“Only the tea-drinkers,” he shrugged.
She held him tight. “I had a great time last night. Thank you.”
“Thank you?” He asked, surprise obvious in the question, guilt hot on its heels.
“Yeah.” She stroked his cheek. “I haven’t been with anyone in a really long time.”
He folded the statement away to explore later. “What’s in the basket?” He looked over her shoulder at the bike, which he now saw was overburdened with weight in the front, and had a bag strapped precariously to the back. “Did you ride into town?”
She nodded.
“It’s ten miles.”
“It’s not that far,” she laughed.
“I’m telling you, it’s ten miles. I know this to be a fact. What the hell time did you wake up?”
“I always wake at sunrise,” she said factually. Then she smiled awkwardly, as if realising the admission was strange. “It’s a hangup from my childhood.”
Another statement he wanted to prod further. She lifted the bag off the bike and he took it from her instinctively. “Thanks,” she murmured, pulling the second bag from the basket. “It’s gorgeous here. If I was you I’d never go anywhere else.”
He shook his head. “It’s a little far from the civilised world. Hard to run a business from here.”
“Yeah, I guess.” She studied him thoughtfully then blinked. “Anyway, I just got some essentials.”
“I could have done that with you. Later today. By car.”
“What’s wrong with bikes?” She grinned up at him. “I love to ride. The wind in my hair, with this beautiful countryside at my feet. It’s perfect.”
She was perfect.
The words came to him fully formed and he had to swallow them back.
The most perfect thing about her was that she was Augustine’s daughter, followed swiftly by the willingness she’d shown to fall into his bed.
She walked ahead of him into the townhouse and looked around. “This place is …”
“I know.” How would the daughter of a man like Beauchamp take to the rustic surrounds? “It needs a lot of work.”
“Oh, no!” She gasped, putting the bag down at her feet so that she could lift her hands to his chest. “You can’t be serious? You can’t change it. It’s so lovely.” She sighed as she angled her head to look at the windows that framed the view of the poppies beyond.
“The paint is peeling. The lights barely work. The floor is faded.”
“It’s authentic!” She challenged.
“It’s filthy.”
“Ah, well, yes.” She reached into the bag and pulled up two matching blue bottles. “But for that I have cleaning spray. We can fix it together.”
We can fix it together.
His dream was still fogged in his brain. Her words punched holes through it. He stared at her as though she was some kind of witch; for surely she was? How else could she know what to say to him to invoke his father.
“I mean, if you want to…” Her hands fidgeted in front of her again. “I didn’t mean to imply that I’m not happy. Oh, no. I’ve been rude.” She frowned. “I’m sorry. I woke up and you were asleep and I did notice that it’s even dustier in the day time and I just thought … It’s not my place though. I’m sorry.”
“Hey, hey.” He took the bottles of detergent from her and put his hands around her waist. “What is going on?”
She shook her head. “I can see this is really special to you. I don’t want you to think that I don’t like it. Or that it’s not good enough. I just wanted to help.”
