The Secrets She Must Tell - Lucy King Page 0,51

mother had died, he’d hidden his grief behind a wall of impenetrability. As a result, when it came to feelings, Finn had always been self-reliant, a master of internalisation, choosing to box up what he felt so as not to have to deal with the inevitable messy fallout.

Only this morning—God, was it only this morning?—he’d considered perhaps asking Georgie for tips, and if ever there was an occasion to do so, this was it. Who better to talk to? She knew what it was like to stumble around blindly, looking for answers. She knew him. And, more to the point, for some unfathomable reason he wanted her to know. They were a team. In this thing, whatever it was, together.

He was under no illusion that it would be easy. It would probably be hell on earth, even assuming that Georgie was receptive to the idea, which was doubtful, given how he’d dismissed her. But it was worth a shot. He had to do something that made sense. And at the very least he owed her an apology.

Finally finding a path through the chaos, Finn spun round and strode out of the sitting room and into the bedroom, only to come to an abrupt halt at the sight of Georgie packing a suitcase.

‘What are you doing?’ he said, his brows snapping together in a deep frown.

She didn’t look at him, just carried on folding the stunning green dress she’d worn last night and which he’d peeled off her what felt like a lifetime ago.

‘What does it look like?’ she said, her voice utterly devoid of the warmth and concern with which she’d asked him what was wrong back there in the sitting room.

‘You’re packing.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘You wanted space. You wanted time. I plan to give you both.’

What? ‘I meant I needed a couple of minutes,’ he said. ‘Ten. Maybe fifteen. I didn’t mean for you to leave.’

‘Well, there seems little point in hanging around.’

At the realisation that she actually meant it he felt a sharp stab of something to the chest, and for a moment he thought, well, of course she was. Leaving was what people who he cared about or who were supposed to care about him did, after all. But he shoved it aside in order to focus because this was one occasion at least in which he did have the power to take control. ‘Don’t go.’

‘Give me one good reason not to.’

‘You were right. I think I probably should talk to someone.’

She flung her hairbrush into the case, then whirled round to scoop up her make-up that was scattered on the dressing table. ‘So find a therapist,’ she said, dumping it in there too.

‘But you’re here.’

‘Right.’

‘Please. I’m sorry for lashing out,’ he said, his jaw clenching as he recalled how he’d spoken to her. ‘I didn’t handle things well.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘It isn’t.’

She shrugged. ‘You’d had a shock.’

That was an understatement. ‘Nevertheless, it’s no excuse,’ he said gruffly. ‘I really am sorry.’

‘Apology accepted. Now, if you wouldn’t mind...’

‘Please, Georgie.’

She must have heard the note of torment in his voice because she stopped what she was doing, finally, and gave a great sigh. ‘OK, fine,’ she said, abruptly sitting on the bed and looking at him, her eyes wary and her expression cool. ‘God knows you’ve had to listen to me prattle on enough.’ Prattle? he thought with a frown. She did not prattle. ‘So if you want to talk I’ll listen.’

With a rush of relief, Finn stalked into the room and leaned against the edge of the dressing table she’d just cleared. He rubbed his hands over his face and then shoved them into the pockets of his jeans. He cleared his throat and braced himself.

‘So it turns out that I find it hard to process big things,’ he began, inwardly wincing at how pathetic he sounded. ‘Especially big emotional things. I have a tendency to lock things down.’

‘That’s understandable. Although probably not very healthy.’

‘No.’ It wasn’t healthy at all. God only knew the damage he’d caused his nervous system recently. It also smacked of hypocrisy because it had just occurred to him that by withholding the truth from her and obfuscating he’d been behaving like Jim and Alice, which did not sit well.

‘Have you always done it?’

He gave a short nod. ‘Ever since my mother—Alice—died.’

‘That’s a long time.’

‘Yes.’ Too long, with hindsight. ‘I bottled up how I felt about that for years. I was only ten. I didn’t know what the hell was going on. Jim—my father—or, rather, my adopted father—did