“Fucking fantastic.”
Chapter Seventeen
Angus
A groan rips from me as I sit on the ground, reaching my hands towards my outstretched leg. It took us almost twelve hours to walk to Kinlochleven, and I can feel every single one of them in my tense, clusterfuck of a hamstring. I hate stretching – find it boring – but there is nothing else for it. If I don’t do this now, I’ll be in agony tomorrow.
Across the campsite, Rowan has finished setting up her tent, and is crouched over her stove, staring at it with the furious concentration of someone who has been given a test they know they are about to fail. I try not to laugh as she stands up again, pacing in a circle around the metal contraption like a tiger assessing suspicious meat, and then crouches once more on the other side.
I’ve already given her my lighter, but it is clear the woman needs more help.
She did well today. Better than I expected. Gritted her teeth and got on with it, even though I could see how desperately she wanted to quit.
She’s strong. Stronger than she realises.
And her face at the top. That grin, her nose crinkled in delight. It was hard not to hug her, not to pick her up and squeeze her to me in celebration.
Fuck. These are deep waters I’m swimming in.
Rowan flicks the lighter at the stove and then jumps back with a small squeal.
I sigh and let go of my foot.
“Need a hand?” I call.
“No.”
She flicks the lighter again. Nothing happens.
“Alright, I’m coming over.”
“I told you – I’m fine.” Rowan’s hands are on her hips, her chin raised.
I strive to keep a straight face. She’s cute when she gets feisty.
“Great.” I cross my own arms. Two can play at that game. “Then I’ll watch you light that stove, shall I? Seeing as you’re fine.”
“Don’t be such a helicopter parent,” Rowan snaps, kneeling. “How am I meant to concentrate with you hovering over me?”
My thoughts drift to the many ways we could have fun together with her in that position. I haul them back.Down boy. I’m helping her out. That’s it.
“You’re not working with rocket fuel here, London. It’s a camping stove. Shouldn’t need that much concentration.”
Rowan grumbles under her breath and fiddles with the lighter again.
I kneel behind her, my knees fitting neatly on either side of her hips and take the lighter from her with a smirk.
“You’ve got to turn the gas on first,” I say softly into her ear as I reach over and thumb the knob on the side of the gas canister. “Otherwise there’s nothing for the spark to light.”
This time, when I try, a small flame roars into life. I let it flicker for a moment, then turn the dial to closed andhand Rowan back the lighter. This close, the smell of her is inescapable: warm summer sun, heather, a hint of coconut from her shampoo.
“Your turn.”
I brush off my knees and saunter back to my own tent to resume my stretching, waiting for her inevitable retort. Which takes only three, two, one…
“I know how to light a bloody stove, Angus!”
“You do now,” I shoot back. “And you’re welcome!”
