Forget Me Not Read Online Free PDF Page B

further,’ I murmured. Xan’s profile was strobing in the street lights. ‘We’ll be there in five minutes.’ Daringly, I lifted my hand to his face and tucked a stray curl behind his ear. ‘You can take me home any time,’ I murmured. At that Xan looked at me, locking his gaze in mine. I traced the curves of his mouth with my fingertip, then we kissed. His lips tasted of salt and champagne.
    ‘Anna,’ he breathed. I could smell the scent of lime on his neck. ‘Anna …’ We kissed again, more urgently, then I dropped my hand to his lap, feeling his jeans straining against his hardness. By now I felt almost faint with desire.
    ‘What road, mate?’ we heard the driver bellow.
    ‘Oh …’ I said. ‘It’s Havelock.’ My face was aflame. ‘It’s at the very end there, on the left. The corner house.’ I fumbled for my bags as we drew to a halt. Xan opened the door and we both stepped out – my heart pounding with apprehension. But instead of paying the driver, Xan just stood there awkwardly, looking at me.
    ‘Well … thank you,’ I murmured. ‘For the lift … and …’ Why was he hesitating? Perhaps he’d lied about being single, I thought dismally. Or maybe he was shy and didn’t want to presume. Yes – that was it, I decided. He was shy. So I uttered the words that would change my life. ‘Won’t you come in?’ I said quietly. ‘For a … I don’t know … cup of coffee or something?’
    ‘Coffee?’ Xan echoed with an air of surprise, as though I’d said ‘gazpacho’.
    ‘Yes. Coffee.’ I turned up my collar against the thickening rain. ‘Ethiopian or Guatemalan. Decaff – or extra caff. You can have an espresso – or a latte. You could have hot chocolate – I’ve got some very nice organic stuff – Fair Trade of course,’ I added with a tipsy giggle, ‘and I think there’s some Horlicks.’ I could see that the driver was impatient to go. ‘Ovaltine?’ I tried with a smile. But still Xan stood there. I’d got it wrong. He wasn’t interested. Disappointed, I turned away.
    I heard the click of the cab door, then the chug of its engine as it drove off.
    But as I turned the key in the lock, there was a sudden step behind me, then Xan’s voice: ‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any PG Tips?’
       
    Now, as I turned off the motorway in the gathering dusk, I remembered, with a stab of regret, the elation I’d felt as I’d fumbled with the door, then jabbed at the beeping burglar alarm. I’d registered, with relief, that the house looked fresh and welcoming. There was a jug of tiger lilies on the sitting-room mantelpiece and everything was tidy. On the dining table was a shoebox containing the sympathy cards I’d had and to which I was finally replying. I covered it and went into the kitchen, slinging my jacket on to one of the ladder-back chairs.
    Xan followed me in, and as I filled the kettle I saw him glance at the framed photo of my parents on the dresser. I hadn’t told him about my mother as I didn’t like saying it, because if I said it, that made it seem true.
    ‘So what will it be?’ I asked him as I opened the cupboard. ‘I don’t have PG Tips, but I do have Kenyan, Darjeeling, Ceylon, Assam, Green tea, Camomile tea – or if you want something really fancy, this –’ I held up a box of Jasmine and Lavender. ‘So what would you like?’ I repeated with a smile.
    ‘Nothing,’ he replied.
    ‘Surely you must want something ,’ I whispered seductively.
    ‘Well, yes, I do, actually …’ He looked away, slightly shyly, then returned his gaze to mine. ‘I’d like you to … take something off …’
    I felt goosebumps stipple my throat. ‘And what might that be?’ Xan nodded at my feet. ‘Oh. There …’ I giggled as I pulled off the wellies.
    ‘That’s better,’ he said quietly. He was staring at my legs. ‘You know, Anna, you have very attractive ankles.’
    ‘Thank you. My elbows are quite nice too.’
    Xan didn’t reply. He just stood