I knew more about her morning routine than I had about Juniper’s. And we’d lived together for two years before our separation.
Outside of that, I made a point to know as little as possible about my neighbour.
Didn’t stop me from being curious though.
And her ex made me very curious.
A flashy Audi – the same model half the arsehole doctors at my old surgery used to drive – came by now and again, dropping the kid off, rarely picking her up. Presumably her dad. But he never got out the car, never spoke to Isla.
I knew I could ask my siblings. He clearly lived locally. But I had a feeling – and I wasn’t sure why – that as soon as I opened my mouth, questions like:What’s his height? Does he have a full head of hair? What can he bench press?might spill forth.
“Nope . . . he cooks at a seafood restaurant.” The word came out with a slight lisp thanks to her missing two front teeth, but she hit all the syllables correctly. “If I want to be a spy when I grow up, will I need a beard?”
“That depends. Do you want a beard?”
“I don’t know. I think it might be itchy. Maybe I’ll just be a fairy. Or a chef like Daddy.”
“Why not both?” I needed to get out of here, wind the conversation down. But I stopped suddenly at the sound of the front door opening.
“It’s time to go, sunshine – oh, hey.”
My head snapped to the left before I could stop it. The sun was too bright to fully see Isla – or perhaps the light was coming from behind her – but her voice made the back of my neck prickle.
My annoyances with my neighbour went in this order:
1. She was hell-bent on disturbing the peace.
2. She looked like a fucking angel.
I’d noticed it the day after she moved in. I’d been going over the patient records for the surgery – the undigitised records – and resisting the urge to bang my head against the wall when I’d heard a grunt, followed by a low curse coming from the front garden. The complaint already fully loaded in my throat as I’d thrown the door open. Then I’d spied Isla flat on her back on her weedy lawn, a half-rotten fence panel clutched in her small hands, asmudge of mud coating her cheek . . . and my breath had caught.
My attraction was tangible, untimely and really inconvenient.
A distraction I didn’t want and couldn’t afford.
Just like it was now as she stepped out of the house and I took in her messy blonde curls, the same colour as the barley from the distillery. She was short. Curvaceous in a way that made my mouth water every damn time. It didn’t exactly help when she held a tray of pastries in her hand. She always brought the smell of sugar with her.
Her legs and feet were bare. Instead of glancing at them, I took in the short denim dress layered over a white shirt with floaty sleeves that would have made anyone else look like a pirate. She wore a silver ring on every finger and each nail was painted a different colour.
I assumed the disorder was purposeful.
“Teddy, come get your shoes on. We’re going to be late for camp.”
Teddy. I tucked the information into a mental drawer I’d labelledIsla Lang, and slammed it shut.
“See you around, Ali,” Teddy said, sounding sixty, not seven. Isla brushed a hand over her head as she passed, a worried little pucker between her brows as she watched her daughter disappear into the house.
Not my business.
“Croissant?” Isla came closer, extending the tray. The sight of the perfectly crisp, golden pastry made the spinach smoothie I’d choked down half an hour ago sour in my stomach. “They’re a new recipe I’m testing at Brown’s; I’d love a second opinion.”
I knew a peace offering when I saw one. I waved her offwith a clipped “No.” I had a raging sweet tooth. One I was trying to curb.
“Oh. Yeah, no worries.” Her fingers tightened on the tray, frown deepening between her brows as an awkward silence settled.
Shit.
Realising I had to say something, remove myself from the situation as quickly as possible, I said, “I have something of yours. Came in the post this morning.” Clearing my throat, I went back to the cottage, retrieving the cardboard box that had actually been sitting by my front door for three days now.
