Fucking freezing London . . . ugh . . . why do I come from here?
Elliot walks out behind me and winces. “Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
“Why aren’t I Spanish?” I say.
“Because you’re English,” Elliot says as he takes my hand. “Careful,” he warns. “The stairs are slippery.” He slowly leads me down and into the car that’s waiting, a black Audi, not the Bentley.
The driver is female and she smiles and opens the back door. Huh . . . who’s she?
“Hello,” Elliot says as he gestures for me to get into the car first.
He climbs in behind me and closes the door.
The driver gets in and turns. “VIP parking on level 1A?”
“Yes, thank you,” Elliot says as he takes my hand and brings it over to his lap.
I frown in confusion and he kisses my fingertips. “I got Andrew to bring my car. I wanted to drive you home myself.”
“Oh.” Maybe he’s going to stay over?
I inwardly deflate. It’s probably so that Andrew doesn’t have to see my sad face when I get out of the car. “Great,” I lie.
Five minutes later the driver pulls up in an underground parking lot and, sure enough, there, parked in pole position, is Elliot’s black Mercedes sports car.
I wonder who brought Andrew home after he dropped the car here—did he catch a bus or did someone pick him up? What happens in these situations, is there a driver for the driver?
Elliot puts my things into the trunk and ten minutes later we’re on the road to my place.
He’s quiet and pensive, with both hands firmly on the wheel, and I’m staring through the windshield, internally wondering if I can tie him up and throw him in the trunk, perhaps hijack his plane and force them at gunpoint to take us back.
I feel a distance creeping between us already: he isn’t my playful El here in London, he’s Elliot Miles . . . the hard-ass CEO of Miles Media.
And the reality is, we don’t really know each other.
Which is crap; if he wanted casual and didn’t want anything from our relationship, why did he have to be so damn sweet and affectionate? Is he even aware that he did it?
Talk about mixed messages.
It didn’t matter in the Canary Islands because we both knew the small amount of time that we had together was finite. Tied in a nice little bow, a week’s escape from reality.
No strings attached.
But now that we’re back, I feel uncertain already.
I already know that I’m not ready to let him go yet, and maybe there is hope for us because damn it, we’re so good together. I just hope he feels the same.
The car pulls up outside the front of my house and Elliot turns the engine off, leans his arm on the steering wheel, and looks over at me.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He nods as his eyes hold mine.
“I had an incredible time.”
He breaks into a breathtaking smile. “Me too.”
“Do . . .” I shrug. I shouldn’t be saying this but I can’t stop the words coming out of my mouth. “Do you want to come in?”
“I can’t.” His gaze goes to out the front windshield. “I have a million emails to go through before work tomorrow. I haven’t opened my computer up once in a week and I can’t work late tomorrow night because I have a function on. If I don’t tackle them tonight the entire week will be a write-off.”