Page 15 of Strawberry Moon

TWO YEARS LATER

Harry

“It’s her,” Clem hisses.

“Her, who?” I ask.

“No, don’t turn around.”

“Well, how am I supposed to know who you’re talking about, then?” I say very reasonably, in my opinion.

He rolls his eyes. “It’s Frida McBain.”

“Who’s she when she’s at home?”

He arches one blond eyebrow, his face creased in that smile of his that manages to be both wicked and incredibly sweet. It made me fall in love with him years ago and keeps me in the state, because it’s the perfect expression of his sassy nature.

“She had rather a profound effect on our lives,” he says.

“Is she the one who put the council tax up?”

He snorts. “No, she wrote Torridly Yours .”

That title rings a bell, and I rack my brains to remember. It comes back to me in a flash. “Jared and Fiona’s treatise on how to win friends and influence people?”

He points a finger at me. “Ding ding. Their book was my manual on how to grab you.”

“Makes me sound like something you’d find in a fairground machine. And you had me anyway. I was yours from the moment you crashed into the shop—the source of all sass and snark.”

He shoots me a private and very loving smile. “Yes, but you neglected to tell me of the fact.”

I sit back in my chair, tossing my napkin on the table and lifting my wineglass to my lips. “I was playing the long game,” I say after a sip of wine.

“It was longer than a giraffe’s neck, Harry.”

“I still got you, didn’t I?”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Still?” I can’t help my question. I’m surer of him and less conscious about the age gap between us now, but sometimes a tiny amount of uncertainty rears its head. Especially as I approach forty.

He reaches across and grabs my hand, his long thin fingers clutching mine. “ Always ,” he says fervently. “You’re everything to me.”

The simple declaration makes my eyes feel hot, and I cough and clear my throat. “And you to me.” I raise my glass. “Here’s to cohabitation, my love.”

“That sounds much saucier than just living together. I like it.” He clinks his glass to mine. “I can’t believe we’ve finally done it.”

He moved in with me this weekend. I have a two-storey flat above the bookshop.

It’s an old Victorian building, so the ceilings are high and the windows tall.

At the moment, the flat is a study in neutral colours, but I’m betting within a month, or maybe even sooner, Clem will start adding colour.

He’s done the same to me, so he’s welcome to the flat.

It already feels more like home with him in it, the rooms echoing with his laughter and dramatic proclamations.

I’ve been in love with him since I met him, but that love has deepened and matured now I understand his depthless kindness and loyalty and see the flashes of vulnerability that he hides under his sassy exterior.

He’s mine in a fundamental way that no man has ever been, and I’m his. It’s as simple and profound as that.

He stands up. “I’m just nipping to the loo.” He comes around the table and bends to whisper in my ear, “And then I think you should take me home and fuck me into that new and very expensive mattress we bought.”

I cough and reposition my napkin. “We might have to wait a minute or two now. Thanks very much, Fifi.”

He snorts and sets off through the room.

Following him with my gaze, I absently admire the shape of his arse in those tight jeans of his.

Then I focus on the author—Frida McBain.

She’d been sharing a meal with someone, but they’ve apparently left for the moment, as the chair across from her is now empty.

I bite my lip, and before I can second-guess myself, I get up and walk over to her table. “Excuse me,” I say as I near, and she looks up at me. She has long, dark hair touched with grey, her face is lined, and her eyes are a pretty pale blue. They twinkle in a way that instantly sets me at ease.

“Hello. Can I help you?”

“I hope so.” I check that the coast is clear and then lean a little closer. “You wrote a book called Torridly Yours .”

Her eyes narrow for a second as she thinks, and then she snaps her fingers. “Jared and Fiona?”

“That’s the one. Well, first I’d like to thank you for writing it. My boyfriend used the story as inspiration to get me.”

She grins. “Now that sounds like a story.”

“Fiona was his template for how to get your man. Put it this way—I got off lightly with the tropes from that novel. After I did some research on common Mills and Boon romance themes, I was eternally thankful you hadn’t written kidnap or a coma into the book.”

She breaks into giggles. “I’ve never had one of my books used as a manual before,” she says.

