each of us snapping out of the moment and looking away.
‘My duties for today?’ I ask, aiming to get us back on track quickly.
‘Don’t piss me off,’ Becker fires shortly, revving the engine and flipping a switch that has the factory doors sliding open. ‘Do you think you can manage that?’
‘No problem, sir,’ I answer cockily. I can’t promise that. Pissing Becker off comes naturally.
‘Don’t call me sir,’ he says quietly, and I look across to see him shudder, remembering him barking those same words at me in the library one time.
‘Why?’
He glances out the corner of his eye. ‘It doesn’t help me when I’m having to resist you, Eleanor.’
I breathe in and quickly return my focus forward. ‘Okay.’
‘Good.’ He hits the pedal, and we’re zooming out of the garage like lightning. ‘Get ready for the ride of your life, princess.’
I’m inhaling again. I try not to, but it’s impossible when he’s chucking innuendoes all over the place. Actually, the first wasn’t an innuendo at all. It was a statement. An honest statement?
‘I mean in Gloria,’ he clarifies, returning his attention to the road. ‘It’s thrilling.’
Forcing myself to disregard Becker’s inappropriate comments, I breathe in the fresh air currently whizzing past my face at high speed, and when music is introduced to the mix, I’m more than thankful. It seems neither of us can say the right thing, so filling the empty space with INXS’s ‘Need you Tonight’ is welcome. And a bit . . . suggestive.
It takes a solid hour to get out of London. We hit the country roads, and Becker opens up Gloria, putting his foot down and relaxing back in his seat. It’s nippy, but he has the heater blasting and the scarf he so thoughtfully secured over my head is keeping my ears warm. I’m relieved I took the initiative to transfer my shades from my other bag. Becker has replaced his normal glasses for sunglasses, too, and despite the music having stopped about ten miles ago, I’m no longer uncomfortable. Becker is right. Gloria is one hell of a ride.
‘Mr H and Mrs Potts really didn’t think it was a good idea for me to accompany you today,’ I muse, waiting to see what reaction that statement draws.
‘You still have a lot to learn about the Hunt Corporation, Eleanor.’
‘Like?’
‘Many things.’ He looks across the car and smiles. ‘You’ll learn along the way.’
I return his smile, looking forward to learning everything there is to know. ‘Your grandad seems sad.’ Becker appears unaware of his grandfather’s feelings. Or is he just ignoring them?
He laughs it off. ‘Is that a statement or a question?’
‘It’s an observation.’
‘He’s an old man.’ He flicks his eyes briefly to mine. ‘He hasn’t been the same since he lost Mags.’
‘Your grandmother?’ I ask, shifting to face him. Am I about to learn a little more about the Hunt family history?
‘Yes, my grandmother.’ He’s talking with complete detachment. ‘Died twenty-five years ago.’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Human nature has me reaching for his left hand, which is currently holding the gearstick, and squeezing gently in a sign of compassion.
‘Don’t be.’ He glances down and flexes his fingers. I snatch my hand back, injured that he didn’t accept my offer of comfort.
‘And your father?’ I ask tentatively, wondering if he’ll open up about him.
Becker laughs, not the reaction I was expecting. ‘Jesus, princess. What’s with the twenty questions?’ He’s trying to evade my enquiry, but I’m now more intrigued than ever.
‘If it’s too painful, I understand.’
‘It’s not painful,’ he mutters. ‘I’m over it.’
I flinch at his brutality, his harsh assertion cutting deeply. I hate to think what his grandad would make of that. So he’s in therapy for fun, is he? I detect hot resentment, and despite Mrs Potts’s warning words to never speak of it, I go for the jugular. ‘Do you want to talk about it? I’m a good ear.’
Becker looks at me out the corner of his eye. ‘Can I call a friend?’
My lips straighten, unamused.
‘What about fifty-fifty?’ he asks.
‘Not funny.’
‘Okay, I’ll ask the audience,’ he relents on a sigh, taking a corner fast.
‘You have no audience.’ I gasp, grabbing the door handle for dear life. He seems to be getting faster and faster, and I wonder if it’s because I’m getting personal. It’s making him edgy.
His attention is being divided equally between the road and me, back and forth. ‘Why not ask about my mother?’ That resentment has just doubled.
I swallow hard, now unsure of how to handle this. ‘She died in