The Cure

Chapter 48

She jerked awake as Nate pulled up beside a tidy-looking B&B, its wooden sign flapping dramatically in the wind; she rubbed her eyes with a sleepy grunt. She could only have been asleep for ten minutes, she thought as Nate hauled himself out of the car, busying himself with bags from the boot.

But she felt as if she had been unconscious for a year, and been kicked in the chest, at the same time.

The bad weather had knocked over the B&B's decorative plant pots, and Nate was setting them upright as he waited for her to come round, his heavy leather weekend bag over his shoulder.

The inside was much as she had expected, with lots of pink floral, and wooden panelling, the old, slatted windows creaking against the gale; she breathed in the smell of sausages and frying onions from the restaurant, her stomach rumbling as Nate checked in.

The washy receptionist stuttering behind the over-varnished mahogany desk, fiddling with the kitsch lamp and yellowing reservations book, evidently feeling small in Nate's all-consuming, unassuming shadow.

'Storm will be blowing over nicely tonight,' she commented in her thick, familiar accent, and Nate nodded politely.

'Might have some sun tomorrow.'

'Have you got a table for two in half an hour?'

'We can squeeze you in.'

'Perfect.' Nate turned to look at Lola, tilting his head towards the wooden stairwell, and she obeyed quietly, passing in front at his silent gesture, the slats creaking beneath her Converse.

The room was large, with a dusty pink carpet, cornflower-patterned walls, an inviting bed, its outdated bathroom whirring and buzzing.

Hail hammered against the windows, the wind whistling and wailing between the cracks around the old wooden panes.

She watched Nate turned up the heating full-blast, feeling suddenly feeble, exhausted, starving, her limbs trembling uncontrollably.

'Come on.'

She hadn't realised she was paralysed, motionless in the centre of the room until he approached her, and her breathing hitched as he leaned down, and she felt his gentle kiss warm against her cold cheek, a shock of hot breath in her ear as his hands scooped into the shoulders of her coat to loosen it from her arms.

It fell to the floor as his hands traced beneath the hem of her jumper and slid up the sides of her waist, his thumbs tickling at the lace cups of her bra as he pulled her jumper up and over her head; she lifted her arms obediently, her stomach pulling, her body reacting inevitably to his touch.

His lips were back at her cheek, brushing gently as he hooked a finger into the waistband of her black jeans, undoing the button, and it wasn't just the cold that made her tremble, now, as she toed off her shoes.

With another chaste kiss, he was gone, and she pushed her jeans and underwear down, unclicked her bra in a fumbling rush as the shower cranked and creaked into life.

She padded into the bathroom where Nate was pulling off his own jumper, tee-shirt, evidently trying to avoid looking at her as she stepped over the bathtub and under the flow of water, which burned against her skin; she gasped, pulling away from the shower, swearing under her breath.

'You need to warm up,' he instructed, as he held a hand beneath the water. 'Look. It's not even hot.'

His eyes flickering quickly over her body, over her blue lips, his expression closed, then pressing a finger into her wrist; a hasty doctor's analysis, and nothing more.