Modern Romance March 2019 5-8. Dani Collins
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something close to peace drift over him.
He had no idea what had driven him here, or maybe pulled him here. The idea of losing himself in a woman’s body made sense, but this physical but non-sexual embrace was outside his experience. Before he could sort it out in his head he fell asleep to the sound of Flora’s soft, even breathing.
He slept deeply, before fighting his way through layers of sleep and into painful wakefulness; the arm she lay on was numb and heavy and there was a sour taste in his mouth.
He slid his arm from under Flora and slipped off the narrow bed. He looked down and felt the emotions inside him swell and begin to seep out, his jaw clenched as he tried to tap into his ability to turn his feelings on and off.
Nothing happened.
Instead he was forced to reel them in through sheer-minded willpower. The effort brought a sheen of sweat to his face but at least he had control again.
He’d been on the point of falling into the inevitability trap; ‘the heart wants what the heart wants’ nonsense was pretty much a version of crossing your fingers when you lied through your teeth.
A lie was still a lie, and a bad decision was still a bad decision. It all stemmed from the mawkish need for people to romanticise what was a basic primal drive.
He wanted, he needed sex. They had chemistry—strong chemistry. There was nothing wrong in wanting sex; the wrong came when you imagined it was going to last a lifetime.
A man had a choice, he reminded himself. He didn’t have to fall in love. There was strength in being alone, not relying on anyone else to make you happy. He was already complete. Love was a trap that he was not about to fall into.
He’d always been able to separate his emotions from basic needs, like sex, before. Then it came to him, so obvious that he didn’t understand why he’d not seen it earlier!
The only reason this felt different was the fact there was another factor between them. His eyes went to the cot. He felt a connection because there was a connection, not a deep, meaningful, heavenly choir-singing one, but a physical one. Jamie!
He let out a long hissing sigh of relief.
He didn’t look back because he didn’t want to. He wasn’t trying to prove anything to himself.
* * *
The cold morning light was seeping into the room through a window where the blind had not been drawn. She could hear the sound of the dawn chorus outside. She yawned and stretched, easing the kinks out of her spine.
Her eyes suddenly snapped open.
Had she dreamt it?
The memories drifted through her head like smoke, the impression of being held, of feeling warm and safe.
‘Good morning, my dear, did you sleep? How was he?’
‘Nanny...’ Flora pulled herself up into a sitting position and swung her legs over the side of the narrow metal bed. ‘He slept through, and so,’ she admitted, removing a sharp object that had been sticking into her arm from her top, ‘did I.’ She rubbed her arm, was about to toss the object into the waste-paper basket when a glitter caught her eye.
She opened her palm.
It hadn’t been a dream.
It hadn’t been a dream—the beaten copper cufflink she had first noticed gleam against the pristine cuff of Ivo’s shirt lay in her hand.
She slid it into the pocket of her jeans, got to her feet and went over to the cot. Her thoughts were racing. When had Ivo come and how long had he stayed?
‘You go and have a shower, dear, and take your breakfast. I’ll feed him for you and wait for the doctor.’
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