now, but the morning air is crisp and Tessa is shivering. I put an arm around her and gesture as if offering her the world. “We could go to Haworth, see Brontë country. I could show you the moors.”
She surprises me by laughing.
“What?” I raise my brow at her and bite into a banana muffin.
“After the night you ha-had”—she clears her throat—“you’re talking about taking me to the moors?” She shakes her head and reaches for her steaming coffee.
I shrug, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t know . . .”
“How far is the drive?” she asks, a lot less enthusiastic than I thought she would be. Granted, if this weekend hadn’t turned into complete shit, she’d probably be more excited. I promised to take her to Chawton, too, but the moors seem much more fitting to my mood right now.
“Four hours or so to Haworth.”
“That’s a long drive,” she muses and sips at her coffee.
“I thought you would want to go.” My tone is harsh.
“I would . . .”
I can clearly tell that something about my suggestion is troubling her. Fuck, when am I not creating trouble behind those gray eyes?
“Why are you complaining about a drive, then?” I finish off the muffin and rip open another.
She looks slightly offended, but her voice remains soft and raspy. “I’m just wondering why you would want to drive all the way to Haworth to see the moors.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and takes a deep breath. “Hardin, I know you enough to know when you’re brooding and withdrawing from me.” She unbuckles her seat belt and shifts her body to face me. “You wanting to take me to the moors that inspired Wuthering Heights , rather than some place from an Austen novel, has me on edge, more than I already am.”
She can see right through my bullshit. How does she always do that?
“No,” I lie. “I was simply thinking you would like to see the moors and Brontë Country. Sue me.” I roll my eyes to avoid that damn look in hers, not willing to admit that she’s right.
Her fingers play with the wrapper of a breakfast bar. “Well, I’d rather not go there, really. I just want to go home.”
I let out a deep breath and grab the bar from her hands, tearing open the wrapper. “You need to eat something. You look like you’ll pass out any moment.”
“I feel that way,” she says quietly, more to herself than me, it seems.
I’m considering shoving the damned thing into her mouth, when she takes it from me for a bite.
“You want to go home, then?” I finally ask her. Not wanting to ask where exactly home will be for her.
She grimaces. “Yes, your father was right. London isn’t as I imagined.”
“I ruined it for you, that’s why.”
She doesn’t deny it, but she doesn’t confirm it either. Her silence and the way she’s vacantly staring out at the trees pushes me to say what I need to say. It’s now or never.
“I think I should stay here for a while . . .” I say into the open air between us.
Tessa’s mouth stops its chewing, and she turns, narrowing her eyes at me. “Why?”
“It doesn’t make sense for me to go back there.”
“No, it doesn’t make sense for you to stay here. Why would you even consider that?”
Her feelings are hurt, just like I knew they would be—but what other choice do I have?
“Because my father isn’t my actual father, my mum is a lying”—I stop myself from calling her the name I want to—“and my biological father is going to jail because I caught her house on fire. It’s a ridiculous drama series on its own.” Then, to try to get a reaction out of her, I wryly add, “All we need is a cast of young girls with too much makeup and impractical clothes, and we would have a hit.”
Her sad eyes study mine. “I’m still not seeing why any of this would make you want to stay here. Here, as in away from me—that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to be away from me.” She says the last part as if saying it aloud
She surprises me by laughing.
“What?” I raise my brow at her and bite into a banana muffin.
“After the night you ha-had”—she clears her throat—“you’re talking about taking me to the moors?” She shakes her head and reaches for her steaming coffee.
I shrug, chewing thoughtfully. “I don’t know . . .”
“How far is the drive?” she asks, a lot less enthusiastic than I thought she would be. Granted, if this weekend hadn’t turned into complete shit, she’d probably be more excited. I promised to take her to Chawton, too, but the moors seem much more fitting to my mood right now.
“Four hours or so to Haworth.”
“That’s a long drive,” she muses and sips at her coffee.
“I thought you would want to go.” My tone is harsh.
“I would . . .”
I can clearly tell that something about my suggestion is troubling her. Fuck, when am I not creating trouble behind those gray eyes?
“Why are you complaining about a drive, then?” I finish off the muffin and rip open another.
She looks slightly offended, but her voice remains soft and raspy. “I’m just wondering why you would want to drive all the way to Haworth to see the moors.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and takes a deep breath. “Hardin, I know you enough to know when you’re brooding and withdrawing from me.” She unbuckles her seat belt and shifts her body to face me. “You wanting to take me to the moors that inspired Wuthering Heights , rather than some place from an Austen novel, has me on edge, more than I already am.”
She can see right through my bullshit. How does she always do that?
“No,” I lie. “I was simply thinking you would like to see the moors and Brontë Country. Sue me.” I roll my eyes to avoid that damn look in hers, not willing to admit that she’s right.
Her fingers play with the wrapper of a breakfast bar. “Well, I’d rather not go there, really. I just want to go home.”
I let out a deep breath and grab the bar from her hands, tearing open the wrapper. “You need to eat something. You look like you’ll pass out any moment.”
“I feel that way,” she says quietly, more to herself than me, it seems.
I’m considering shoving the damned thing into her mouth, when she takes it from me for a bite.
“You want to go home, then?” I finally ask her. Not wanting to ask where exactly home will be for her.
She grimaces. “Yes, your father was right. London isn’t as I imagined.”
“I ruined it for you, that’s why.”
She doesn’t deny it, but she doesn’t confirm it either. Her silence and the way she’s vacantly staring out at the trees pushes me to say what I need to say. It’s now or never.
“I think I should stay here for a while . . .” I say into the open air between us.
Tessa’s mouth stops its chewing, and she turns, narrowing her eyes at me. “Why?”
“It doesn’t make sense for me to go back there.”
“No, it doesn’t make sense for you to stay here. Why would you even consider that?”
Her feelings are hurt, just like I knew they would be—but what other choice do I have?
“Because my father isn’t my actual father, my mum is a lying”—I stop myself from calling her the name I want to—“and my biological father is going to jail because I caught her house on fire. It’s a ridiculous drama series on its own.” Then, to try to get a reaction out of her, I wryly add, “All we need is a cast of young girls with too much makeup and impractical clothes, and we would have a hit.”
Her sad eyes study mine. “I’m still not seeing why any of this would make you want to stay here. Here, as in away from me—that’s what you want, isn’t it? You want to be away from me.” She says the last part as if saying it aloud
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