I drop them as if I’ve been scalded by the fabric.
‘I .?.?. didn’t have you down as a fruit-print kind of guy,’ I blurt out, saying the first thing that comes into my head, as usual.
‘Well, funnily enough, I wasn’t expecting you to come into my flat and start rummaging through my pants,’ replies Hunter. ‘Or I’d have looked out something a little more sophisticated for you.’
‘I wasn’t “rummaging through your pants”,’ I retort. ‘I didn’t want to leave Hannah on her own, and I decided I might as well tackle some of this ironing to pass the time while I waited for you to come back.Somepeople would describe that as “being nice”, just FYI. Butyou—’
‘Sorry, Rosie,’ he says quietly, holding up a hand to stop me. ‘I’m sorry. It’s been a long day, and I’m .?.?. I’m pretty pissed off at Agnes, but I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. I appreciate you looking out for Hannah. And doing the ironing. I’ve been meaning to get around to that for ages; there just never seems to be time.’
‘It’s fine,’ I tell him. ‘Nowwho’s the one doing too much apologising?’ I add, feeling like I should at least attempt to continue with the sparring that’s become customary between us. Now that I look closer, though, I can see dark shadows under his eyes and a small line between his brows, which I have a sudden, inappropriate urge to smooth out with my hands.
‘Sorry. Again,’ he says, with one of those unexpected grins of his. ‘You must be rubbing off on me. Can I offer you a wee nightcap before you go, by way of thanks for looking out for Hannah?’
‘A weenightcap?’ I ask, imagining myself in one of those long hats with a pompom on the end that people used to wear to bed.
‘A dram,’ Hunter clarifies. ‘A glass of whisky. It’s what some people call a nightcap, Rosie.’
I blush again.
‘Of course. I know what a nightcap is,’ I say, wondering what it is about this man that makes me start talking nonsense every time I see him. ‘It’s been a long day for me, too.’
I haven’t actually answered his question, but Hunter gets up anyway and goes over to a sideboard, from which he produces a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
‘Here,’ he says, handing me one. ‘This is a good cure for a bad day.’
I stare down into the glass, unconvinced. I’m more of a wine person, really. But I’m curious now about how Hunter Stuart came to be living alone in a remote hotel with his seven-year-old daughter, so I raise the glass and take a much larger gulp than I really should have; a fact I instantly regret when I start choking and spluttering, my throat seemingly on fire as the liquid appears to burn its way right down through my body.
‘And you’re telling me people drink this stuff forfun?’ I say, when I finally recover the power of speech. ‘Seriously?’
‘People do a lot of strange things for fun, Rosie Winter,’ says Hunter – a statement that makes me glad of the dim light in the room, because I’m suddenly blushing from head to toe. He’s already finished his drink, and he picks up the bottle to pour himself another, holding it out to me first.
‘Um, no thanks,’ I reply, shaking my head. ‘I think one was enough for me.’
‘It’s a bit of an acquired taste,’ he replies, taking the glass back to his armchair, where he sits down, looking a little more relaxed than when he arrived, although there’s a deep weariness in his posture that makes me wonder what kind of work it is he’s been doing that’s kept him out so late.
Sensing me watching him, Hunter raises his eyes to mine, and I’m very aware of the fact that all I’m wearing is a pair of very short, silky pyjamas, which probably isn’t themostappropriate outfit I could’ve come up with for this: not that I knew that ‘this’ was going to involve drinking whisky with an incredibly attractive and only moderately infuriating man, while the daughter I didn’t know he had sleeps in the next room.
So, for once, this mistakeisn’tmy fault.
Seeing me tug self-consciously at my top, Hunter gets to his feet, plucks a dark blue hoodie from the top of the laundry pile and hands it to me.
‘Here,’ he says gruffly. ‘Stick that on. It’ll, er, warm you up. Not as much as the whisky, mind, but still.’
‘Thanks.’ I take it gratefully and zip it over my PJs, trying not to think about how ridiculous I must look in a sweatshirt that comes halfway to my knees, and probably makes me look like I’m naked underneath it. ‘I should probably get back to my room, though. I .?.?. Oh no, wait.’
I slap a hand over my mouth, remembering the way the hotel room door slammed shut behind me earlier.
‘I think I might be locked out,’ I admit guiltily. ‘The door closed behind me when I went into the corridor. They lock automatically, don’t they?’
‘Aye.’ Hunter nods. ‘They do.’ He chuckles. ‘You have a real talent for getting yourself into scrapes, don’t you?’
‘This one wasn’t totally my fault,’ I point out. ‘Hannah knocked on my door.’
Hunter grimaces.
‘Did she? Ach, I’m sorry. I think she just wants someone to talk to. It’s a lonely old place for a little girl.’
‘And for a bigger one, too,’ I say ruefully, thinking about the way Bex Foster expertly managed to freeze me out at breakfast this morning. ‘Hannah really wasn’t bothering me, though. Well, OK, Imighthave briefly thought she was a ghost, but I soon figured it out. And she was very sweet; I was happy to talk to her. I . . . well, I know what it’s like to be lonely, even when you’re surrounded by people.’
