The Runaway Ex

Chapter One

SO, THAT’S IT, you’re just going to walk away? After all we’ve been through.

I’m not walking, I’m running—as far as I can get.

But I thought we had something, something real.

We did, until you took the ‘real’ and trampled all over it.

But…

There’s no ‘but.’ There’s no anything anymore.

Turning on her heel, Layla Lewis strode across the floor of her studio flat. As she reached the door, intending to hurl herself through it, she burst out laughing. Thank God the angst being played out was purely in the realms of fiction—scenes being rehearsed from the book she was writing to check whether or not they worked.

From behind her, she heard a loud harrumph.

And now you’re laughing. I’m in pain here, serious pain, and you’re laughing.

She whirled round to face her boyfriend. Joseph, that’s not part of the scene. We’re done.

But it could be, he said, quickly closing the gap between them. It works.

Layla pushed at him playfully. I’ve told you, no more words. She’s too busy storming out of his life.

Because of a misunderstanding?

Because of a misunderstanding, she confirmed.

Joseph shook his head ruefully.

If people talked to each other more, misunderstandings wouldn’t happen.

If people talked to each other, I wouldn’t have a book, Layla pointed out. Besides which, it’s not that black and white. Some things aren’t.

Joseph looked at her again, a slight frown creasing his features. I suppose. Eventually he shrugged his shoulders. Anyway, it’s a lucky escape, I reckon.

For her? I know.

I meant the poor bloke.

She shoved him a little bit harder.

I’m joking, I’m joking, he said, holding his hands up in mock supplication. I just wanted to see you all fired up again. You look bloody sexy when you’re fired up.

Stop it. You’ve got work to get to, and I’ve got a laptop to pound.

Lucky laptop, he said, sighing long and low. What chapter are you on?

Twenty-three. I’m over halfway through now.

Fame and riches will soon be ours.

Or a whole stack of rejection letters. It’s hard to get a book published nowadays.

Have faith, Layla. You’re good, really good.

Your trust in me is touching.

My trust in you is absolute.

I’m good at other things too, though, aren’t I? She couldn’t help it; his close proximity was making her feel coquettish.

Probably, but I can’t think what else right now.

Before she could hit him for a third time, Joseph pulled her close for one last kiss—one last lingering kiss—a vivid reminder of what had transpired that morning.

I suppose we could practice just a little bit more… she said upon release.

The reunion scene? His voice was just as husky as hers.

I’m not sure there’s going to be a reunion yet.

Joseph reared back. Whoa! So, it’s a serious misunderstanding?

As serious as it gets.

Joseph looked almost sad at the prospect, sad and then mischievous. Well, if I was him, I wouldn’t let her go. I’d show her what I was made of.

Before she could even think of arguing further, she was back on the bed, what few clothes she had on rapidly discarded. His lips, his tongue, his hands ran the length and breadth of her body—patiently, impatiently, and then patiently again. What should she do? Reciprocate? Or just lie there, her arms above her head, in a state of wanton abandon? The wanton abandon option appealed—she had taken the lead earlier, pushing him back against the pillows, her inner dominatrix coming to the fore. It was his turn now, or her turn, depending on which way you looked at it. She’d revel instead in his touch, the hands that knew which buttons to press at exactly the right time; there was one button in particular that right now he seemed to be deliberately avoiding.

Oh, Joseph, she murmured, the impatient one. Press the damn button!

All in good time, he whispered back, reading her mind as well as her body.

So close, too close—she tried to hold off. Concentrated on other things instead—the sound of the city outside. Florence was coming to life around them, heat rising from the pavement as it was rising in her. Hustle and bustle, to and fro, car horns beeping, people yelling to one another, sometimes in greeting, more often in temper. The Italians, they were a passionate lot. Their love and lust for life was ingrained not only in them but also in the buildings that surrounded them, in the air itself. A passion that was all consuming; certainly it had consumed her. Correction, was consuming her.

Ahh…

But still his hands were nowhere near where she thought they should be. First it was her breasts being caressed, then her buttocks, and then it was featherlight fingers, trailing oh so slowly down to her stomach, lingering at her hip bone, reaching her thigh, her inner thigh. Now was when he’d get down to business. He’d start to move farther inward—she held her breath, feeling like she couldn’t breathe at all. He stopped. Why the hell had he stopped? Oh come on, come on, she urged, but silently. At last his hands started moving again. That’s it. Good boy. Keep going, just a little bit farther. Just a…What? No! Not that way again.

