Ice Burns Read online

  I smile as I duck out to get the coffee poured. And because I need to do some rearranging of my own again. The downside of being a little bigger than the average guy in the pants department is how easy it is to notice at inopportune moments especially when you’re going commando in sweatpants.

  *AMBER*

  I’d have thought he’d be ushering me out the door as soon as I was out of the shower, but Aiden doesn’t seem in a hurry for me to go. He must have much clearer memories of our conversations last night, because he puts on music while he whips up a greasy hangover-busting breakfast, saying things like “This is the band I said I thought you’d like” and “no milk in the coffee, right?”. I hate that he seems to know thing about me, but I don’t really remember talking about any of it.

  After our very late breakfast, I think it’s a good time to head out, but he suggests we chill out for a while and watch a movie. It’s not much of a fight, because there’s nothing to go home for right now, and his place is beautiful - light, airy, with views over the park. Is that Hyde Park? Holy crap! He lives off Hyde Park? Who is this guy? Even his bedroom is beautifully light thanks to three skylights in the roof. I love that he likes to be surrounded by light; it must make such a difference on a gloomy day.

  Aiden opens a large cabinet in the living room and tells me to pick a movie. I smile to myself when I see the collection - it’s so stereotypically male, with everything from zombie apocalypse to crazed gunmen at Christmas. Futuristic mayhem is plentiful and some insane driving movies too. I’m shaking my head to myself when he walks up behind me, runs his right hand down my right arm till he reaches my hand, which he lifts to the cabinet door just below the one I’m looking at, and guides my fingers to press the slow-release button. My heart pounds at the sudden touch - the first since we woke up.

  The door opens to reveal a host of other movies - nature documentaries, animations, and a collection of beautiful tearjerkers and classics, like The Little Princess and Princess Bride too. This collection I’m pretty surprised by, so I look at him quizzically - I’m thinking he must have a child, or a niece, or something that can explain it, but he throws a lopsided grin my way. The smile is sexy as hell, but unlike the others, it doesn’t reach his eyes. There must be a story here, but he is obviously not up for talking about it as he’s seen my questioning look, but walks away, so I try to put it out of my mind.

  He heads to the kitchen to grab us some drinks, and my eyes follow him out of the room. I think I’m in trouble here. It’s been hours - not even a full day - and I feel a pull on my heart when he walks away. It’s crazy, and a little terrifying, but for the first time in a long time, every nerve in my body feels awake. For the first time in a long time, I feel electrified, and alive.

  *AIDEN*

  I don’t know why I opened that cabinet. I wanted her to see the different sides of me, I guess. I can be romantic. I can be chivalrous. It bought every girly movie I could think of when I found out I was going to be a daddy. I don’t know how I knew the baby would be a girl, but I just did. I believed it so strongly, I found a list of the best films to watch with your daughter, and bought them all. They’ve never been watched, but I’ve not wanted to throw them out either. It’s stupid, but it is what it is. I feel like I shared a deep secret with Amber. A woman I’ve known for hours. A woman I haven’t slept with. Haven’t even kissed.

  I walk out of the kitchen to find Amber standing in front of the large windows. It looks like she’s staring out, but as I approach her I can see that her eyes are actually closed.

  “What’s up?” I ask, startling her. “Sorry!” I walk up behind her and rest my chin on her shoulder as I wrap my arms around her.

  “Nothing, it’s silly.”

  “What is?”

  She rests her hands on mine and I hold on to how natural this feels with her.

  “It’s just this thing I do. I have this really early memory of my dad, and it’s pretty much the only thing I remember first hand, not something I’ve heard about him or seen in photos, you know? We were at a fair and he’d bought me this giant unicorn helium balloon, but at some point it slipped from my fingers and it was floating off into the sky and I was five-year-old meltdown level upset. He put me on his knee and told me to look at the balloon, remember every detail, then close my eyes and sort of ‘draw’ the whole scene in my mind. He said it’s like taking a photograph, and you’ll never forget the picture, or the moment. I still remember it, and him on that day, so he must have been right. So it’s a thing I’ve been doing all my life and my brain is full of useless but valuable pictures.” She laughs at herself, then on a deep inhale, she continues,”This is just such an amazing view, I don’t want to forget it.”