“I’m very lucky he did so, considering I now know what machinations he’s capable of on his own. The Game of Thrones writers would dismiss him as too over-the-top.” She laughs and I smile at her. “He’s going to ask for your autograph soon.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, I know him very well, and I wonder if you could do me a huge favour?”

She studies me for a long second and then smiles. It’s tinged with a naughty edge. “Okay. Tell me.”

I lean closer and tell her, and her whole face softens.

Clem

I look for Harry as I come back from the loo and frown when I see our table is empty.

Then I hear a familiar laugh, one that never fails to make me smile and feel all gooey.

I look over and blink when I find him standing talking to Frida McBain.

She’s smiling up at him, her face set in a warm expression.

It’s familiar because it’s how my family—and everyone else who knows him—always looks at Harry. Somehow, he never notices.

I pick up speed, and he glances my way as I come near. “Here he is. I was just telling Frida about how you conspired to get me, Fifi.”

I gape at him. “Oh my god, I can’t believe you told her that.”

Frida stirs. “I can’t blame you. It’s the tropes, Clem. They contain powerful magic.”

“Well, they’ll be turning him into a toad if he spills any more beans.”

Harry laughs, and I turn to her. “I do need to say thank you. But for Fiona and her humongous eyelashes, Harry and I might still just be workmates.”

She smiles. “You’re very welcome.” She pauses. “Oh my god, I remember her properly now. I think I had a thing for eyelashes at that point in my career. She fluttered them more than Joan Collins in the entirety of Dynasty .”

I laugh. “Could I possibly get your autograph?”

She shoots a funny look at Harry that I can’t interpret, but before I can question him, she rummages in her bag and produces a leather notebook. After tearing off a piece of paper, she scrawls something on it and then hands it to me.

I lift it up to read, but before I can see what she’s written, Harry snatches it off me. “What the hell?” I say.

“Read it at home,” he says quickly.

“You’re very odd sometimes. Did you know that?”

“Just sometimes?”

I grin at him. “The rest of the time you’re very sweet.”

“Ugh,” he says, wrinkling his nose. “How disgusting.”

Frida’s companion comes towards us, and I grin down at Frida. “Thank you again. You not only gave Fiona and Jared a happy ever after, but you also gave us one too.”

Her face softens. “Good luck. Tell me what you say.”

“Pardon?” She doesn’t get the chance to answer, because Harry’s taken my arm and is towing me across the room in a determined manner that I usually only see when he’s trying to get me out of shops.

Harry opens the front door, and I wander into the flat, turning on lights as I go. They illuminate the boxes and packing crates that are strewn everywhere.

“Bloody hell, I don’t even know where my clothes are,” I observe.

Harry drops a kiss on my shoulder as he moves past. “Just look for the biggest packing crate.”

“Are you saying I’m a clothes horse?”

“Not at all.”

“Thank you.”

“One horse couldn’t possibly carry the weight of your underwear drawer, let alone the rest of your wardrobe.”

I put my hands on my hips. “Are you dissing my pants?”

“Darling, of course not. They’re one of the main sources of my pleasure.”

“I was thinking I might do some unpacking, but I don’t think I can be bothered,” I confess.

“Leave it for tonight. We’ll get started in the morning.”

He makes his way up the stairs, and I follow him, taking the time to ogle his bottom.

“That sounds like a good plan,” I say. “I’ll have a shower instead.”

He edges around some boxes and into the bathroom, and I follow him. As he begins brushing his teeth, I lean against the door and smile at him.

He pauses, gripping his toothbrush in one hand. “You’re making me nervous, Fifi.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you think you’ll ever not call me that?”

He starts brushing again. “Unlikely,” he says thickly through a mouthful of foam. “I like it.”

“Say it, don’t spray it.” He pinches me, and I dance out of the way, laughing. “Pack it in, you knob.”

He gargles, sets his toothbrush away, and then drops a kiss on my nose. His breath smells sweet and minty. “Make sure you hit all the major areas when you shower. I’m in the mood to get creative.”

I swallow hard, my smile drifting away as the familiar heat rolls in. I sometimes wonder if we’ll ever lose this spark that keeps us as passionate lovers, but then I discount that thought, because the answer is never. “Ungh,” I say.

His eyes crinkle as he laughs. “I love it when you’re speechless.”

“You lie.”

“True. Don’t be long. It’s our first night in our home.”