Dirty Bad Wrong(16)
I watched her exhale, the corners of her mouth lifting as she ran her fingers through her hair. “I want it. Thank you.”
“Don’t you even want to know where she lives?”
“Where does she live?”
“Camden.”
“That works. What’s her name?”
“Rebecca.” I stared at her awkwardly, my composure well out of kilter. “Goodnight, Lydia.”
I closed the door behind me without even glancing back, fisting my hands in my hair. Jesus Christ. What the fuck? My mind zoomed through excuses, reasons I could give as to why this couldn’t happen, but it was pointless.
I already knew I’d never use them.
***
Chapter Five
Lydia
Steph hovered while I scoured her apartment for the last of my things.
“You don’t have to leave, you know, not until you’ve found somewhere decent.”
“Thanks.”
“You haven’t even met this woman, what if she’s some kind of psycho?”
“If she’s a psycho I’ll be straight back on your sofa.”
She rolled her eyes. “If you’re still alive enough to make the trip.”
“I’m sure James wouldn’t have suggested the move if she were a complete nut-job.”
“Yeah, well, you don’t know him either. He might be a nut-job too for all you know. You know what they said about Ted Bundy? Charming, smart, attractive... I’m sure he looked damn fine in a suit, too.”
“Ted Bundy wasn’t CTO of the company I work for.”
“So? Psychos like to hide in plain sight... Look at the whole privacy thing he’s got going on. Something to hide, I think. Women’s heads in his fridge, maybe?”
“I’m private, I don’t keep heads in my fridge.”
“Just take care of yourself, will you?”
“I always do.”
Steph gave me a tight, strawberry-scented hug and I felt the slightest reluctance to let her go. This was it, my new life beginning for real. I set off into the unknown with my suitcase in hand, destination Camden and the mysterious Rebecca. I’d quizzed James about her, but typically he’d said very little. Rebecca Hayfield. Approaching thirty and colourful. Nice and no-nonsense apparently, if a little eccentric, with the ability to mind her own business. She sounded good enough to me. I recalled my crazy enthusiasm for the idea, snapping his hand off without even the proviso of further information. Talk about spur of the moment. Spur of that moment, more like it. The memory brought a burn to my cheeks, and once again I fought the urge to face-palm. For the briefest of seconds, as he’d stepped so close in the hotel corridor, I’d thought he was going to kiss me. Of course he hadn’t done, the idea was absurd, but just for that one tiny moment, as our bodies almost collided, my breath froze in my chest. Too many wines, too much talk of sex, too fucking fit a man. Even more absurd was the notion that, for that split second, I think I maybe wanted him to. I really never thought I’d get hooked by the rebound shit: overtaken by a ridiculous desire to fuck a hot stranger in a hotel room somewhere. It had been just weeks, jeez. Weeks. Not months. Definitely not long enough to be hanging out in one-night-stand territory.
I’d spoken to Steph about it, uncharacteristically desperate to get it off my chest. She’d laughed and given me the thumbs-up, stating a hot, casual fuck would do wonders for my disposition. Maybe it would, but certainly not with James Clarke. An emotionally-devoid fling might let off some steam, but a work rebound? No fucking way. Work flings have trouble written all over them with a capital TROUBLE. He was just hot, that’s all. I was merely joining the ranks of the rest of the female populous at Trial Run, worshipping at the altar of his perfect man-flesh. No big deal. You’re a stupid idiot, Lydia Marsh, crushing over James Clarke like a silly schoolgirl. Still, at least it kept my mind off Stuart, that fact alone made it a plus. That fact alone might even just get me through this emotional wasteland and out the other side without adding more scars to my collection.
I changed lines at Euston Station, and was soon hurtling straight for Camden Town. Nerves kicked in; the realisation that I was about to move in with a total stranger churned in my gut. I kept my cool: deep breaths in and out as I cruised through the motions, stepping straight out into a sunny winter Sunday and James’ solemn gaze. He loomed tall on the pavement, cutting an awesome silhouette in a fitted black overcoat, double-breasted and clearly tailored, with his collar up against the chill. He could have walked straight out of the office if it weren’t for the dark jeans completing his attire. Skinny fit, like a second skin, showcasing the toned brilliance of his calf muscles. I approached with a smile.