“I won’t,” she said, though she wasn’t sure her voice sounded as casual as she wanted it to.
When he left the kitchen, the quiet rushed back in.Cat exhaled, her hand still resting on the wooden spoon.The door scraped faintly as he closed it behind him, and she realized how much effort it took to steady herself again—just to breathe as if nothing inside her had shifted.
The roast filled the cottage with a rich, savory scent, drawing Rhys and the girls back downstairs.
“Smells amazing,” Rhys said, his arm around Olivia’s shoulders as Jillian set out the silverware.
Cat smiled as she stirred the gravy, even as something inside her tightened.“Mrs.Johnson’s recipe.She practically delivered it ready to go.”
The girls slid into their chairs, with Jillian quiet, her eyes flicking to Cat and then away.Cat caught the glance and felt a faint flush rise under her skin.The conversation from earlier still hung between them—unspoken but heavy.
She took a breath, peeled off her apron and turned toward Rhys.“Actually, I was thinking, if you don’t mind, I might head into Bakewell tonight and get some dinner there.”
Rhys had just poured milk for the girls and looked up, surprised.“Dinner there?Why on earth would you do that when you’ve cooked all this?”
“You’ve been working all day, and the girls deserve some time with you—just you.You don’t need me hovering about.”
Rhys frowned.“You’re not hovering.You live here.You’re part of the household.”
“Temporarily,” she said, huskily.“And I could use an evening to myself, truth be told.I’ll be back before it’s late.”
He hesitated, clearly wanting to argue.But then Jillian shifted in her chair, her expression pinched, her fork tracing patterns in her napkin.The sight sealed Cat’s decision.
“Honestly,” she added lightly, “I’ve been craving fish—something we never seem to have here.Maybe a nice bit of trout if I’m lucky.”
That drew a reluctant smile from Rhys.“Bakewell trout’s worth the trip.You can take my car, if you like.”
“Thank you,” she said, setting down the ladle.“I won’t be long.”
“Cat—” he began, but she was already washing her hands and drying them off.
“I promise not to run off with it,” she teased, and that made him laugh, though she could see he still wasn’t pleased.
Jillian mumbled something about the gravy, her tone polite but tight.Cat squeezed her shoulder gently on her way out, an olive branch of sorts, and in the hall grabbed her coat from the peg by the door.The oak door stuck, dragging faintly over the threshold before giving way.Cold air rushed in, sharp and clean, and she stepped out into the night.
The drive into town took less than five minutes, but it was enough to clear Cat’s head.The headlights caught the shimmer of frost along the hedgerows, the mist rising from the meadow.Holiday lights illuminated Bakewell, the white and gold lights reflecting in shop windows.
She was glad to have escaped the cottage.She hadn’t realized until now just how trapped she felt, how worried she felt, as well as guilty.She had so many feelings about what happened with Jillian today.Too many feelings.
Parking between the bridge and a dark church, she walked along the cobbled street, her footsteps echoing.The air smelled faintly of woodsmoke and ale, and the sound of laughter spilled from the pubs that lined the square.
Cat paused outside a few restaurants, scanning the posted menus.One was loud with chatter and the hum of a football match on television; another too formal, the kind of place where couples leaned close over candlelight.Finally, she found what she wanted—a small bistro tucked beside a bookshop, its windows fogged with warmth.
Inside, the waitress led her to a corner table by the window, where a single candle flickered in a low glass holder.When asked, Cat ordered a glass of wine and the salmon—pan-seared, the waitress said, with a lemon-dill sauce and winter greens, something she’d never cook at the cottage.
Her wine came quickly and Cat was glad for it.She sipped, and sat still, trying to sort through her tangled emotions.She was conflicted and troubled and, for the first time, she wished she’d never taken this job but had stayed in London with Sarah.Because if she hadn’t taken the job, she wouldn’t have met Rhys, and if she hadn’t met Rhys, she wouldn’t have… fallen for him.
Blinking hard, Cat took another sip and watched the street outside.Some hurried past laden with shopping bags.Others walked more slowly, arm in arm, or holding hands.Couples passed, families, too, and Cat’s gaze followed one family down the narrow street until they disappeared from view.The heaviness returned in Cat’s chest, the aching reminder that she did not belong here.And whether she liked it or not, she was still very much alone.
*
Rhys was workingby the fire when Cat got home.The upstairs was dark and quiet, but the hearth was bright and warm, and Rhys had pulled a small table next to his armchair, the table stacked with books, notes, a cup of tea, and his ever-present laptop.
He looked up and smiled as she entered the room and just that one smile made her heart flutter.
“Girls in bed?”she asked.
“I can’t be sure they’re sleeping but they are being quiet,” he said.“How was dinner?”
