The Road Trip: The heart-warming new novel from the author of The Flatshare and The Switch Beth O'Leary (ready to read books .TXT) 📖

I’ve always felt like I have a forgettable sort of face. Deb has these beautiful thick eyebrows that she’s never plucked – they make her face look iconic, like she’s a model. My eyebrows just look like . . . I don’t know. I can’t even think of anything to say about them.

Ugh. I look away from the mirror and reach for the bottle of wine I just fetched from mine and Deb’s ‘naughty secret stash’ – because, as irritating as it is to prove Terry right, we totally have one. My heart thumps too fast as I make my way up to the terrace. It’s ridiculous, the way my body reacts to Dylan. I’ve not fancied anyone like this for ages.

‘Here you go!’ I say as I approach them.

My mood improves a bit at Dylan’s expression – that cool, practised stare he was doing earlier has gone, and he’s sort of gazing, as if he’s longing for me, as if he wants to undress me slowly. My stomach tightens. I kind of assumed that Terry arriving would put an end to the staring. Like having an extra onlooker would make Dylan realise, Oh, she’s not that special after all.

‘Good girl,’ says Terry, reaching for the bottle. ‘I knew I liked you.’

I give a tinkling laugh that sounds nothing like my real one. ‘Anything else I can get you?’

‘Won’t you join us?’ Terry asks, pointing to an empty chair. ‘It must get lonely down there in the bowels of the building . . .’

Dylan frowns, shifting in his seat. He doesn’t have to worry. I’m not about to sit through an evening of family banter with pervy Uncle Terry.

‘I think I’ll just go to bed, actually,’ I say. ‘Long day.’

They let me go with minimal protest, and when I close the door to the flat behind me, I lean against it, eyes closed. I remember that look of Dylan’s. The longing look. My breath catches.

I try to go to bed – I’ve been so low on sleep all summer – but I’m too restless. It’s so hot. I kick one leg out from under the sheet, then the other, then give up on it altogether and leave it crumpled in the bottom corner of the bed.

I’m lying there hoping for a knock on the door, if I’m honest. I’ve finally started to drift off when it comes, and for a moment I think I’ve dreamt it. But there it is again, a soft double-tap.

I sit up sharply in bed. My mouth tastes stale and my lips are dry. God knows what my hair looks like. I dash to the bathroom to run a toothbrush around my mouth and scrape my knotted hair up into a messy bun. It looks too ‘done’ – I redo it. By the time I get to the door, the sleepy eyes I’m blinking Dylan’s way are totally fake. I’m wide awake now. The night air is still warm, and as Dylan steps inside the flat he brings the smell of sun-baked vines with him.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d wake,’ he whispers as I click the door shut behind us. ‘You strike me as a heavy sleeper.’

I am, actually. My ex always complained that I snore way too loudly for such a small person, but that doesn’t feel like the sexiest of admissions, so I shake my head.

‘I was . . . not exactly waiting, but . . .’ I flush, already wishing I’d said something that sounded more assertive. More like Summer Addie.

A slow smile grows on his lips. His eyes turn cocky again. He’s wearing that put-on confidence he had when he first turned up on my doorstep. He reaches one hand out and takes mine, tugging me gently towards him.

‘I feel we left a few things unsaid,’ he tells me, voice low.

I step close enough that I have to tilt my chin up to look at him. Just his hand in mine is enough to start my pulse racing again. His floppy brown hair is all styled now, falling artfully over his forehead. Somehow it makes him look even scruffier.

‘Oh?’ I breathe. ‘Unsaid?’

‘Perhaps I mean undone,’ he says, dropping my hand to undo the buttons on the cami I wore in bed. His fingers move slowly, starting at the top, his knuckle brushing against my breast as he unbuttons. He doesn’t shift the fabric until every button is done. I’m already breathing hard when he finally pushes the straps back over my shoulders and lets the cami pool to the floor behind me.

We’re still in the kitchen – we’ve barely moved a few paces from the front door. For a moment he just looks down at me. His eyes are wide, lips parted. My breath hitches. Then he moves, backing me up, his hands shifting down to my waist, his lips closing in on mine. My back hits the door hard just as our tongues touch.

This kiss isn’t a first kiss, it’s foreplay. I lose track of time, of everything, drowsy with wanting, hearing myself moan, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt until he breaks away from me to yank it over his head. When my bare skin touches his we both gasp.

‘Christ,’ he says, pushing my hair back with one hand as he lowers his lips to mine. ‘You’re killing me already.’

I writhe against him, one leg lifting, pyjama shorts ruching. I’m unbuckling his belt when the knock comes at the door behind me.

I jump so much my teeth knock into Dylan’s with a jolt. We stumble away from the door, tangled together. Dylan spins just in time to shield me from view as Uncle Terry pokes his head around the door.

For God’s sake. Terry is absolutely the sort of man who knocks right at the same time as he turns the door handle, isn’t he?

‘Yoo-hoo!’ he calls. ‘Maddy? Oh, well, hello, you two!’ He chuckles. ‘Am I interrupting?’

I cringe back into Dylan, burying my