Still puzzling over it, she wandered back into the living room, her eyes drifting once more over the silent clocks that filled every corner of the cottage.
She continued browsing.
‘They’re quite remarkable, aren’t they?’
Pippa spun around.
Theo stood there, now dry and dressed, but somehow even more distracting than when he’d been dripping in a towel. His dark hair, still slightly damp, curled softly at the edges and he wore a soft navy jumper with the sleeves pushed up– revealing tanned forearms that Pippa refused to stare at, even though the temptation was strong– and jeans that managed to look both lived-in and unfairly flattering. His jaw was sharp, his eyes the kind that held a hundred unspoken thoughts, and there was something in the way he half-smiled– crooked, reluctant– that could make her forget her own name. Trust him to look like a tortured academic who’d accidentally wandered into a Boden catalogue.
She gave herself a sharp internal shake.No. Absolutely not.
This was how it had started with Rob: lingering looks, stupid thoughts, and the dangerous illusion that he was charming instead of catastrophic. But this wasn’t a romcom; it was a horror film. She’d just run from her wedding, for God’s sake, and Theo Blake was her enemy, not to mention married.
‘There’re fifty clocks in the cottage altogether.’
Before Pippa could reply, a shrill alarm sliced through the air.
‘Oh, hell,’ Theo muttered, eyes widening. ‘The lasagne!’
He turned and sprinted towards the kitchen with Pippa following, and she watched as he yanked open the oven door, only to be met with a dense grey cloud of smoke that billowed out like an overdramatic ghost. The smoke alarm wailed louder.
Theo coughed, picked up a tea-towel and waved it frantically at the alarm. ‘No, no, no… Damn it!’
Trying not to laugh, Pippa opened the back door to let in some air, immediately regretting it as a gust of wind and driving rain swept straight inside, but thankfully the shrill of the alarm stopped.
‘Well, that’s my dinner ruined,’ Theo muttered, dragging the charred tray out of the oven and dumping it on top of the hob. ‘Brilliant. Everything’s closed now. I mean, maybe not the pub, but I really don’t fancy venturing out in this weather. I’d need a canoe to get there.’
‘Shame,’ Pippa said brightly. ‘That looks like it could have been tasty.’
Theo shot her a look. ‘Do you ever stop being smug?’
She shrugged then laughed.
‘It’s not funny.’
‘I’m not really laughing at your burnt lasagne– well, maybe a little– it’s more… this.’ She gestured between them. ‘You. Me. Standing here like this. I’m dressed likethis, and you’ve just cremated dinner. If someone had told me this is where I’d end up twenty-four hours ago, I might have actually gone through with the wedding.’
‘Always did love that deadpan humour of yours.’
‘Now, is that a hint of sarcasm I detect? Or have you actually been admiring me from afar for all these years?’ She smiled to herself.
‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ he replied, trying to suppress a smile as he looked at the burnt remains of his dinner, which was still steaming gently in protest.
‘Okay,’ she declared. ‘I can see that the storm is in full force and I can’t have anyone starving on my watch. Clemmie from the café gave me some leftover sandwiches when she rescued me from the train station. Ham or cheese?’
Theo narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you actually being nice to me?’
‘Don’t get used to it. I’ll trade one sandwich for one cup of tea.’
‘Deal.’ Theo grinned and immediately switched on the kettle. ‘Shouldn’t you go and get changed?’
‘To be honest, I’m starving as I missed out on my wedding buffet. I’ll eat then get myself sorted.’
Minutes later, they sat at opposite ends of the old cottage sofa like two reluctant diplomats at a peace summit. For a few long minutes, they ate in near silence, and when Pippa eventually glanced over, she found he was watching her. ‘What?’ she said, brushing crumbs off her lap.
Theo tilted his head. ‘I can’t quite believe you’re sitting there in your wedding dress, eating a sandwich with me in a cottage on an island off the coast, while rain lashes the windows on St Swithin’s Day. And honestly… who organises a wedding on St Swithin’s Day?’ Theo’s gaze flicked over her, thoughtful in that maddeningly academic way of his. ‘I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve always had a flair for the dramatic.’
‘And you’re still full of judgement.’
