get back to the party.’

Libby shrugged. ‘You two needed to talk.’

‘Well, mostly, I needed to delete every photo she had in the house and get the passwords to take that fucking website down. The Haverton Eye is now offline.’ He shook his head. ‘The photos she had of people, on her phone, on her PC, they’re unbelievable. She actually has a camera on a tripod in her bedroom.’

He was in Grace’s bedroom? Libby drained her glass. Was he here because he and Libby were
friends
now? ‘You two get along very well. Aren’t you tempted to give it a go?’

‘With Grace? Are you kidding? Libs, she almost ruined my life. She still might. Besides...’ He laughed into his glass before taking another sip.

‘What?’

‘I’m not interested in Grace.’ He turned away, fighting a smile. ‘And I never will be.’

Did that mean her liked her? Trying to hide her own grin, Libby held out her glass. ‘It’s working. The whisky.’

‘What on?’

‘My hangover.’ She swatted his arm. Unadulterated, blatant flirting. ‘And it actually tastes... okay.’

‘Good girl.’ He added a little more to her glass. ‘So, did you give the emerald to Zoë?’

‘Of course.’

‘And did you tell her it was Grace?’

She nodded. ‘But Zoë couldn’t care less who borrowed it. She’s got it on eBay already. The
Buy It Now
price is twenty grand.’

‘Thanks. Seriously, I could kill Grace right now, but she’s saved my neck more than a few times. I owe her.’ Patrick relaxed again, his body edging closer still to hers. ‘Now, what’s this I hear about you playing piano and doing party tricks?’

She groaned, but couldn’t hold back a smile. When she’d woken that morning, memories had flooded back and she’d wailed into her pillow but now, sitting with Patrick, she laughed, uncaring, because her knee was resting on his thigh and his arm lay on her knee. He refilled her glass and she explained how, after a few too many glasses of wine, her tendency to show off stopped being quite so latent.

‘Get another glass,’ he said, nudging her. ‘I want to see the three-shot spinning trick.’

She laughed. ‘Not a chance. I’d fall over if I tried it today.’

‘Spoilsport.’

‘Hey, so Daisy said I could keep her bike for a while.’

‘Want to go for a ride sometime?’

‘Promise not to kill me?’

He pulled a face. ‘There is the custody issue, but okay.’

Snuggled under the blanket, they relived the ride, laughing at the time she forgot to unclip her feet and fell sideways, taking out him and Scott. Libby sat back, still giggling, her head against the sofa. Hot Patrick was here. This was it, the night something would happen.

An hour later, Libby put her empty glass down. She’d managed to knock back three refills. Her hangover had vanished, but now she was a little tipsy again. Patrick turned to her. She smiled at him. He smiled back.

‘It’s late. I’d better go.’ He screwed the top on the less than half-full bottle and handed it to her. ‘So I don’t get tempted to drink the rest.’

Though clearly cold, he’d never once suggested they go inside. Instead, he seemed happy to sit in the garden, huddled under the blanket with her.

‘Do you really want to go?’ Her words were barely more than a whisper, but they made his smile disappear.

Slowly, he shook his head and pushed a strand of her fringe back under her hat. Libby gazed at him, a smile teetering as the distance between them shrank. He kissed her. Patrick kissed her. His lips lingered and without hesitation, Libby kissed him back. Slow, deep, it was gentle for a second, but demanding the next. And he could demand all he wanted, because she was prepared to demand right back. She clutched his jacket as he held her face, his fingers brushing her neck.

Why were they doing this outside where it was bloody freezing? They should be inside, wearing a lot less clothes. No. Robbie always told her to play hard to get. This was one occasion she would stick to her morals. Her morals evaporated when Patrick’s hand drifted down, stroking a thumb down her neck, making her tip her head back, catching her breath.

‘Do you think,’ she said, still gripping his jacket, ‘if we send Michael Wray the photo ourselves, he’ll still cough up the thousand pounds?’

Patrick’s hands dropped and cold air replaced his hot body.

‘It was a joke,’ she said.
Kiss me again.

He simply stared at her, his emotions unreadable.

‘Patrick?’ Oh why did she stop kissing him?

He leant forwards, resting his elbows on his knees, not looking at all like he wanted to kiss her again. Was this the ultimate in Hot and Cold? Kissing her then regretting it? But god, he’d just kissed her and she wanted more, much more. Didn’t he?

‘What?’ she whispered.

‘I can’t do this,’ he said, still staring at the floor. ‘I’ve got to go.’

He was leaving? He kissed her like that and he was just leaving? ‘Why?’

‘I’m sorry, Libby. I think you’re... but I can’t do this. I can’t be your distraction.’

She blinked. ‘Déjà vu.’

He closed his eyes, swearing. ‘I thought you were asleep.’

‘It was real?’ she asked.

He cringed and nodded. It wasn’t a dream. He really had said he couldn’t be a distraction. He really had kissed her.

‘You kissed me, but after that,’ she whispered, ‘you avoided me for weeks.’

‘I had my reasons.’

She stifled a scream as she stood up, striding across the patio. ‘And last night? Was that a dream?’

With his eyes still closed, he shook his head. ‘I wanted to make sure you were okay. Scott said you were wasted. I just carried you upstairs.’

He’d come into the house. He’d taken her up to bed. Was he some weird pervert? ‘And then what?’

‘Nothing.’ He held up his hands, finally facing her. ‘I was trying to be nice. It’s like I can’t stop looking out for you.’

She raked her hair back. ‘I can’t take any more of this.’

‘Libs…’

‘Four months you’ve been doing this, four bloody months. You’ll be my best-friend one minute, kissing me when you think I’m asleep, taking me to see Jane, hanging out in the garden, all the nice things that made me think... And then bam! You walk out of the pub, and refuse to speak to me when I come to say thank you, and…’
What about Halloween?
‘But this has to be the showstopper in your hot and cold routine.’