Alex Maynard was tall, his dark hair was usually messy, his stubble unkempt and his hands roughened from the climbing he did and the woodwork Abby knew he enjoyed during his spare time.
She’d noticed his hands a lot.
Now she was noticing his feet. Bare, black sweatpants slightly torn at the cuff and at the waist, there was just bare skin. Inches and inches of bare skin that covered muscles she hadn’t realised would be so defined. She should’ve known. She’d grown up with climbers and men who took stupid risks enough to know how you didn’t need a gym to look like a sculpted god.
How Alex Maynard looked wearing possibly two items of clothing registered hard, and even though she knew she was shaking, she wasn’t certain if she was shaking because she thought she’d been followed or because she was staring at Alex’s chest.
“What’s the matter?” He stepped out onto the path and placed a hand on each of her shoulders.
“I think I’ve been followed. I think someone was waiting for me to leave the bar.”
His face darkened, his jaw clenched. “Come inside.”
Abby shook her head, suddenly feeling ridiculous and weak. “It’s fine. It was probably my imagination…”
“Abby come inside.”
There was that something in his tone that made her comply.
She’d never been in his house before. He’d been to her flat above the bar and to her house. In fact, he’d helped her move, just like all the Maynards had. She’d wondered what it would be like inside, imagining it bare and minimal because she’d fantasized that Alex was a pretty basic sort of man, the type who didn’t needthings.
She’d fantasized a lot. And not always about his home décor taste.
It wasn’t about his taste in furnishings, which weren’t minimal. There was a sofa that looked comfortably worn and two armchairs that didn’t match. Alex’s dogs, Hansel and Gretel, lounged on a rug in front of an open fire that was roaring.
He’d picked up his phone, partially ignoring her.
“Ste,” she heard him say. “You need to send patrol from the Last Temperance Bar towards my place. Look for signs that someone’s been lurking around. Abby’s been followed.” There was a pause. “She’s at mine now. Sure. Let me know what you find, even if it’s nothing.”
He put his phone down on the side, the action barely making a noise. Then he stood still and looked at her as if she was a piece of evidence.”
“Do you want a drink?”
“Tea. Please.”
“Come and sit down in the kitchen. Tell me how you like it.”
A range of responses to that shot through her head and she managed to push every one away, recalling the footsteps in the dark made it easy.
Abby followed him through the wooden door to the kitchen, one that looked new, almost unfinished.
“Have you done this?” It was shaker in its style and new, the wood unblemished.
“Yeah. Just about got round to it. It’s almost finished.” He sounded dismissive, as if the work he’d done wasn’t incredible. “How do you want your tea?”
She laughed quietly. “How about you tell me where stuff is and I’ll make it?” Forever the barmaid and waitress. She knew how Alex had a coffee or a mug of tea, because if he came into his brother’s bar during the day that’s what he would order.
He shuffled awkwardly. “You’ve worked all night, and probably all day. I can manage.”
“Okay.” She gave him instructions to make it the same as his, mainly because she wasn’t overly bothered.
“Do you want something to eat? I was going to do some toast.”
A dog – Gretel – slipped into the kitchen and lay down next to her feet. Abby sat on the edge of the bar stool that looked like it had been fashioned out of an old tractor seat and made to look good. Her stomach rumbled in response.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
She watched as he fumbled with the tea, using the Aga to start toasting the bread that she recognised had come from the local bakery, run by Nancy Hurst, a newcomer to the village which meant she’d lived there less than twenty years.