Layla’s eyes popped open. She’d been so busy concentrating…savoring…anticipating…but now she stared accusingly at him. And that’s what did it. His face was directly above hers; his blue eyes boring deep, deeper than he could ever go physically, touching a part of her that only he had the power to reach.

Ahhhhhhhh.

It was over, without the need to press anything.

"Now that’s something you should put in your book," he said, his smile as satisfied as her own.

When my hands stop shaking, perhaps.

Just your hands?

Not quite.

Detangling from her, Joseph sat up. Still reclining, she studied him. His blond hair had lightened in the almost incessant sunshine in Florence, their home for the last year. In Trecastle, a small village in North Cornwall, where they had both been living previously, it had been much darker. It was still long, though, still flopping over those azure eyes of his, obscuring them sometimes but tantalizingly so.

What time will you be back tonight?

Layla glanced at the clock on the bedside table. The entire morning was hers to write, but she would need to be at La Pasticceria Barontini, the bakery where she worked on a part-time basis, by three o’clock for the afternoon shift.

Around seven, I think, she said eventually.

That late? He sounded disappointed. In the restoration workshop where he worked alongside master craftsman Paolo Rossi, honing and improving his already considerable carpentry skills, the preference was to start early and finish early.

If you’re home first, you can cook, she chanced.

I cooked last night. His protest was immediate. And the night before.

Oh, all right, all right. I’ll cook, but something quick and easy, though.

Fine by me. He leaned in to steal another kiss. I like quick and easy.

Get to work, she replied, ignoring the double entendre.

I will, but first I need to shower. Looking at her meaningfully, he added, And so do you.

Oh no. She was the one who could read minds now. That shower, it’s not built for two.

So, two become one, simple.

Joseph…

"Get in there, now."

As much as he loved her fieriness, she loved it when he was masterful. Giggling, she rose from the bed and ran naked across the room, Joseph striding purposefully after her.

Chapter Two

THE LATE MARCH SUN was just about perfect, bright but not blindingly so. There was a time when Tara had adored the hot caress of that big, bold ball of fire in the sky, but now she preferred cooler weather. Maybe in recent years she’d had too much of a good thing. Coming to a standstill, she spied a café with several empty tables outside it. Making her way over, she sat down. A waiter appeared immediately.

What would you like, madam?

He had an English accent, not Italian. Tara was disappointed. She hadn’t come to Italy to hear English accents. She’d hear those soon enough.

Barely glancing at the menu, she answered, Cappuccino please, not caring that in Italy, cappuccino was considered very much a breakfast coffee. She had decided that from now on, she could damn well have what she liked, when she liked.

As the waiter sauntered back to the kitchen, Tara relaxed, or relaxed as far as it was possible to do on an aluminum chair with no cushion to soften its hardness. Looking around her, she smiled. Florence. She was finally here, in a city she had always wanted to visit but had never made the time to. She had been in Rome too, just a couple of days before, and prior to that, Venice, both of which were also on her list of "cities I really must see." She enjoyed losing herself in culture, something that hadn’t been in plentiful supply where she had just come from, and, in all honesty, just losing herself. Florence was her last port of call before heading home.

The waiter reappeared with her coffee and one of those dinky amaretti biscuits plonked on the side, small and round with an almond taste. She had developed quite a liking for them recently. Saying thank you, she noticed the waiter had dark, close-cropped hair, similar to Aiden’s. His eyes were as dark as Aiden’s too. Only his build was different. Aiden had a rugby player’s build, solid and strong; the waiter was much slighter. Her hand shook as she picked up her coffee, but she quickly steadied it. She mustn’t think of Aiden. He was the last person she should think of.

Unexpectedly, a tear tumbled over Tara’s lower lashes and raced down her cheek, as though glad to have found escape. She immediately reached up and brushed it away. The café wasn’t overly busy, just a few people sitting here and there. Couples of course; it was always couples in Italian cities, she’d noticed, each respective pair looking longingly into each other’s eyes. If she’d thought she’d gotten away with her show of emotion, however, she was wrong. The waiter was hovering again.

Sorry, miss, he said, looking slightly awkward.

