That odd tug in my chest came back—the fascination with the angry little cat.
She was pricklier than a cactus trapped in a holly bush. Every inch of her screamedDo not touch.
And yet…
There was something behind those narrowed eyes and spikey demeanour that said, Convince me to climb into your lap and I’ll purr for you.
She’d fight it, of course. Probably come like the sweetest thing and then stab me with a pen for making her let go of her control.
I itched to find out.
The thought lingered, warm and stupid, as I stepped outside into the cold.
five
AMANDA
The day’splan was simple.
Get up before the clients.
Check the day’s schedule.
Email the catering team with the clients’ last-minute changes.
Absolutely, under no circumstances must I think about therelentlesslycheerful gardener.
The gardener whose forearms had inspired utterly indecent thoughts while I tossed and turned in bed the previous night.
I intended to avoid him at all costs. I didn’t need a human-shaped dog trailing around judging me.
Unfortunately, the universe had a sick sense of humour.
I couldn’t find the floral arrangements for the breakfast table, and the florist told me she’d left them in the greenhouse in water to keep them looking their best. So I pulled on a pair of Wellington boots at least four sizes too large, and headed out into the cold morning air to locate them.
A rhythmic thunk thunk thunk as I approached the greenhouse piqued my interest.
I should’ve kept walking. But curiosity got the better of me.
I followed the sound around to the left of the greenhouse and stopped dead at the sight that awaited me.
Henry.
Shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, a mossy green jumper slung over a pile of frost-covered logs, and a long axe gripped in his calloused finger. Those blonde curls were damp around his forehead with effort, his breath fogging in the cold air as he brought his arms up and slammed the awaiting log, splitting it in two.
Damn. I’d like him to split me in two.
Fuck. No. That thought could take a long walk off a short plank.
Still, the way his forearms corded with veins had me clenching my thighs. Henry might act like a goofy pet, but he looked like he’d walked straight off the cover of an old bodice ripper.
He paused to wipe his brow with his forearm, and I found myself biting my lower lip. Then, he placed the next log, his thumb skimming the face of the wood. Those veins shifted under his skin, and I accidentally let the tiniest of moans escape.
Oh no.
Heat shot straight through me, sharp and wild.
It was absurd. I didn’t evenlikehim.
