Chapter 30: Not the Sorry

I told nobody about the card.

I put it in the bottom of my bag, under the photograph, and carried it around for a week.

It sat there while Lachlan made pancakes on Saturdays and burned the first batch on purpose so Rory would laugh.

It sat there while he came to the flat above the gallery every evening at six.

He brought a bag of groceries and no demands.

On the eighth night, Ansel's mother took Rory to the park for the weekend, and I locked the gallery door myself.

Lachlan was waiting in the kitchen upstairs with his sleeves rolled to the elbow.

"I'll cook," he said.

"You don't know how."

"I know how to boil pasta."

"That's the only thing you know how to boil."

He grinned, and then he saw my face and stopped.

"What is it?"

"Nothing."

He crossed the kitchen and took my chin in his hand.

"Imogen."

"Not tonight," I said, and kissed him before he could ask again.

He lifted me onto the counter, and the pasta water boiled over unnoticed.

His mouth moved down my neck, and I pushed his shirt off his shoulders.

He tore the buttons of mine open and tossed my blouse across the room.

"Bedroom," I said.

"Here."

"The water..."

He reached behind me and turned off the stove without looking.

"Here," he said.

He knelt on the kitchen tiles, and I put my hands on the edge of the counter.

He pulled off my jeans and my underwear and tossed them aside, and then he put his mouth on my pussy.

I gasped and my head fell back against the cabinet.

His tongue ran slowly through my wet folds.

He found my clit and flicked it, over and over, until my thighs shook around his shoulders.

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