Page 54 of Romantic Hero
A couple of hours later, we leave Little Crumpet Manor before anyone else wakes up. The drive back to London is silent and I reckon I know the main reasons why:
My failure to win Henry back means River might be trapped here for ever and he’s trying not show his terror at the thought.
Less than four hours ago, River and I had what I suspect was – even with all of his experience – one of the filthiest kisses either of us has ever had.
River appears to be regretting the kiss, based on the fact that he has barely made eye contact with me since he said, ‘The water I will enjoy,’ before disappearing into the bathroom.
To my surprise I’m still not experiencing the burning jealousy I expected to be feeling after seeing Henry kiss Marisol. Which is weird because seeing the two of them all over each other made me feel sick and angry and definitely territorial. But curiously the burning jealousy is yet to make an appearance. And somewhere beneath those horrid emotions, like a weed reaching through the cracks in thepavement towards the sunlight, there’s a tiny bit of excitement in there. Which makes zero sense. There is absolutely nothing to be excited about right now. Everything is objectively terrible. A whole fucking mess, with extra added tension between River and me because – for the first time in my life – I couldn’t keep my horn under control. I am clearly losing my mind.
While River and I drive in taut silence, the towering trees and verdant hills give way to a quiet A-road, eventually leading to a bustling central London. I bet everyone in Crumpet is still sleeping, yet here in the city the world is already wide awake, shop shutters clattering open, delivery vans beeping their annoyance at the tiny spaces they have to navigate, crimson buses stuffed with tourists on the hunt for the perfect London photo spot.
Home.
Just like at the hotel, River insists on carrying all the luggage up to the flat, but I swipe the smaller suitcase from him and lug it up myself.
As soon as we reach the top of the stairs, Mrs Casablanca’s door flies open. Squish speeds out and scales River’s leg, whining desperately like River is an injured soldier returning from war at last.
Mrs Casablancas gasps. ‘Gertie is here!’ she calls over her shoulder. Then she presses a hand to her chest and looks heavenward. ‘Gertie is alive! She is safe and well!’ She clasps her hands together. ‘Thank you, baby Jesus. Thank you.’
‘What? Of course I’m alive!’
‘Once again, whatishe?’ River asks, peering down atSquish with distrust. ‘Where I come from dogs do not look this way.’
‘He’s a Chug!’ Mrs Casablancas explains brightly. ‘A chihuahua crossed with a pug. Aww. I think he’s missed you. Squish, hush! Look, you’re going to have to pick him up if you want him to pipe down.’
‘Why would you be worrying if I was alive?’ I ask Mrs Casablancas as River picks up the tiny round chubber, holding him awkwardly in his arms. Immediately Squish stops whining, just pants happily and gazes adoringly up at River.
And then, to my absolute befuddlement, from behind Mrs Casablancas, up pops Bridget.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ I gawk. ‘My book agent, Bridget,’ I explain to River, who seems to be locked into some sort of stare-off with Squish.
Bridget, her usually sharp red bob decidedly mussed up, holds up her phone to my face, showing me the last message she received from me.
Bridget, I’m afraid
Oh.
‘We thought you’d been kidnapped!’ Mrs Casablancas says, her cheeks wobbling with the drama of it.
Bridget nods. ‘Mrs Casablancas here said there had been a big manly man with you a few days ago and, of course, Henry is not what anyone would describe as a big manly man. Then she told me she thought the new man’s name was Lake. Lake! Well, that sounded very suspicious to me.’
Mrs Casablancas looks thoughtful for a moment. ‘It’s not Lake, is it? Something to do with water, though, yes?’
I glance at River to see if he will introduce himself, but he appears to be happily distracted as Squish tries hard to lick his eye. Wait … is Rivergiggling?
‘When we realised you still weren’t at home, we checked your social media for clues,’ Bridget explains, stressily running a hand through her hair and revealing the reason why it looks so much crazier than usual.
‘Nothing of note,’ Mrs Casablancas sniffs. ‘You haven’t posted anything in weeks. It was a social media drought.’
‘Yeah, we should talk about that too actually,’ Bridget muses. ‘If you refuse to do in-person events the least you can do is keep your core fanbase engaged online.’
‘Agreed.’ Mrs Casablancas nods.
I goggle at the pair of them. Are theyfriendsnow?
‘I was going to call the police but then Mrs Casablancas was looking in your fridge for nibbles and noticed this invitation.’
Mrs Casablancas pulls the birthday party invite from her bra even though she is wearing a pink dress with perfectly serviceable pockets.
