It’s just colour. Just fabric.
But once, red meant attraction. Heat and roses and one glass too many of Claret. Until it came to mean something else.
“Brandon?” Lily-Anne calls softly, her footsteps light as she comes down the stairs.
Nova laughs and vanishes.
“Yes, I’m down here,” I say distractedly, stuffing the clothes back into the washer and straightening.
“Oh no,” she groans, spotting the water trickling onto the floor. “What did I do wrong?”
“Nothing. Looks like it’s just unbalanced.”
“What? But it wasn’t even a heavy load.”
“It’s not your fault. The sensor’s temperamental.” I risk a glance at her, noticing her white T-shirt, torn-kneed jeans, hair in a messy bun—cute, but my mind jumps straight to red lace.
God help me.
I clear my throat. “If the load’s too light, it doesn’t distribute evenly and the whole drum wobbles.”
She blinks at me. “So…you’re saying the load wasn’t heavy enough?”
“As I said—temperamental. I need to get it replaced.” I wipe my damp hands on my jeans and nod at the washer. “Your things are wet but otherwise done. If you don’t mind wringing them out, there’s a line on the patio. Should dry quickly, what with the sun still out.”
“Good idea.” She gathers her wet clothes. I show her out back, opening the glass sliding door.
I avert my gaze as she pegs them up.
“How was the farm?” she asks. “Milk some cows?”
It takes me a moment to recall our joke from the car ride yesterday.
“Yes. It was good. We had a calf today.”
She glances over, her expression shrewd. “That’s nice. But it’s a bit late for calving season, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never worked on a farm with animals.”
“But oystersareanimals,” she points out. “They’re marine molluscs. Part of the same group as clams and scallops.”
I arch a brow. “You Googled oysters, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.” She smiles coyly, a brief flash that’s gone almost as soon as it appears, but it sparks heat beneath my ribs all the same. “I had to verify your milking claim.”
“I see.” A smile tugs at my mouth. “And how about you? Good day?”
She nods. “I walked into town, checked out the harbour and some shops. It’s such a beautiful place.” She fiddles with a peg. “I didn’t play my guitar, though.”
Guilt drags her tone, subtle but unmistakable.
“That’s quite alright,” I say gently. “There’s no rush. It’s only your first day.”
Her shoulders ease a little, though I can tell it still nags at her.
“Speaking of which,” I continue, “how about that pub dinner? Since you missed it last night. Nothing fancy, just to mark your first day.”
“That sounds great. I promise not to nap through it this time.” She gives me a quick, bright smile before heading inside to call her mum.