  “Huh. That’s not silly. It’s kind of cool”, I close my eyes to imprint the picture on my mind, too. Except in my mind I’ve taken a few steps back, so that my picture can include a beautiful, dark haired woman, standing closed eyed in front of the window. “Now I know why you had your eyes closed so much when we were walking around last night.”

  “Oh, that’s so embarrassing”, she says, scrunching up her face, but I kiss her neck and say again, “No, I think it’s really cool. I love it.”

  She shakes her head, but I can see the smile on her lips in the reflection of the window in front of us.

  “So, what torturous movie have you chosen for us”, I ask stepping away and she turns around.

  “You assume I went for something girly?” Amber retorts with a smirk. I lean over to pick up the DVD box, but she snatches it away, keeping it out of reach behind her back.

  “Oh, I bet you went for the saddest movie you could find, didn’t you? Just to give you an excuse to cry into my shoulder!” I answer, holding her around the middle again and trying to pry the box out of her hand. She laughs and shrieks, trying to squirm away from me. Our faces are close, our lips almost touching, but she keeps the DVD case out of my reach, and her lips too, and breaking away, skips over to the DVD player. She pops the disk in, all the while hiding it from my view with her body.

  I’m grinning at her like a fool, and I can feel my hard on returning, so I turn away, gathering up the mail I dumped on the sofa last night and stack it on the side table. I plop down in mock defeat and resignation in my sigh, and hit the play button on the remote. Amber walks over and sits down on the sofa next to me, tucking her legs under her body so that she’s leaning slightly in my direction.

  “I don’t think so”, she replies. “But it’s a four-part movie I’ve never seen”. The only four-part movies in my collection are The Hunger Games and Die Hard - which is up to number five now, though I only have four. The theme tune starts, and I immediately know it’s The Hunger Games. I love that she chose something with action, adventure, and a bit of romance. A balance that hits all the gender stereotypes. And I love that she chose a four-parter. It lends itself to inviting her over to watch the next one too.

  The movie starts, and I’m about to snake my arm around her shoulders when she hops up again and runs into the bedroom, coming out a second later with the duvet. She sits back down, closer to me this time, and pulls the thick cover over us both. I twist myself around, laying my legs either side of her and pull her in towards me, my arm around her middle as she rests her back into my chest. My other hand finds hers and our fingertips intertwine. Wordlessly, without our eyes leaving the TV, we spend the afternoon holding and not holding hands. Little furtive touches. Like fingers dancing.

  ~4~

  *AMBER*

  The movie ends with the two main characters, Katniss and Peeta holding hands in the air, before fading to the villainous President Snow watching them of a TV screen. It’s so ominous I feel a thrill rushing through me, and I am dying to watch the second film. I can see out the large windows that darkness is setting in though. That’s winter in England for you - dark by 4pm this time of year. Aiden whispers into my neck, asking if I’d like to spend the night, and while every female fibre of my being is howling it’s “YES!
”, I say no.

  Oh, I know I want to. Feeling Aiden’s hard length against my back for the last two hours hasn’t reduced my feeling of need at all, but it’s all moving very fast. This time yesterday I didn’t know him. Now we’ve had a movie, brunch, spent the night and gotten very drunk together. It’s like we’ve done the whole set of first few dates in one, and in reverse. I want this, so much, but I’m more of a play it safe type person. And nothing about this feels safe. Not like with Mr Marks, but like it could break me, if I’m not careful.