Tara glanced up. He looked young, around mid-twenties, younger than she had first thought. Previously, she had put him around the same age as her, thirty.

I couldn’t help noticing. Are you okay?

I’m fine, she replied, hoping her eyes weren’t shining too brightly, betraying the words she had forced from her mouth. I’ve got a slight cold, that’s all. As an afterthought, she added, Thanks for asking, though.

It was nice to know he cared, that someone in this big, anonymous city cared.

Instead of leaving, however, he pulled up a chair.

"Hope you don’t mind me resting my feet for a bit. We’re not busy, and the manager, Franco, he’s away on an errand at the moment. Or at least that’s what he calls it, an errand, but he’s not fooling me. What he’s doing is drinking Aperol at someone else’s café, leaving me to run his. The Italians, they love café society."

Taken aback by his actions and his words, Tara couldn’t quite decide if she did mind him sitting down and talking to her. He hadn’t exactly given her time to mind. Looking at his friendly face, she relented. It wasn’t so bad talking to someone; she hadn’t done so properly since leaving Australia three weeks ago.

So, you’re from England, the young man was talking again. Whereabouts?

Erm, er, Cornwall. I’m from North Cornwall, from a small village you’ve probably never heard of. Most people haven’t. It’s called Port Levine.

The waiter shook his head. No, I can’t say I have. I’m from the other side of the country, from Whitstable in Kent. What brings you to Florence?

Apart from the art and culture, you mean? she replied, unable to keep a note of sarcasm from creeping into her voice. Softening her answer, she added, I’m just passing through. I’ve been in Australia for a while now. It’s time to go home.

On your own? the waiter probed.

On my own, Tara confirmed.

Holding out his hand, the waiter introduced himself. My name’s Lucas. I’m a student at The Florence Academy of Art and, as you can see, a part-time waiter too. Glad to meet you.

Hi, Lucas. I’m Tara. Glad to meet you as well.

Hey, you’re smiling. That’s better. Nobody should be sad in Florence.

Another couple came in and sat down at the table beside her, and Lucas gestured to Tara with a nod of his head that he had them to attend to. As she watched him take their order, she mulled over his last words to her. He was right. Nobody should be sad in Florence; it was a beautiful city, one of the most beautiful cities she had ever seen, a city that made you feel glad to be alive.

Refusing to allow any more tears free rein, she immersed herself in the scene before her: people rushing to and fro, lights shining from other cafés, from shops and bars too, holding back the dusk. Mentally, she reeled off the sights she’d seen: the Coliseum in Rome, the Doge’s Palace in Venice, the attributes of a certain famous sculpture residing proudly just a few streets away. She’d seen all these things, but she had seen them alone—not quite what she’d envisaged.

She had finished her coffee. Quick to notice, Lucas was by her side again.

Another one? he said hopefully.

She had meant to have only the one coffee and then move on, go back to her hotel room and have a sleep before dinner. Perhaps even blow off dinner altogether; her appetite wasn’t up to much lately, and she was tired. She’d been walking all day, just wandering through back streets, soaking up the atmosphere, the history of ages long gone. But it was pleasant at this café, in this square, and Lucas looked as though he’d genuinely like her to stay, so she acquiesced; another coffee would be fine.

When he returned to her table, he’d included two biscuits this time, not one. His obvious gesture made her laugh.

Sitting back down, he said, You know, I’ve always wanted to visit Cornwall. Never managed to, though. I’ve been just about everywhere else in the world, but never there. Spent a summer in Australia too, near Sydney. Loved it. Great surf.

There’s great surf in Cornwall too, Tara offered.

I’m sure. But the weather’s not usually conducive to a dip in the ocean. That’s what I don’t miss about home—arctic temperatures, even in May.

Tara couldn’t agree. Yes, it rained a lot in England, and okay, temperatures sometimes never got up to speed, but where she came from, it was so beautiful, few places could compete. She remembered lush green countryside, interspersed every now and then with granite rocks and boulders, rolling down to dark, dramatic cliffs that fringed endless stretches of golden, glittering sand. When the sky was blue, it contrasted magnificently against such jeweled tones, a natural work of art no artist could ever hope to capture fully on canvas, no matter how great their talent. When skies were stormy, there was an incredible intensity to them, dark and brooding like the hero in a Brontë novel. As a child, she had loved to watch clouds race across such a sky from the comfort of her parents’ cottage, staring out of the living room window, a log fire burning in the grate, feeling warm and safe inside. That’s what called to her now: that warmth and safety, a need to be protected again, nurtured. And the only place she could feel that was at home.

