Eve helps me unpack the food, careful fingers brushing past mine as we unwrap the sandwiches and pour tea from the flask. The windows are fogging from the warmth inside, blurring the world into soft shapes.
I glance at the boot. The rain has turned the glass into a silver sheet, the view hidden behind a thousand tiny droplets. “Want me to open it? You’ll see better.”
She zips up her jacket and nods. “Go on then.”
I press the button. The boot lifts, slow and smooth, and the world spills in, the sweep of the valley below all muted greens and greys, the horizon lost to mist. Wind rushes past the open hatch, tugging gently at her hair, but the car shields us from the worst of it.
Eve leans forward, her eyes following the line of the hills. Her face softens, almost glowing in the dim light. “That’s incredible,” she says quietly.
“Worth the trip?” I ask, keeping my voice low.
She turns, smiling, small, genuine, and a little shy. “Definitely worth it.”
I watch her watching the hills, that quiet smile curving at the edge of her mouth, and realise I don’t mind the rain at all.
Chapter 9
Eve
Itake a cautiousbite, mostly to prove a point. The baguette crunches, the flavours settle, and my eyes widen before I can stop myself.
“Alright,” I admit, mouth still half full. “That’s… annoyingly good.”
Aaron leans back against the pillows, smug. “Told you. A finely balanced combination of textures and taste. The culinary peak of Western civilisation.”
I roll my eyes but take another bite. “You talk about sandwiches like other people talk about art.”
He grins. “That’s because mine are edible masterpieces.”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “You’re impossible.”
“Confident,” he corrects. “There’s a difference.”
The wind rustles softly around the open boot, the rain a constant whisper against the car roof. The valley beyond looks washed clean, wild and endless.
I glance at him, at the relaxed way he sits there, comfortable in a silence that would make most people fidget. It’s oddly disarming.
I take another bite and decide not to tell him he’s right again. Not yet, anyway.
When we’ve both finished the sandwiches, Aaron reaches for the bag and pulls out a plastic container. “Cake?” he asks, cracking the lid open just enough for me to see the pale sponge and jam inside.
I blink. “You actually brought Victoria sponge?”
“Of course,” he says, sounding faintly offended. “It’s the law. You can’t have a British picnic without it.”
I laugh. “Maybe in a bit.”
He shrugs. “Your loss. More for me later.” Then he leans back against the pillows and nods at the space beside him. “Come on, sit properly. You’re too tense for a woman surrounded by baked goods.”
I shake my head but shift next to him. The mats are soft enough, the pillows piled high behind us. It isn’t warm exactly, there’s a chill that seeps in through the open boot, but the blanket he spreads over us traps a comfortable pocket of heat.
Beyond the car, the landscape stretches for miles, sharp and clear against the bright grey sky. Stone walls cut across the land in crooked lines, and the distant farms look like tiny specks clinging to the hillsides. It’s all so open, so endless, it feels strange to sit still in front of it.
For a while, we don’t speak. We just sit there, side by side, watching the rain sweep in soft lines across the valley.
Then, out of nowhere, I start to laugh.
Aaron turns his head. “What’s funny?”
