Near my bed.
A vision of her stripped of her hiking clothes and poured into something floor-length, strapless and sinfully skintight blinks into my mind. Probably in some outrageously loud colour or pattern, because of course she would. Her feet teetering in fuck-me heels. Her perfect ass caught by the fabric, a glimpse ofher tits haunting my vision, some floral perfume tantalising my senses.
I am so fucked.
Chapter Twelve
Rowan
Sophie’s wedding is at Angus’ farm. I can’t get my head around it. What are the chances? What are the odds?
What am I going to do?
I can’t pull out. Sophie would literally murder me, given that I’ve already failed to show up to her hen do, still haven’t responded to her last message, and am, in short, the worst maid of honour ever to live.
So no, I can’t bail on my sister on her wedding day.
Can I?
I couldn’t read the look on Angus’ face when we realise what this coming weekend would bring, but when I locked eyes with him, the intensity of it sent shockwaves through my body.
Even the barest signal from this man does dangerous things to me.
And at a wedding? The most romantic place in the world? Freshly single and heart-sore? With an open bar and a live band? Not to mention the fact that I find the idea of him working the land unbearably hot, and am barely able to stop picturing him shirtless in a field wielding a scythe. (Then again, I’ve probably watchedPoldarktoo many times, and if Angus has convertedhis farm into a wedding venue, I imagine he isn’t personally ploughing too many fields these days.)
Note to self: should not have thought of the word ploughing.
All in all, it’s a recipe for disaster. Hot, panty-melting disaster.
The only upside is that the panic of our upcoming predicament gives my legs a speed I didn’t know they possessed, and I find myself whizzing through the second part of the day, ensuring there’s at least two metres between me and Angus until I have myself back under control.
The group falls into a new rhythm as we walk. Ewan is clearly exhausted, but plods on with steady determination. Priya dances alongside, bringing him flowers and leaves, making him feel them, teaching him the Latin names of everything they see. He doesn’t seem like the type to care about botany, but he indulges her, nodding along to her explanations, and asking questions quietly, in between groans.
Lila brings up the rear, smiling gently at her daughter and the scenery around, seeming happy to be left in her own world.
And I stomp ahead, feeling mildly guilty for immediately abandoning my promise to help Ewan, but physically unable to face Angus again.
As we come into sight of our campground, which is a patch of grass diagonally across the bridge from an old, white-washed hotel, on the sloping banks of a gushing river, I realise that I’ve spent the afternoon obsessing over Angus and hardly thought about Ethan at all. Is that normal? Or is there something wrong with me, that I’ve forgotten my cheating ex-boyfriend as soon as a sex-on-legs Scottish hiker comes along?
It still hurts. Of course it does. But the pang when I picture him without me is less intense.
There’s something else there now.
Something that feels a lot like relief.
Luckily, I don’t have to grapple too much with that, as I’m quickly taken with the business of setting up camp: choosing a spot, dropping my bag, pitching my tent. It takes less time than yesterday, and far less than the day before that, and as I stand there afterwards, pride wells up. I did that. Me. Rowan. By myself.
Besides the hotel, only a railway station and a few other buildings – a church and a couple of cottages – break up the rolling hills. I wander to the bridge and listen to the water rushing underneath. Mountains rise in the near distance, brown and purple with heather, a few clouds dusting the tops like candyfloss, tinged pink in the dimming light.
It’s quiet. Birdsong floats from the trees lining the water, and a motor revs and then falls silent.
Now that I’ve dropped my pack, weariness radiates across my body. My feet throb. My toes are nubs of stabbing pain. I’m afraid to take off my boots and see what’s happened to the skin underneath. I’m sure it isn’t a pretty sight.
But more urgently, my stomach is rumbling, a deep, angry growl that tells me I have about thirty minutes before hunger truly hits. I think of my stove, my lack of lighter, the idea of begging someone to help me cook.
My eyes catch on the hotel. Warm light spills from the windows, and an instrument twangs as a couple amble through the front door. Stove be damned. That is what I want. A comfortable chair, and a cosy fire, and someone to bring me something piping hot and delicious.
I find Lila and Priya sipping on cups of tea. Ewan’s collapsed inside his tent; his sticking-out boots the only parts of him visible. And Angus is crouched by his, frowning at his own stove as he stirs a pot of brown mush. He doesn’t look happy about it, but then again, when does he look happy about anything?