  We’re still snuggled on the sofa, his lips in my neck, our fingers doing that exploring thing that sends tingles all the way up my arm and radiating down my spine and extricating myself from here is going to be tough. I’ve wanted to feel this way for so long, and now I’m scared I’m going to wake up and find it’s all a dream. A glorious, tall, handsome but very unreal dream.

  Aiden dots tiny kisses around my neck, and I’m not discouraging him. Moving my head around so that he has new places to put his lips every time. My breathing is heavy and soft moans escape me involuntarily. I’m basically purring on his lap.

  “You like that?” he asks quietly, and I nod. His voice is raspy and his eyes are hooded.

  “I feel like a cat, preening against your lips.” It sounds corny as hell when I say it out loud and I cringe inwardly but he chuckles.

  “Can I see you tomorrow, Kitten?” he says against my skin and I can’t answer, so I just nod, closing my eyes to relish every second of this feeling. Less than 24 hours, and I have a nickname already.

  I was meant to have lunch with Sarah at a friend of hers, but I think she’ll forgive me if I tell her why I’m cancelling. She’ll be happy, in fact.

  “Meet me at Battersea Park station at 10? There’s a lovely cafe we can have brunch at, and then a Christmas market of some sort in the power station. We can have a walk around?”

  “Sure”, I say, and my heart skips a beat. I love spending my Sundays strolling around the various markets of London, and this man, this gorgeous man who has hurtled into my life in the most surprising way, has just suggested doing one of my favourite things.

  His hand has left mine and is currently making swirly patterns on my hip bone, skimming bare flesh just underneath the hem of the t-shirt, and I know if I don’t move now I won’t be going anywhere. I disentwine myself slowly, and he groans as I leave him. I quickly gather the few belongings I brought with me, and I’m dreading heading out into the winter weather in sweats, a t-shirt and high heels, or worse, the clothes I wore last night - talk about walk of shame.

  Aiden comes to my rescue again with a huge jumper and some fluffy socks.

  “I know it’s not the right size, but do you want to wear these home? I’ve called you a cab so you won’t be seen by too many people, on the up side,” he adds with a shrug.

  “You called me a cab? That was really thoughtful. Thank you.”

  “Well, I’m giving you my clothes and still don’t know where you live, so I’m hoping being really thoughtful will guilt you into returning them at some point,” he says, and the smile that lights up his eyes is back in place.

  I’m laughing and rolling my eyes at him when his phone beeps with a text saying the taxi is waiting outside.

  I can’t stop smiling, the whole cab ride back to my side of the Big Smog. I catch the driver glancing in the rear view mirror from time to time, and shaking his head, but I can’t help it. I think I’m falling in love.

  When we get to my place I lean over to ask the fare, but he shakes his head. “No need, luv,” he says in a strong Cockney drawl that says he’s been around here all his life. “Your fella put it on his account. Have a good night now, luv.” As I head up the stairs, I wonder for a moment why Aiden has an account with a cab company? Does he have so many women around that this is his normal thing? Is that why he happened to have a spare toothbrush too? But with the memory of his kisses in my neck, I put the thoughts aside. Not every man’s a cheat or a womaniser. I know that, and I’m flying high tonight and don’t want to lose this feeling.

  Unlocking the door, I can still smell the faint scent of yesterday’s bubble bath. Was it really yesterday I lay there, almost fantasizing about Mr Marks? It feels like a lifetime ago. I’ve never felt this way. I’ve had boyfriends, I’ve felt flutters and butterflies and excited shivers before, but this? I’ve not felt this before. This is as close to love at first sight as I’ve ever experienced. No, I don’t think I’m falling in love with Aiden.

  I know I am.

  ~ 5 ~

  *AIDEN*

  I pretty much passed out soon after Amber left last night, so I woke up before the sun this morning. I lay in bed for ages, trying to find her scent in my bed, which I think makes me a total loser. A big part of me wants to kick myself for this whole thing. I’m just divorced, I’m rich, and I should be out playing the field, like Jamie. But that’s never been me. I didn’t grow up with money. It’s new to me and it makes me feel awkward.

