“Evie?” He takes the empty coffee mug and the file and places them on the floor. Then he steps closer and touches my cheek.
I freeze.
“Before we start, I wish…” He finds the hair stuck to my face and brushes it away.
“…wish you good luck for today. You deserve the very best.” He leans in; I feel a flutter of warmth on my face, a hint of aftershave, then his lips on my cheek.
Then he steps away.
Don’t I have enough to worry about today? Did he have to distract me like this?
It’s hard for me to trust myself around men; I see mixed signals even when the message is clear. But my body seems to have no trouble understanding this signal. This is not the same Osian who used to have a do-not-touch bubble around him.Everything from the quick (friendly?) kiss on the cheek, the first time he’s kissed me. To the hot touch of his hand brushing away an errant strand of hair. All send the same message. Even just now, the way he notices me frowning, trying to argue with myself.
“Don’t worry so much.” He smiles. “Leave it to me.”
I do.
I leave it to him.
Osian not only takes the ball and runs with it, he notices all the gaps and smoothly fills them in. Like any sports coach, he motivates and inspires, notices where I might be unsure and reassures me.
“Remember to smile,” he tells his team ten minutes before we open our gates. “This should be fun and it is your achievement. Remember how you started with all the dead bushes and overgrown weeds. You should be proud of the result. Share some of this excitement with your visitors.”
Their faces glow with confidence and enthusiasm. It lasts all through Easter. For the entire four-day weekend they mingle with the crowds, answering questions, handing out leaflets and leading so many different tours we sell out. They even invent a couple more. In addition to the Rose Arcade, the Wildflowers and the Rare Herbs tours, they add a Pond and Water Plants tour. Everything is fully booked; we have to lay on extra activities.
The day before we started, Amani and Ricky suggested we include an improvised online version of the quizzes. None of us imagined the knock-on effect. It attracts a couple of bloggers who turn up Friday morning, half an hour before the doors open. They take pictures and interview anyone standing still.Shirley and Gethin take them in hand and tell them tantalising stories about Kendric House. It all goes viral on social media and attracts a lot more visitors for the rest of the weekend. Leonie has to find more tables and put them out on the terrace to keep up with customers. Even Alex and the professor’s lectures are standing room only. A shame because I’d been looking forward to watching.
The success is wonderful, but it means Osian and I are working flat out. Every now and then I catch him looking at me, his eyes full of encouragement and pride. We have no chance to talk. Not until Monday evening.
At last, the Easter test run is almost over. A few visitors are still in the café but the gardens are officially closed. So it’s our chance – partners, workers, volunteers, and the Squad – to catch Alex’s much-hyped lecture about the secret of Kendric House. It’s a repeat because the earlier session was full to overflowing.
On my way to the ballroom, I find Osian loitering just outside.
“Hey.” Instinctively my hands smooth down my cornflower-blue jumper. Each day, I’ve taken care to wear a colour from one of the fan gardens. All except orange. I don’t think many women can pull off orange, not unless they’re Spanish or Middle Eastern. When I started at Styler TV, the make-up girls did my colour analysis and told me to avoid autumnal colours unless I wanted to look anaemic or hungover. Blue, on the other hand, suits me very well, especially with the dark-brown hair I now have.
“Going to the presentation?” he asks, his eyes on the door to the ballroom.
“Aren’t we all?” Alex and the professor made it sound like quite a story. And if the hum of the audience inside is anything to go by, it’s going to be standing room only.
“Isaias is holding two seats for us, but we’d better hurry before someone makes him give them up.” Osian offers me his arm in an old-fashioned invitation.
“How very Victorian gentleman of you!” I take his arm, secretly pleased we’re sitting together.
“It’s a lecture about a Victorian story. We’re matching the trend.”
“I have something for you.” I hold up two small green bottles.
A couple of weeks ago, I overheard him and Evan talking about beer and Osian said he used to like something called Rolling Rock, which is hard to find here in Wales.
I’ve had the two cold bottles cooling in my fridge until ten minutes ago.
“Where the hell did you find these?” His surprise and the pleasure in his face are reward enough.
“You can order anything online.” I smirk at him.
“Thank you.”
Chapter Thirty-nine
