Page 25 of Gideon (Finding Home #3)

He nods, but he looks torn. “I just need to protect you,” he says almost staunchly, and I feel something warm in my stomach at the earnestness in his words.

I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before, let alone wanted to do it.

I’ve had impassioned words of longing poured into my ears, declarations of infatuation, but nothing like these simple words which are all the more touching for being plain.

I consider his earnest, open face, the freckles on his nose which have multiplied in the hot sun, and the wavy mess of his hair, and I feel something tug in my chest. Something I’ve never felt before.

A desire to make things better and easier for him because I don’t want him to feel conflicted or sad.

“If we’re not going to be anything else, then why don’t we be friends?” I say slowly. “I know there’s probably a codicil somewhere that prevents that, but surely it would be okay?” I hate the faint note of begging in my voice but I can’t do anything about it.

He stares at me for a long second. “I can do friends,” he says slowly. “While I’m in your employ I’ll be friends with you.”

“And when you’re not?” I ask, holding my breath.

He bites his lip. “Then we’ll take it as it comes, but friends is a good start.”

I settle back on my lounger. “I’m not sure whether either option is much good for you, Eli,” I say softly. “I’m not good for much, I’m afraid. I haven’t got many friends and the ones I’ve had I’ve treated spectacularly badly.”

“I can’t say I’ve seen much evidence of that.”

“Google me. In fact, just read The Sun . They’ll tell you everything you need to know, as they have a very unhealthy obsession with me.” He laughs and I sigh. “Maybe you’re different. All I can say is that I’ll try because I want to be friends with you.”

It’s only the partial truth, because I want a lot more.

Unfortunately, I can’t name what that is.

All I know is that I feel a yearning and a pull towards him.

It’s so strong I can feel it like invisible strands of silk tethering me to him even while we sit unmoving and staring out to sea as the sun sinks into a fiery ball on the horizon.

The next day, I stand on the deck, leaning against the railing and looking at the grey mass of Southampton coming into view. Footsteps sound behind me, but I would know it was Eli even if he walked silently. He only has to enter a room and it’s like my senses are tuned into his wavelength.

I remain staring out to sea and he leans on the rail next to me.

I shoot him a quick glance. He looks smart for a change, wearing a black short-sleeved shirt, stone-coloured shorts, and black Vans.

His hair has even been tamed, and for some reason he doesn’t look right.

I’ve grown used to seeing a slightly scruffy Eli who is relaxed and barefoot, and I have a sudden urge to mess his hair up.

I resist it, because he looks resolute and a bit sad. I force my gaze back to the view.

“Where are you going when we land?” I say softly.

He shifts his stance against the railing. “I’ve got a couple of jobs that’ll keep me in Dubai for four months. The first job starts in two days. I’ll go home, do some laundry, and pack again.”

“ Dubai ,” I burst out. I turn to face him, unable to stop, and he looks at me, his eyebrows raised. “That’s so far,” I finish quite spectacularly lamely.

He smiles almost sadly, and it doesn’t suit that wide-open, freckled face. It’s wrong, as if he’s put a mask on. “It needs to be far,” he says grimly.

Too far to meet, I think, and wonder if that’s his reason. “Four months?” I say softly.

He shrugs. “I need you to have some time to think. Some space to work out what’s going to happen between us.”

“I don’t need space,” I start to say demandingly and stop.

If this were me a few months ago, I’d have shouted and demanded and behaved so badly that I’d have got what I wanted.

Now, I just stand with the words dying away into the wind that whips between us, and I swallow the rest because they would upset him, and for some reason I can’t have that.

I nod. “I’ll do as you want,” I say softly. I hesitate and then the words flood out in almost a begging tone. “Will you write to me?”

I flush because I have never, ever begged anyone to do anything or be anything for me.

Not since the grisly morning when I was seven and I cried and clung to my mother and begged her to let me stay at home with her and my father.

She’d pulled my arms away, and my father had summoned my new house master to help.

As he’d held my arms and talked cheerfully, I’d watched them drive down the winding drive away from me, and I’d sworn right then that I’d never ask anyone for anything personal ever again.

However, that obviously doesn’t ring true with this man, and I brace myself for his refusal but it doesn’t come.

Why I thought it would is beyond me. He doesn’t do anything I expect.

Instead, he smiles. “That would be nice.” He turns to face me. “I’ll give you my email address.” I nod and his expression clouds. “But only once a week, Gideon. You need the rest of the time to be by yourself without me influencing you.”

“I don’t know where you get the idea that you’re some sort of Derren Brown,” I say loftily, and I’m gratified when he smiles and the shadow in his eyes lifts.

“I’ll miss …” he starts to say impetuously but then shuts himself down. “I’ve enjoyed very much being with you,” he finishes very formally. “It’s been an experience that I won’t forget.”

“Like appendicitis?”

He grins. “Not nearly as painful.” He pauses. “Well, not quite.”

I shove him and he laughs, but I retract my hand quickly.

He can say all he wants. I know my own mind for once, and the clouds of confusion and rage that have been my constant companions for years have swept back, leaving me in an uneasy sort of clarity.

I have to let him do this, to separate us, because he needs to do it.

I know if I stepped into him, his control would snap, and I could have what I want, but he would blame himself and some of that sunny sheen to him would be tarnished and damaged, and I can’t have that.

“Four months?” I say, holding out my hand.

He bites his lips but takes it, the zing in my palm somewhat familiar by now. “And if you’ve changed your mind, you’ll tell me straightaway,” he says quickly. “No hard feelings. I will totally understand.”

“And the same for you,” I say.

He smiles almost helplessly. “It’s a deal.”

Our hands separate and we turn to see the land drawing close, but my hand tingles as if he’s still holding it. I wonder if that will be enough to tide me over for the next few months.