  As for women, my parents shared a great love, they were always in love, and I know I’m meant to want to sow wild oats and whatever, but the truth is, I’m ready to settle, and I want what my parents had. After Lizzy, I’m really conscious of women just wanting to be with me for the money. Amber obviously knows I’m not broke - she woke up in my apartment in Hyde Park, after all, but she doesn’t know anything else. She didn’t ask, and didn’t change towards me after seeing the place either.

  Most women throw themselves at me as soon as they realise I have a few 0’s to my name, in hopes I’ll want them to stay. Amber didn’t. That just turns me on even more. I’m about to stick my hands in my shorts and sort myself out, but I want to drop her a text first to let her know I’m thinking of her. I start typing out a ‘good morning, Kitten, but my alarm goes off and I drop the phone, sending the battery flying. I’ll send the text in a bit, but I have to get to the starting line now.

  --

  Just in from my Sunday Park Run - my favourite thing about Sundays - I’ve poured a fresh glass of juice and gathered up the mail from the side table I dumped it on yesterday. I normally stay and have a coffee at Tea in the Park with some of the guys, but I have an hour or so before I have to leave to meet Amber and I may as well do something useful. It’s the usual run of the mill stuff - a catalogue I don’t remember signing up to, a statement from the bank, regular stuff - until I spot a letter from Anville & Associates, the attorneys who dealt with the sale of my parents’ farm.

  We were never a wealthy family, but we did own a farm on a stretch of land about a day’s horse ride from London, or so my grandfather used to tell us. As the city stretched out, we were soon on the borders of zone 6 and the value of the land went up and up. My dad was getting older and while I always helped on the farm as a kid, my interests didn’t fall there. I was much more interested in computers, and design. On top of that, farming has become less and less about agriculture and more and more about renting out land for festivals and camp sites and holiday accommodation. In time, my dad made peace with the end of our family’s farming lineage and they decided to sell the land for some millions. We agreed to keep a small parcel though - the huge barn and a nearby small cottage - the original 17th century farmhouse. Not a lot, but enough to still be somewhere they could live and potter around the garden. Dad insisted on the barn as it could be useful, and maybe make some money. Not that they’d need it with what the farm was fetching, but my dad needed a project, and he had all sorts of plans.

  Mr Anville had been an acquaintance of my father’s through the farmer’s union and when a buyer came forward two days after their accidental death in the car accident I still blame my ex-wife for, he offered that his firm would take care of everything. I’ll be honest and say that I barely paid attention. With the funeral and the news of the baby and then finding out… my head wasn’t in the paperwork for a farm I knew I’d never go back to. I haven’t even been back to the cottage since the wake.

  I tear open the envelop
e and see a letter from Mr Anville. It’s a friendly correspondence thanking me for my ongoing business - their firm still deals with the rentals for the barn, which an events company uses for such events as the Ice Ball and they take care of bills, pay a management company for maintenance and upkeep, and all I do is pay their bill once a year.

  From the cabinet in the living office, I pull out the folder where I keep all business pertaining to the land, and as I’m flicking through the paperwork trying to find the previous statement so that I can put it all together for my accountant in January, a figure catches my eye. It’s in a long, badly photocopied document I’ve never actually looked at and even now the date on the letter makes me feel pretty shit. It’s dated on the day of the funerals. What caught my eye though, was the number £20,000,000.

  I’ll let you in on a little secret. I went from being a student on an allowance working on my family farm during the holidays to having £15,000,000 in my account, no parents and no farm. I did finish my studies as I was pretty sure my dad would haunt me if I didn’t, but between loss, double deaths, loss again and divorce, I never really dwelt on the fine print. But here the fine print lies in front of me, and it’s not that fine. According to this unsigned document, the farm was sold for £20mil. But I received £15mil for it.