“I… Yes.” I try to say it confidently, as if I’m a person who really believes she can walk another eighty miles. “All the way to Fort William.”
“Then you’re going to need to set this up yourself, aren’t you? I won’t be helping your sorry arse again. Consider this a one-time favour.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Generous of you.”
“London.” The word rumbles in his chest. He says it like a warning, and I hate that my knees go weak. “Lay out the damn tent.”
Against my new-found rebellious instincts, I do as I’m told, spreading the two plastic sheets out on the grass. Under his direction, I manage to assemble the poles and thread them through the right openings – somehow avoiding making any inappropriate jokes about either of those words, no matter how much I want to – and even sink the pegs into the grass with the help of the hammer he lends me.
He’s surprisingly patient. His tone gentle as he explains that I should ensure the bottom of the pegs face towards the tent, not away, so they won’t get ripped out of the ground if the wind picks up, and shows me how to adjust the guy-lines properly instead of tying them into knots. He moves like he’s comfortable in his own skin, crouching down and standing up with an ease I envy. His expression is serious, those molten eyes focused on the task at hand, which gives me a chance to drink him in.
I can’t help it. Something about this extremely grumpy, extremely competent man is entirely too attractive.
Especially when he’s too absorbed to remember to insult me.
Before long, we’re standing in front of my home for the night, the last rays of the sun lingering in the sky, casting everything in a dreamy, golden haze. I hang my nightlight from a hook in the porch, and zip the door closed with a smile.
“Right.” The lumberjack shifts from foot to foot. “Think you’ll remember any of that?”
“Absolutely none,” I reply honestly. Elation buzzes through my skin. I’ve done this: me. This entirely practical, entirely sensible thing. “Thank you so much. You’re a lifesaver. I’m Rowan, by the way.”
I hold out my hand to shake his.
He looks at it as though I’ve offered him a venomous snake. His hand stays very firmly by his waist. But after stretching the silence too long, he grunts. “Angus.”
I take a breath. He’s helped me. He’s been patient and understanding, and thanks to him I won’t be sleeping in the rain. I can be the bigger person. The better person.
“Would you like to go to the pub?” I ask, still holding onto my optimism.
I can’t describe the look that comes into his eyes, only that it’s how I imagine a wild horse might look when approached by a cowboy with a lasso. He shakes his head. Opens his mouth. Shuts it again.
And then he walks off without another word.
Chapter Five
Rowan
The pub is perfect. Roaring fire to curl up next to, half the floor laid with wooden boards, the other half a rich, green plaid carpet. Bar etched with the stains of years of orders, smoothed to a polished shine by hands and glasses and tea towels.
All the good spots near the fire are taken, so I find myself a table for two in the corner and settle in with my beer, back to the wall. Everyone looks relaxed: red-cheeked, in fleeces and down jackets, half-drunk pints sat next to plates of steaming food. The mother and daughter pair I spotted earlier are on a sofa, as the mother hands her daughter chips from their shared plate.
I snuggle down, trying to ignore the pang of loneliness I feel when I think about how nice it would be to be here with someone, instead of on my own.
Ethan would hate this. He, like me, is happiest at home, re-watching old episodes ofDexterwith a takeout, or lost in a shooting game on the couch. He’d complain about the smell of damp coming off the hiker’s clothes, and their muddy boots, and the pub’s low ceiling, and the lack of television.
But that doesn’t matter anymore, I realise with a jolt. When Ehan cheated on me, he lost any right to an opinion on my life.And without him, I have to rediscover whoIam. What I want. What I’m like.
I have no fucking idea.
Across the pub, Angus strolls in through the door. That cheeky bastard. So it’s not that he doesn’t want to go to the pub.
No. He simply doesn’t want to go withme.
He orders a drink and levers himself into an armchair that couldn’t be further from where I’m sitting unless he’d exiled himself in the rain, balancing a book on his bent knee. He holds it open with one hand, the other cradling his pint.
It’s infuriating. The ease with which he sits there, his thumb turning the pages, the firelight dancing on his weather-beaten skin. It’s infuriating that my presence doesn’t bother him.
I try to spy on the book in question. Is he an action man? A crime guy? He doesn’t seem like the type for a sweeping romance, and I’d be surprised if he’s into the kind of fiction I like – sarcastic stories about millennial women crying into their cocktails, dysfunctional but charming families where somehow the mum is always the unintentional villain.
