Visibly relieved, he points to the door and mumbles. “Bathroom is through there and…water should be hot.” Then he escapes.
What’s wrong with him? Has he never been in the same room with a woman? Perhaps he really is a monk. An oboe playing monk. What the hell is an oboe anyway?
I stand looking at the room, then at my suitcase. I’m cold and damp and for the first time in years, don’t have a to-do list to keep me focused. This probably explains my mood.
Tomorrow, I’ll decide whether to stay on this island or go somewhere else. France, even Italy. The world is full of nice places.
Chapter Six
Brandon
Have I done the right thing inviting her to stay? For the last half hour, the question has nagged at me like a bad debt.
Out in the gathering night and falling rain, it seemed a good idea to help someone stranded on a strange island. A no-brainer. Upstairs in the bedroom, my brain changed its advice because the rest of me had warmed up and started noticing that I was in small room with a large bed and a nice-looking woman.
When did I become such a neanderthal? Imagine ogling a woman in trouble.
“Hi” she said from somewhere behind me.
I slam the oven door with a bit too much force, making the shelves rattle, and I spin around, a friendly smile already on my face, then I see her and the smile slips.
She’s changed and….Fuck.
The hot bath and some dry clothes have transformed her. I can’t help staring.
Legs.
Long legs.
Made longer by the dark leggings and knee-high boots. A brown, figure-hugging jumper that comes down to her thighs, does nothing to disguise her slim waist and stretches nicely over her chest. And then there is the hair. A cascade of dark red, loose ringlets fall halfway down her back.
A primitive creature inside me wants to wolf whistle, so I turn away and get busy looking inside the Aga. The fish pie has browned nicely, the creamy sauce piping and bubbling through the mashed potato. Grabbing a Jay cloth, I place it round the baking dish and bring it out.
“Buggery-bollocks!” I yelp almost throwing the dish on the counter because my hand burns. Even the wet jay cloth burns me. I cradle my hand and bend over it protectively.
“Here.” Lessa is instantly at my side, taking my hand and holding it under the tap. Cold water hits my burning fingers, making me hiss.
“You can’t use a jay cloth for hot things.”
“It was wet, should have been–"
“Wet makes it worse.”
“You don’t say.” Bloody hell, that hurts, but a few minutes of cold water does help soothe the pain. Finally, I look around. “Did I ruin the dish?”
“Keep your hand under the tap for a bit longer. I’ll deal with the food.” She sounds nothing like the scared creature I found in the dark two hours ago.
This new, improved woman takes charge, finds a dry towel, and transfers the baking dish to the table. When the kettle comes to the boil, she pours hot water into the large teapot I had waiting next to it.
A few red ringlets fall forward when she dips her head over the teapot to inhale with her eyes closed. “Mmm, I love Earl Grey.”
What’s wrong with me? Women don’t normally affect me this way. Especially, not women I hardly know.
“How is the hand?” She glances over her shoulder after placing the teapot on the table.
Unfortunately, the burning pain has receded to a dull throb and left space for other, inconvenient, sense to come centre stage. I’ve been gawping at her like a teenager.
Turning off the tap, I find a dry towel. “Much better. Shall we eat?”
