He’s wearing his shirt with the top two buttons undoneand the hot breeze is causing the fabric around his neck to flap, revealing occasional glimpses of golden collarbone.
I shiver and pull a spare hair tie off my wrist. I feel the weight of his eyes on me as I fashion my hair up into a high ponytail.
‘Ooh, I know what we need.’ I remember thepastéis de nata.
‘Fuck yeah,’ Ash says when I get them out of my bag and offer him one.
I moan as my teeth sink into the flaky pastry and vanilla custard dusted with cinnamon.
Ash’s eyes dart away, pink high on his cheeks.
‘Christ, that’s good,’ he says when he takes a bite of his own.
‘Unbelievable,’ I agree with my mouth full.
He laughs and it’s catching. If I don’t swallow, I might choke.
‘So, furniture design, hey? You’re going into the family business?’ he asks warmly.
My smile drops right off my face. ‘Yep.’
He frowns. ‘You don’t seem that thrilled about it.’
‘I’m not,’ I confess, then shake my head. ‘No, that’s unfair. It’s a really good job and I know it’s a cool career, but—’
‘Your heart’s not in it.’ He’s hit the nail on the head.
‘I take it there’s no pressure onyouto join the family business?’ I assume not, going by his course choice.
‘Nah. But I have an older brother who’s taking the heat off.’ He clears his throat. ‘So what would you rather be doing instead?’
I let out a brittle laugh and give him my honest answer. ‘Gardening.’
‘Why is that funny?’ He sounds confused.
‘It’s not,’ I reply seriously. ‘I just grew up knowing that my parents would never allow it. My career path has been set in stone ever since I can remember.’
He looks alarmed. ‘But it’syourlife.’
I shrug and dust pastry off my hands. He leans forward and plucks my sunglasses right off my face.
‘What the hell?’ I blink at the sunlight as he sits them on top of my head.
‘I need to see your eyes for this conversation,’ he says, taking his off too and throwing them to one side. ‘That’s taking parent-pleasing too far, Ellie.’
I experience a fierce thrill at hearing him say my name while looking at me directly.
‘You don’t know my parents,’ I murmur, holding eye contact.
His pupils dilate as he stares back at me. Then his expression softens. ‘What do you like about gardening?’
Some of the tension eases from my shoulders. ‘Everything. I love being outdoors, surrounded by nature. The smells, the sounds. I feel so at peace.’ I drink in our surroundings as I say this. ‘And I love the cyclical nature of gardening, watching plants you’ve tended come back year after year. I’d give anything to work for the National Trust or English Heritage,’ I add wistfully.
‘What about a private estate?’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘I don’t really agree with all that.’
‘All what?’