Your coffee’s getting cold, Lucas pointed out.

Oh, right, yes. Thanks. Tara took a sip.

So, you’re swapping Australia for Cornwall. Briefly or permanently?

Making a deliberate effort to keep her voice steady, Tara replied, Permanently.

As much as her roots called her, she wouldn’t have swapped the two if she’d had a choice. She would have stayed, put down new roots, got married on the beach, bought a house in the ’burbs, had kids, dozens of them. She imagined her children speaking with an Ozzie twang—it would have given her such a kick to hear.

She noticed Lucas looking expectantly at her, clearly wanting her to elaborate. He seemed mystified by this sad girl sitting in front of him. For her part, she longed to confide in him, to tell him why she was going home. She had confided in no one, not yet. Would a total stranger be ideal? She could offload, and then she could leave, never see him again. But as tempted as she was, something deep inside told her to hold back. What she had to tell him would only bring him down, and she didn’t want that. She wanted him to remain as he was, happy and carefree. As all people had the right to be, every day of their lives.

I used to work in a café too, she said at last. Right on the beach. In fact, that’s what it was called: ‘Right on the Beach.’

In Australia?

Tara nodded.

Where in Australia?

"Lyons Bay. Two and a half hours from Sydney. It was stunning, that beach. I’ve never seen sands so white, like tiny grains of caster sugar. We ran a café, open for breakfast and lunch, but often, in the summer months, we’d continue well into the evening, ramp the music up, get the barbecue going, that sort of thing. People would hang around. We’d crack open the beer. Just hang out, just be."

We? Lucas raised an eyebrow.

He didn’t miss a trick.

Yes, we, Tara conceded. "But like I said, there is no we now; it’s just me."

Is that why you’re upset?

I’m not upset. I’m tired.

Lucas seemed to consider this. Leaning forward, he said, How long are you here for?

In Florence?

In Florence.

Only a few more days. I haven’t been to the Uffizi Gallery yet. That’s going to take at least two days to get around, I think.

Lucas nodded again, as though agreeing with her estimation. "Look, if you want a tour guide, if you want…I don’t know…someone just to hang with, let me know. I’d be happy to do both."

The kindness of strangers, it threatened to make her cry again. But regarding talking, she’d made up her mind. He was not the one.

She reached into her bag and located her purse. Delving into it, she brought out ten Euros.

Does that cover my bill?

Yes. I’ll get you change.

No, she insisted. No change.

As she rose to go, he looked disappointed.

Thank you, she said, meaning it on several levels.

The pleasure was all mine, he replied, understanding her perfectly.

She scurried away, clutching her brown leather tote to her chest.

Dusk had not been held back after all. But the streets, busy earlier, were even busier now: men and women in sharp suits rushing home from work, students, not the scruffy kind so often found in Britain but elegant, in designer wear, hurrying to meet friends, perhaps. In amongst the crowds, she had never felt so alone.

Trying to move farther forward, she found she couldn’t. It was as if the air around her had solidified. She stood where she was, in another of Florence’s piazzas, a different one than the one she’d had coffee in a few minutes earlier, she was sure. The café she had sat in was gone and so was Lucas, with his kind, smiling eyes, urging her to share. She so wanted to share. She couldn’t do this alone. She needed a shoulder to cry on, but whose? There was no one. Once tethered so tightly to the world and all that was in it, she was now cast adrift, floating out to sea, toward a boiling center which threatened to suck her into it, to engulf her forever in darkness.

How the hell was she going to face her parents? How would they react to her news? Perhaps it was better not to tell them—to just cut and run. Run farther than she already had. Rush toward that boiling center.

Her mother’s face appeared before her. A little tired round the edges but enlivened with love for her and her younger sister, Leondra—Leo for short. Her father’s face too, pride evident in his eyes whenever he beheld his two girls. She didn’t want to wipe those looks away. She wanted them to remain forever. Not be…she struggled to find the right word…contaminated.

