‘I like how you’ve waited until I’m in a position where I can’t run away and then started questioning me mercilessly.’
‘There’s nothing merciless about it. I’m a concerned neighbour who wants to know what you’re getting up to on this leg, that’s all.’
His only response is to raise an eyebrow, so I add, ‘It seems like a lot for one person. Converting such an old pub into a house is a big job…’
‘It’s not always just me. I’ve had professionals in for things that are outside of my skillset, but there’s a lot still to do.’ He holds my gaze for a long moment and then sighs in resignation. ‘I’ve been working here since January. Lettie can probably give you an exact date and time stamp, if you want.’
I give him a suitably sarcastic look even though I’m sure shecould, but it makes me think. January. That’s six months ago. When I had a brief look round the other day, it seemed like he’d barely started… but at least he answeredsomething, even if every answer is curtailed, with never the slightest hint of elaboration.
‘What aren’t you telling me?’ I put a fresh wound pad over his injury and hold it in place while unwrapping a new bandage. I’ve had enough of men hiding things from me lately, and I can’t let this go. ‘Because I know you’re not as easy and carefree as you’d have everyone believe. You seem… out of your depth.’
I’m probably pushing my luck now, and I don’t know what made me say that, but he’s hidingsomethingand I want to know what it is before I let my guard down any further with him. In an attempt to make it sound less harsh, I slide my hand over the folds of rolled-up trouser covering his knee and give it a gentle squeeze.
He looks me in the eyes again, quiet for so long that I start to wonder if he’s taken offence, but eventually he lets out a weary sigh and drops his head back against the van’s wall with a fed-up sounding thunk. ‘Ah, Doll, if only you knew…’
I stay silent, and as minutes pass, it’s like it slowly unravels something inside him.
‘You’re right. I am out of my depth. The whole place is a can of worms. Sometimes a can of literal woodworm having a munch through all my floorboards. EverythingI try to fix uncovers – or creates – seven more things that need fixing, and every time I make progress, something else goes wrong and everything gets set back yet again. The building is fighting against me every step of the way. It’s a project I should have given up when…’
He trails off without finishing, and I concentrate on securing the bandage around his leg, because for someone so sunny, he sounds so defeated whenever he talks about his work, and there’s a gaping hole at the end of that sentence, and I think whatever’s missing from it would answer a lot of my questions.
‘Can you talk to your boss?’ I get the sense that this is the first time he’s ever admitted this out loud.
‘No.’ He gives me that unreadable look again. ‘He bought it blind. He never did a viewing first, so he didn’t know just how bad things were. I should never have taken it on.’
‘Quite different to what you used to do?’ I venture, still intrigued by his career change between jobs that are worlds apart.
He lets out a sarcastic snort. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ I ask instead of pushing it further for now.
He opens tired eyes and blinks like he wasn’t expecting that offer. ‘Are you secretly a plumber, an electrician or an expert roofer?’
‘No, but as the campervan shows, I can paint. And I’ve always fancied trying my hand at plastering. It looks fun, all that slapping and slathering.’ I wave a hand around to demonstrate, glad when it makes his usual smile reappear. ‘What I mean is that I can learn, if you need an extra pair of hands.’
‘Thank you. But I’m nowhere near the plastering and painting stage yet. The roof needs repairing, if not replacing entirely. The electrics need rewiring. Every bit of wood in the place needs treating for woodworm, and I’m already over budget and out of time. If I don’t get the roof sorted before winter, rain will get in and make everything worse, and all the other jobs will be pointless anyway. This whole thing… it’s bigger than me.’
I relate to that feeling of getting yourself into situations that seem unmanageable, and seeing how open he is makes me feel humbled that he’s trusted me enough to admit that. ‘Stealing a campervan and ending up here felt bigger than me, and do you know who made it feel manageable again?’ I chew on my lip as I look at him. ‘You.’
The beam that breaks across his face seems completely involuntary, the kind of smile that makes it impossible not tofeelinside me as well, and it’s like a magnet is pulling me towards him.
I kneel up and he leans forwards. His fingers drift along my bare arm hesitantly, and my other hand lifts, brushing his wavy hair back, just once. His eyes close and his head turns into the touch. His blue jumper under my fingertips is as soft as it looked, and although it feels like we’re moments away from kissing, he makes no move to take things further. His forehead dips to rest against mine and he breathes, in and out, and I do the same. I let my eyes close and enjoy the simple touch, the closeness, and the feeling of someone who understands… not just me, but everything.
I lose track of time, ignoring the not-unpleasant burn of my thigh muscles from leaning up, the feel of his arm that’s slid around me and his fingers tracing mindless patterns on my back, and get lost in the moment that doesn’t need to be anything more than it is.
And it’s perfect, until my nose catches a whiff of burning meringue and I jump back with sudden clarity.
I’m making a lemon meringue pie and dressing a wound, not nearly almost-kissing builders who I’ve known for less than a fortnight because it wasn’t even an almost-kiss, not really, but it definitely could have ledsomewhere.
He lets out a shuddery breath and sits back to pull his trouser leg down while I scramble over to the oven and open the door, filling the small space with steam.
The burning smell starts to fade as I set it on the countertop to cool slightly, and the van is filled with a scent that’s sweet, tart and utterly nostalgic. After five minutes, I cut two huge slices, put them on plates from the van’s cupboard, and hand one to Reece, along with a fork.
He looks at the plate for a moment, but I’m holding my breath. This matters, somehow. Not just whether the pie tastes good, but whether I’ve managed to recreate something that evokes fond memories, exactly what I’ve always wanted to do.
He takes a forkful and closes his eyes as he tastes it.
The silence stretches long enough that I start to panic. Maybe I got the balance wrong. Maybe the pastry’s too thick or the filling’s too runny or the meringue’s too charred. Maybe I?—
