I roll my eyes. ‘Whatever. It’s typically male to be in emotional denial.’
He frowns. ‘As there’s no way out of that, how are Scarlett and Tate?’
My loyalty is to Scarlett, but I don’t close him down entirely. ‘I don’t want to talk behind their backs… but I sense they’ve been better.’
Miles is close enough to reach out and squeeze my wrist. ‘We both want the best for them– and I’d say that’s a good summing up.’
Now I’ve got this far, I may as well go one further. ‘Scarlett knows there’s a problem, but she hasn’t put her finger on it yet.’
With my thoughts out there, I’m aching to see if Miles comes back with an explanation.
Miles raises his eyebrows. ‘Nailing things down is one of Scarlett’s super-powers. I’m sure she’ll sort it.’
‘Let’s hope you’re right, Miles.’ That isn’t what I was looking for, but I’m thinking back to his promise to bake today. ‘Have you been busy in the kitchen?’
He pulls a face, then looks at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I got called away. If you’re hoping to tap the tourist tasters, we’re probably too late for today.’
Damn.
He must have read my mind. ‘If you’rethatdisappointed, let me bake you a quiche for tonight? Or a homemade pizza? I can do both of those.’
I’m remembering the bag I left outside. ‘I’ve already shopped for dinner.’ Green beans and carrots with tops on, and a cheese omelette with freshly laid eggs will be less stressful than anything eaten with Miles.
‘Great!’ Miles sounds a lot less bouncy than he should, then he brightens. ‘I’ll bake tomorrow. That’s a definite commitment!’
I’m putting my own needs to one side here. ‘Or you could do it closer to the weekend when the beach will be busier?’
‘Good thinking, Eliza Bets. I’ll confirm later.’ He tilts his head to one side and stares up above my head. ‘How about the window? Can I close that now? But if ever you're planning a midnight entrance, let me know, and I’ll open it again.’
As I march off to drag Scarlett’s outdoor furniture back into place, I wave a finger at Miles to tell him where to stick his last comment. It’s only as I get back to the kitchen I suddenly realise: I was so caught up staring at the guy himself, I didn’t scrutinise his room at all.
19
Boathouse Cottage, St Aidan
Starfish and Caribbean cruises
Thursday
The best lessons in life are learned the hard way. Let’s face it, if anything can teach me to take better care of my key, Monday afternoon is already up there with the stuff of nightmares, even without the view of Miles halfway into his jeans, that pops into my head approximately sixty times a minute.
In the end it’s Thursday before I hear from Miles about the baking, which is fine by me, because in the meantime I send off my piece about Zofia’s garden to Fenna, who likes it so much that she’s up for more.
This morning I’ve been up to see Edie at the barnyard first thing, to take some ‘before’ photos of some bits of furniture that she’s about to paint, which will make ideal pieces for DIY furniture transformation projects, then I come straight back and do a beach walk with Pumpkin. We’ve got as far as the harbourside when I get a text from Miles.
First batch of baking red when you are
I’ve noticed Miles talks into his phone a lot– annoying habit number five hundred and forty-three– and I assume his voice app wrote this and that he actually means baking is ready, not red.
We’d actually done a bit of a detour to walk past the Net Loft. My brutally honest inner self must have decided that me mentally undressing my housemate three thousand times an hour is not a healthy way to coexist. At least Miles’s text means I’m saved the embarrassment of standing outside the empty studio with my nose pressed against the glass.
I give Pumpkin a firm nudge away from the harbourside window boxes and lead him back towards the sand. ‘Sorry to cut your walk short today, but this is our cue to hurry home, okay?’
It obviously isn’t. The sun has come out, and there are groups of people settling in for a day along the beach, and I have to coax Pumpkin into a trot to get him past them. By the time I put him into his field, I’m swiping the sweat off my forehead, and flapping the open front of my button-through dress to fan my midriff.
Since Monday I’ve made a point of leaving the French windows by the sofa unlocked as a precaution, and when I slip into the living room a wall of hot pastry scent hits my nose.
I blink away the image of Miles’s naked six-pack and focus on him pushing his dark brown curls off his forehead behind the island unit.