The tears she had tried to stem earlier in the café could be caged no more. They fell, and she let them, powerless to stop their flow. Some part of her, the Tara that was hitching a lift in the back seat of her mind, an impartial observer looking on, honed in to what was happening around her. People were staring at the young woman crying so openly in the piazza, worried frowns upon their faces. She was not so anonymous now, not just another girl walking home or meeting a lover.

Her parents would be so surprised to see her. Apart from a visit three years ago, she hadn’t been home since. Why she had left it so long, she couldn’t fathom. Even the visit she had made back then had been brief, spending less than a week in Cornwall, the rest in London, revisiting old friends, whooping it up with them instead. She should have spent more time at home; she should have made more of an effort to see them. She should have realized how precious they were.

You’ve got wings. Now fly. It was one of her father’s favorite sayings. And she had flown, as far away as it was possible to get.

And now she had to fly back. Now she wanted them more than anything else in the world—well, almost anything. But would they be able to cope with her return?

Dropping her bag, she clutched at her stomach as though pain were slicing her in two. The Tara inside saw concerned looks turn into alarm, but like the Tara on the outside, she ignored them too. She couldn’t return home. She wouldn’t! She’d head deeper into Europe instead; she’d disappear. People did that all the time, but she’d never understood why before. She did now—some problems were hard to face.

Quite a crowd had gathered now. People whispering to each other, wondering what to do about the lone woman gone to pieces in a city where no one should be sad—whether to approach her, whether she was mad, perhaps.

If only she could fade away, evaporate. She tried to, hunching over, becoming smaller just as a hand reached out and touched her gently. Another kind stranger.

Tara? he said—a gentle voice but one with wonder in it too.

It took a few moments to register that this stranger knew her name.

Tara, he said again, more insistent now.

She straightened up, expecting to see Lucas, the dark-haired waiter, again, to witness the same concern on his face he had shown earlier.

What she saw, however, took her breath away. At first she refused to believe it; she couldn’t believe it. There was no way, absolutely no way.

Tara, he said a third time, and then she had no doubt.

He had barely changed in all the time they had been apart. Beautiful still, his hair a bit lighter, his eyes the shade of cornflower she remembered. A face she had loved to distraction in another lifetime. A face she had let go when adventure had called.

As her hands lowered, the crowd started to disperse, the relief that someone had taken it upon themselves to care for her, that they didn’t have to, palpable.

Joseph?

He smiled at her then, a smile as soft as the memories she had of him.

It was. It was Joseph Scott standing before her, like a gift from the gods.

Chapter Three

THE PHONE. Where was the bloody phone?

Hi, Penny. Did you lose the phone again?

Penny couldn’t help but laugh. "Hi, Layla! Yep, I lost the phone—again. Damn those cordless inventions."

Is it okay to talk? Is Scarlett asleep?

She’s cat-napping. There’s a difference, a big one, unfortunately.

Immediately Layla was sympathetic. Is she still not settling?

Put it this way… I reckon world peace will be settled before she is.

I don’t know how you do it. Layla sounded truly impressed. Looking after a baby, I mean. It must make you feel, I don’t know, so grown up.

"It makes me feel like an extra in The Walking Dead. And not a live extra either."

Layla giggled.

Penny raised an eyebrow. What was so funny? She was serious.

Penny, we’re coming to England, Layla continued. Next week. I’ve just booked tickets.

To Brighton? Penny could hardly believe her ears.

Erm, no. Cornwall, actually.

Oh, of course. It’s Hannah’s turn.

Penny couldn’t help it; she was disappointed. But it was Hannah’s turn. Layla had come to Brighton when Scarlett was born, had stayed two weeks in fact, relishing being back in her hometown. But Trecastle was where her other best friend lived.

But I was thinking you could come down and visit? You and Scarlett? Just for two or three days. It would be so great to see you. For us all to be together again.

I’m not sure, Layla. It’s a long drive—and on zero sleep, a dangerous one.

Perhaps Richard could drive?

Richard? Penny almost spat the word. Willingly take time off from work, you mean? Do you seriously not know the man by now?

Oh, Pen, I’m sorry. I feel awful coming to the UK and not visiting.

Don’t apologize. It’s fine. I miss you, that’s all.

I miss you too. I love it here, but…

But what? Penny prompted when Layla faltered.

It’s not the same. It’s great. Layla rushed to reassure her. "It’s just not