‘I found one of your goats in my top field. Just brought her back and – hope you don’t mind – just popped her in the pen. I hate to say it, I think she might have met my Cedric halfway. It is spring, mind.’ Jago winked.
Was he flirting with her? He never had before. Then again, thanks to the long-standing Jenken–Jory feud, she’d barely exchanged two words with him before she sold him Archie’s beloved cows and tractor. When Archie had been alive and their paths had crossed, she’d found her mind wandering, tinged with guilt, down deliciously forbidden roads, imagining all the things a married woman could only dream about. When it came to the tractor sale, she had been so consumed by grief that even if Matt Damon had appeared topless on a white charger, she wouldn’t have noticed.
If hewasflirting, he clearly believed beauty was only skin deep, because she looked like a pig in a wig today – and her legs were so hairy you could practically plait them.
‘Shit. OK, thank you. I expect it was Camilla; she’s trouble, that one. Has been known to ignore her constraints on occasion.’
‘Naughty girl.’ Jago smirked, his voice low and teasing. Rita’s face reddened as the handsome one continued. ‘You all right? Must be hard coping on your own.’ Jago looked around the now-empty barn. ‘You’ve done a good job getting this ship-shape, though.’
‘Err, thanks.’ Rita’s words came without thought. ‘And are you looking after those cows all right?’
‘Looking after them like my own.’ Jago hesitated for a second. ‘Anyway, I thought you were allergic to…’
Rita was wide eyed. ‘How did you kn?—?’
Jago was swift in his reply. ‘So… do you think you’ll stay here? At the farm, I mean?’
Something tightened in Rita’s chest. The question caught her off guard, touched a nerve she didn’t even realise was quite so raw.
‘I’m not selling to you, Jago Jenken.’ Rita was sharper than she intended. ‘Not now, not ever.’
Jago raised his hands in mock surrender, eyebrows lifting. ‘Whoa. An angry Jory, I’ve seen a few of those in my time.’ He softened his tone. ‘That’s not what I meant. I just thought…’
She cut in again, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. ‘I wasn’t born bloody yesterday.’
‘All right, all right.’ Jago sounded contrite now. ‘I really didn’t mean to strike a nerve.’
Rita blew out a breath, already regretting her tone. ‘I’m setting up a wellness retreat, actually. So, if you want to come and release the stresses of farm life by screaming into a pillow, you’ll be very welcome.’
Jago raised an eyebrow, the flirty spark returning. ‘And you need a retreat for that?’ He didn’t look away, the one dimple flashing like a dare.
Her temper fizzled out like a match dropped in water, and she tried not to smile. ‘Anyway, it’s more than just pillow-screaming. There might be goat yoga too.’
‘Ah,’ he replied, mock serious, ‘your Camilla’s just had a bit of practice for that already.’
Rita rolled her eyes, but her heart gave a traitorous flutter. Damn him.
Jago smirked. ‘Anyway. There was a gap she must’ve squeezed through. I roughly mended it. The whole goat pen really could do with a seeing to.’
‘Couldn’t we all,’ Rita stuttered, followed by a rapid and embarrassed, ‘I mean… but thank you, thank you for doing that.’
Another lopsided smile. ‘Well, you know where I am.’
With that, all six foot one of deliciousness strode off towards Hawthorn Acre.
Rita let out a slow breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The flutter Jago Jenken had just stirred in her wasn’t unwelcome. If anything, it reminded her she was still alive, but it unsettled her all the same. Archie’s absence was still so raw, his presence lingering in every corner of the house. She wasn’t ready to be feeling anything new, not yet. And yet there it was, a quiet spark, gently nudging at the edges of her grief.
TWELVE
The faded sign of the Winking Pilchard, a cartoonish silver fish with one eye cheekily closed, swayed gently in the breeze. On calm evenings, the pub’s bench-lined terrace would fill with locals and visitors alike, pints in hand, waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon and another day to reach its final chapter. On stormy days, it was the place to hunker down, listen to the wind whip against the stone, and tell stories that grew taller with every round. As with a lot of the now few and far between old-fashioned hostelries, the Winking Pilchard was more than just a pub; it was a compass point in the lives of the Seahaven Bay folk. And nestled at the harbour’s edge, it marked the perfect boundary between land, sea, and all the magic in between.
As the landlord gave Rita a huge, welcoming smile, the familiar scent of woodsmoke hit her like a wave, stirring a rush of nostalgia that caught her off guard and causing her breath to hitch. It was only the second time she’d set foot in the pub since Archie’s wake, and the warmth of the place, once so comforting, now felt bittersweet. She hesitated, emotions teetering, until a sudden flurry of floral fabric and jangling bangles swept in behind her.
‘Honestly, Reet,’ puffed Kelly, brushing wind-blown hairfrom her face. ‘That was not my kind of hill, in these heels.’ She shivered. ‘I can’t believe it’s April and so bleeding cold.’
‘I did tell you to wear your trainers… and a coat.’
‘You said we were going out, out.’
