Page 89 of That Conflicted Feeling

Hesmiles at me overAngus’sshoulder, likeIdidn’t really throw him out ofMom’shospital room less than forty-eight hours ago. “Hey,Polly.How’syour mom?”

“How’smy mom?”

Angusturns and smiles.Iignore him. “Mymom has a broken leg, thanks to you.”

“Thankstome?”Maxjabs his finger into his fabulous chest.

“Oh, don’t look at me like a puppyIjust kicked.”Anguslooks from me toMaxand back again asIcontinue. “Ifyou hadn’t been so busy choppering me to islands,I’dhave been home, and her leg would still be in one piece.”

Anguslooks back atMax. “Choppering?”

Maxshakes his head atAngusin adon’t worry about itgesture.Heholds the candle up to me. “Maybeyou should have a sniff of this.Angussays lavender is calming.”

Angusgives me an earnest nod. “Oh, yes.Very.”

Isthere anything more annoying than someone—never mind a hot-as-hell billionaire whose business will crush yours but whose penis you allowed inside you anyway—telling you to calm down when your head feels like the top of it is about to blow off and spew brain innards everywhere like a blender without a lid?

No.

No, there isn’t.

Ijab my finger toward him. “Anddon’t you tell me to calm the fuck down.”

Awoman passing by puts her hands over her little boy’s ears, pulls him tight to her side, and tuts at me as she struts away.

“FirsttimeI’veheard you say ‘fuck,’”Maxsays, his brow furrowing.

“Ifwe weren’t in polite company,I’dbe using it a lot more.”

“Oh, don’t consider me polite,” saysAngus, waving at us to carry on and not mind him.

Maxputs the candle down and walks aroundAngus’sstall toward me, weaving between an elderly man walking a dachshund and a woman biting a chunk out of theFrenchloaf protruding from her bag.

Ihold up my palms. “No.Don’tcome over here and try to win me over with all your charmy charm and your twinkly eyes.”

“Myeyes twinkle?”

Jesus. “Notthe point.”

“Whatis the point,Polly?”Heturns his palms to the sky. “What’sgoing on?What’sbothering you?”

“What’s‘bothering’ me?”Imake air quotes around ‘bothering’ like only total assholes do. “What’sbothering me is that youusedme.”

Helooks baffled.Notfake baffled.Butlike he genuinely doesn’t have the first idea whatI’mtalking about.

“I’mcrazy about you,Polly.”Andhurt.Helooks hurt.Notfake hurt.Actuallyhurt.Heputs a hand to his chest, and his voice quiets. “Iwould never use you.”

“Aw,” saysAngusas he rearranges the tea lights.

Someshoppers stop behindMaxto take it all in.

Howdare he tell me he’s crazy about me.Andhow dare he do it in front of a street full of stallholders and local produce lovers.

“No, you’re not.Ifyou were, you wouldn’t have used me for information onRitaandGerald, and then”—Myracing mind can’t find the right word.Orthe wrong one.Wordsare extremely tricky right now—“sexed me in the llama shed.”

“Sexedyou?” comesMrs.Bentley’svoice from behind me.Sheker-clunks closer. “Ina llama shed?”Shepoints atMax. “Thishandsome fella?”

“Well, that’s very nice of you,” saysMax, doffing a nonexistent cap at her.