“Need a hand with that?”
I hiss, my hand slipping on the wet peg, and jump to attention at the sound of Angus’ voice.
“No, I—” The words die in my mouth.
Angus is dressed only in his grey hiking pants and boots. A towel is slung over one shoulder, barely covering his chest and… Abs. Defined, drool-worthy abs. Scratch the British Museum, this man’s body should be on display in Trafalgar Square. A law should be enacted that prevents him from wearing clothes. Any attempt to cover his physique made punishable by slow, painful death. Angus’ body is beautiful. Godlike. Practically holy.
I long to worship at the altar of his—
“Are you alright?”
My jaw snaps shut. Shit. Is thatdroolon my chin? Surreptitiously, I wipe it away with a sleeve, pulling my eyes somewhere, anywhere, other than Angus’ bare torso. There. A peg. I march over and busy myself dragging it from the dense soil.
“Absolutely! All good here! Just… packing down my tent. Getting ready for another beautiful day! Up and at ‘em! Rise and shine!”
Angus stretches, his towel shifting to reveal another flash of muscled skin. “I had no idea you were so perky in the mornings, London. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“That’s me! Perky Rowan! I love mornings!”
The peg is stuck. I crouch and yank. It fails to budge, but the force of my attempt succeeds in one thing: my boots both slip, and I find myself arse-down in the grass.
“Fuckity fuck fuck fuck,” I curse as the night’s rain seeps immediately through my leggings. “Fuck.”
“Here. Let me.” Angus reaches past me and releases the peg with an expert twist of his forearm. A forearm that is packed with muscles and far, far too close to my mouth.
I scramble backwards on my hands and feet. “Jesus, Angus. Aren’t you cold? I get you’ve got the whole rugged Scottish farmer thing going on, but isn’t this taking it a bit far?”
“What are you…” Angus looks down at himself. “Oh. Oh!” But he makes no move to cover up. “Looking at me again, are you, London?”
“Well, you make it very hard not to when you insist on prancing about the place without any clothes on.”
“I’ve got some clothes on.” He gestures at his trousers, and flashes me a wicked grin. The kind of grin that says:but I could have less.
“I’m worried about your health, that’s all.”
“That’s very considerate of you.”
“Well, I’m a considerate woman.”
“A considerate perky woman who loves mornings.” Angus crosses his arms. His biceps bulge.
I swallow hard. I need to get a grip. I busy myself brushing grass stalks off my leggings. “Okay, fine. That last part is a lie. I hate mornings. I would kill you and half the campsite for a cup of coffee.”
“In their sleep? Without even a chance to defend themselves?”
“All’s fair in love and coffee.” I glance around. “Don’t suppose there’s anywhere here that can do a decent flat white?”
“Campsite reception doesn’t open for another couple of hours. And my guess is you’ll be lucky if they have instant.”
“I would rather rip my own tongue out and nail it to the bottom of my boot.”
Angus’ eyes widen. “Violent this morning, aren’t you?”
“Like I say, I hate mornings. Especially mornings without coffee.” I can’t take it anymore. “Look, can you please put a T-shirt on or something?”
“Why? Is there something distracting about me without a shirt on?”
“No, of course not.” I pull at the edge of my own T-shirt. The sun isn’t out, but somehow I’m sweating. “It’s just… this is a family campsite, isn’t it.”
