The Road Trip: The heart-warming new novel from the author of The Flatshare and The Switch, Beth O'Leary [best young adult book series .txt] 📗

‘I know why you’re so keen to get rid of me,’ he says as I carry the plates through to the kitchen and leave them on the side. ‘You want to sneak down to the servant’s quarters, don’t you?’

I grit my teeth. ‘I want to see Addie, yeah.’

‘She’s already got you wrapped around her little finger, I see. Swanning around in swimwear and teasing you all day long.’

I walk back into the dining room as he shakes his head and laughs.

‘You’re going to have your hands full with that one.’

Terry is always obnoxious but hearing him talk about Addie like this is intolerable. I bunch my fists. He isn’t as bad as Dad, at least. For a moment I imagine what it would have been like if the whole family had come on this holiday, as my father had intended. Uncle Rupe and his wilting American wife; the trio of sharp-nosed cousins from Notting Hill; my brother, Luke, without his partner, Javier, because Javier is never invited. Luke would endure the sly homophobia of my family in quiet, stifled agony, and I would want to punch somebody, and Dad would tell us how disappointing we are and Mum would spend the holiday desperately trying to fix everything, as she always does.

No, this holiday is a gift, despite Terry’s presence. I slowly unclench my fists.

‘Look,’ I say. I must try not to sound desperate, though, of course, I absolutely am. ‘If you can just spend tonight on your own, you and I can go on a tour of the local vineyards tomorrow. All day. Just us. I won’t even drink, so I can drive you.’

Terry looks torn. Always the self-described ‘life of the party’, he is absolutely frantic about being left alone for even a moment. But wine tasting is one of his favourite occupations, and I know the promise of my undivided attention for a whole day will have some sway.

‘All right,’ he concedes. ‘Perhaps I could . . . read. A book.’

He looks around in a lost sort of way.

‘There’s a TV in the living room,’ I tell him. ‘And they’ve got all the Fast and Furious films on DVD. All of them.’

He brightens somewhat. ‘Well. Enjoy yourself, boy.’ He winks. ‘I’ll sleep with ear plugs.’

I suppress a shudder. ‘That’s . . . Right. Thanks. Have a good night, Terry.’

Addie

Dylan’s out of breath when he gets to the door of the flat. He must’ve sprinted down from the dining room. It’s been adorable, watching his hangdog eyes following me all day. Yesterday he seemed sexy, interesting – today he seems sweet. Earlier I caught him writing in a leather-bound notebook by the pool and his tongue was sticking out between his front teeth.

‘Hi,’ he says breathlessly. ‘I am here in the hope that even after a day of overhearing my uncle’s objectionable views, you might still be interested in kissing me.’

I laugh, leaning on one hip. I’m wearing a pair of dungarees cut off above the knee, with my red swimsuit underneath. I always feel most me-ish in dungarees. I was annoyed with myself this morning for changing into that short dress for Dylan when I got back from the bakery. It had worked – his jaw had literally dropped – but it had felt a bit . . . cheap.

‘How did you manage to get rid of him?’

Dylan’s hands clench and unclench like he’s itching to reach for me. The heat builds in my stomach.

‘I promised him a whole day of undivided attention visiting vineyards tomorrow.’ Dylan brushes his hair out of his eyes. ‘May I come in?’

I pause as if deliberating, but the tortured misery of his expression makes it too hard to keep up. I laugh, stepping aside. ‘Go on then.’

‘Oh, thank Christ for that,’ he says, and then he closes the door behind him and, taking me gently but firmly by the shoulders, pushes me up against it. ‘Where were we?’

‘Round about here, I’d say.’ I tug him closer. He’s at least a foot taller than me, and I’m already standing on tiptoes and tilting my head to meet his gaze. His eyes are all smouldery.

‘I think you’re going to be the death of me, Addie. I’ve spent the last eighteen hours dizzy with wanting you.’

I’ve never met a man who speaks as well as Dylan. Not his accent, I don’t mean that, but the actual words. Everything he says sounds like it ought to be written down.

‘Nobody ever died of wanting,’ I tell him, moulding my body to his. ‘And maybe a little patience would be good for you.’

‘In my experience, patience is awfully dull.’

He kisses me. He’s a great kisser, but that’s not why my body flames the moment his tongue touches mine. It’s the intention behind the kiss that’s done that. This kiss says, This time, I’m here all night.

Our first time is frantic. All shaking hands and gasping breath. We don’t make it out of the kitchen, and when we untangle ourselves, weak-limbed and laughing, he turns me around and brushes away flakes of bread crust from the skin of my bum and thighs.

‘God, you’re stunning,’ he says, voice hushed.

He’s behind me, and he holds me in place when I move as if to turn. His hand is still brushing over my thighs, more deliberate now. Gentling. I glance over my shoulder. He’s looking at my body like he’s learning it, almost reverent. He meets my gaze and his eyes catch me up and I want him again, already. So much my pulse starts racing.

My legs are shaky; I stumble as we make our way to the bed. When I collapse face down on the mattress he’s just seconds behind me, pulling my body flush against his. He traces soft kisses up the back of my neck and I feel that quiet heat unfurl in the pit of my stomach again.

‘This,’ he says throatily, pressing a