‘You’re welcome to join me.’ His smile is genuine, warm, and undoes something in me, but I’m embarrassed to have inadvertently invited myself over.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean—’
‘Have you got plans?’
‘No,’ I admit hesitantly.
‘Do you eat chicken?’
‘Yes.’ I give him a shy smile, adding, ‘I’d love to join you, thank you.’
He waits for me while the staff pack up and leave and then I do a final check upstairs before grabbing my coat. It’s still dripping wet and he notices, taking it from my hands and holding it open for me to shrug on more easily. It’s such a sweet gesture. I couldn’t say the last time anyone held a coat or a door open for me, which is the next thing he does.
Back at the cottage, he lets us in through the front door and into the downstairs apartment, leading the way through the living room to the kitchen-diner at the back. He flicks on the lights above the island and the overhead halogens, dimming the latter to a comfortable level. As he drops his phone and keys onto the island, a thought comes to me, along with a feeling of déjà vu:He looks really at home here.
‘What would you like to drink?’
‘Oh, let me nip upstairs and grab a bottle!’ I say hurriedly, remembering my manners.
His hand shoots out and snags my wrist, bringing me to a sudden stop. ‘Don’t be silly. I have plenty,’ he insists, releasing his hold. ‘What do you feel like?’
‘Maybe a glass of wine? Red, if you have it?’ My voice comes out sounding a lot steadier than I feel. My wrist is burning from where he touched it.
‘Yep.’
He goes to the wine rack on the other side of the dining table while I stand and look around, feeling like a spare part. On his way back to the kitchen, he pulls out a stool from under the island unit and gives me a small smile before opening a drawer, looking for a bottle opener.
‘Next one down,’ I say, gratefully taking the seat he’s offered.
He follows my instruction and pulls out the bottle opener, eyeing me contemplatively. ‘This must feel weird, right? Strangers in your house?’
I lift a shoulder. ‘I’m used to it now.’
‘I bet you’re not. This room is so nice. You must miss it when people are staying.’
I’m glad that he doesn’t call me lucky, like some of my guests have. I know from the outside it must appear that I am, but this house didn’t end up in my possession because I’mlucky.
‘It is special,’ I agree, looking around. ‘Especially compared to my poky kitchen. Which you saw,’ I add with a smile as he pours a couple of glasses of wine and pushes one towards me. ‘Thanks.’
I track his easy movements as he flicks on the kettle and gets ingredients out of the fridge and cupboards. His long-sleeve T-shirt hugs his body in all the right places, highlighting ridges on top of his shoulders, rippling muscles across his back and clearly defined biceps. His muscles are long and lean, in proportion with his tall, broad frame – he’s not built like an ox.
‘How long have you lived here?’ he asks as he places a frying pan onto the hob and cranks up the heat.
I rack my brain before answering, ‘Fifteen years.’
‘How old are you?’ he asks with a frown, pouring boiling-hot water over dried ancho chillies to rehydrate them.
‘Twenty-eight. You?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘I was thirteen when we moved here,’ I reveal as he proceeds to dry-roast the whole garlic cloves and cherry tomatoes that he’s just thrown into the frying pan.
‘We?’
I swallow. ‘My parents passed away almost six years ago.’
His face falls, his hand stilling on his way to slicing through an onion. ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry.’
