‘Couple of years.’
I chew on my lip, glad to have the tiniest bit more insight into him.
And then, before I can ask anything else, he goes back to deflecting. ‘And no, my taste in pyjama trousers wasn’t a deciding factor.’
I know he’s joking, but there’s something there, a waver hidden beneath the upbeat tone. In my head, I’m thinking about his admission of being cheated on and wondering if it wasthisrelationship he was talking about, and at the same time, I know he’s reached his limit of opening up for one day, and further questions will result in similar jokey answers and I try to play him at his own game. ‘Well, it would take abravepartner to share a bed with them.’
He laughs, but it isn’t a real laugh. His face has become pinched and the lines around his eyes look taut, and for a moment, he looks much older than he is. I might not know the ins and outs of his divorce, but I know someone who’s been through something, and I feel like there’s a lot more to this than he’s saying.
I balance my roller on the paint tin and go round to his side. Before he realises what’s happening, I wrap my wet, sticky and yellow gloved hand around his wet, sticky and yellow gloved hand and give his fingers the tightest squeeze possible with layers of rubber and copious amounts of paint between us. ‘I’m sorry. I know it’s not as simple as you’re trying to make it sound, and that’s okay. Maybe you’ll tell me one day, or maybe you won’t, and that’ll be okay too.’
He looks taken aback, his eyes wide and blinking slow in surprise. His tongue wets his lips and he swallows hard, his gaze sliding down to where our hands are joined. His grip tightens around my fingers, and it feels like a silent confirmation. Thereismore to this than he’s told me so far.
‘How have you managed to get paint on your ear?’ I echo what he asked me earlier.
I go to reach up and rub it off, but quickly realise that doing so with my gloves would only make an unholy mess, and I abandon the move halfway through. I’ve unwittingly stepped closer to him and ended up with my left elbow on his chest, and our right hands still joined together.
He murmurs a thank you, and his fingers squeeze mine impossibly tighter, and his eyes drift shut.
We’re standing close enough that I can see the tiny flecks of paint that have found their way into the waves of his brown hair, and close enough that when the tiniest smile starts pulling at his lips, it alters my ability to think clearly. His head drops until he can rest his forehead against mine for a moment, and it feels like we’re about to embark on some yellow-covered waltz, but neither of us dare to move.
I lose track of time as we stand there. I’m not sure if it’s a kiss he can’t go through with, or the closest hug possible when we’re both in such a mess, but it’s only when the paint starts drying and there’s a genuine possibility that our gloves are going to stick to each other that I force myself to say something.
‘We should…’ I trail off because even I don’t know what I’m suggesting.
‘Probably,’ he agrees, and his low voice makes my stomach flip, and I still can’t tear myself away.
Until there’s the sound of voices approaching and a dog lets out a woof behind us and it breaks the spell. We spring apart like guilty teenagers as a family of walkers come into view on the waterfall track, and we feign interest in our respective paint jobs and give them a nonchalant wave as they pass.
When they’ve gone, Reece grins at me. There’s paint on his cheek and mischief in his eyes. That was one step away from kissing, and I wouldnothave complained if it had gone in that direction.
This is ridiculous. I’ve known him for a week, and I’m supposed to be dealing with the aftermath of one disastrous relationship, not falling headfirst into whatever this is.
But when he looks at me like that, with the yellow in his hair and on his face, and the once-black gloves that could now be a pair of Marigolds, all because of this wonderful, thoughtful thing he did for me, it’s impossible to think of anything else. I have a tingling sense that we’re standing on the edge of something and one of us just needs to be brave enough to jump.
But I’m not that brave, and I shake my wrists out and brush myself down, and then remember my gloves were covered in paint and all I’ve done is smear yellow down the front of my overalls.
Reece laughs at the sight, and whatever just happened is lost to common sense, and I return to my side of the van and pick up the roller.
‘You’d think an ex-barrister is supposed to be a law-abiding citizen,’ I say after minutes of carefullynotlooking at him.
‘I can abide by the law tomorrow, this is more fun,’ he says with a noise of indifference. ‘I spent too long doing what you’re supposed to do. Having a good job, earning good money. You know what it taught me?’
His voice sounds like he’s looking over the bonnet again, so I do the same, and he catches my eyes. ‘Life’s too short to do what you’re supposed to do. Always choose the fun thing. And if an opportunity to paint a campervan bright yellow arises, always do that.’
I laugh, and I swear Campervan rocks like she’s laughing too, but it feels like yet another serious point that’s hidden underneath humour, and I’m intrigued, but I’ve probably pushed my luck enough for one day when it comes to prising him open.
The sun dries the paint fast enough to do a second coat before it gets dark, and when we’re done, Campervan looks like a giant, joyful chunk of sunshine.
We stand back and Reece drops an arm around my shoulders and squeezes me into his side, and I lean against him and inhale what was once aftershave but is now the chemical smell of paint fumes, and I feel safe. People say Yorkshire is a magical county, and I definitely see why.
For the first time, I have a plan about how to get out of this mess, a connection with someone who feels more than special, and a marzipan-coloured van that feels like mine… for now.
12
‘Ey up, Dolly dear!’
I almost jump at the enthusiastic greeting when I push open the door of the village shop a couple of mornings later. I was prepared for avoiding the ladies who would undoubtedly be sitting outside the defunct tearoom, and I have a bright and breezy answer ready for any interrogation that might come from Lettie. What I wasn’t prepared for is that Wilma and Madge arenotsitting outside across the green, but are in the village shop, browsing shelves. I’m immediately suspicious because neither of them is carrying a basket, and they’re carefully positioned, one in each aisle, so I can’t possibly avoid an ambush.
