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CHAPTER SEVEN

Thank God they hadn’t gone further than a kiss.

Watching the three women disembark from the boat, Arlo shuddered at the thought that he’d even contemplated more. Now he knew he would have been a comfort shag. And while many men would not have objected to it, he never wanted to be used like that again. Not after Rowan.

He couldn’t berate himself for wanting to go further with Katie. She was gorgeous and he’d been drawn to her from the moment she’d handed him his arrogant, grumpy arse at the boat landing. He’d not only been late, he’d been rude, and it had served him right that she’d had her own back by pretending to be a hapless tourist.

His annoyance had evaporated quickly. He’d found her intriguing, and yes, he fancied her so much it scared him.

All of these thoughts had run rampant through his mind while he’d taken the guests across the lake to the Island House. He hardly spoke to them. He didn’t have to because they were talking to each other … in what they clearly thought were hushed tones that he couldn’t really hear above the engine. They didn’t want him to hear and he didn’t want to listen so he’d tried to keep his eyes on the water and his job.

‘I’ll bring your luggage up shortly,’ he said, trying to adopt a cheery expression. ‘I expect you’re all keen to go inside first.’

Pongo scampered into the house ahead of him. Why couldn’t Arlo be a Labrador? All he’d have to worry about was chasing squirrels, sniffing trees and how he could cadge an extra dinner.

He ushered the guests inside, smiled at their rapturous ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ and ‘Look at that tree!’ and then left Katie to show them the house and their rooms. She deserved that pleasure and Arlo grabbed the chance to be involved as little as possible. Making his polite excuses, he called Pongo and headed to the woodshed with the excuse that a cold snap was forecast and he needed to stockpile firewood.

Prior to the events of this morning, he’d harboured a hope that a ‘right’ time for him and Katie might come along, perhaps later in her stay, or after she’d gone home. He had reached a scenario where he called her up a couple of weeks into the new year and asked if she’d like to come back to the Island House – or the Lodge – and not as a paying guest this time.

Even after she’d told him about her experience, he’d still nurtured a glimmer that one day, when the time was right for her, they might be able to meet again.

Now, Ned Zanetti hadn’t so much bulldozered his hopes as nuked them.

Arlo didn’t have to be a fan of Ned’s to acknowledge that he was tall, dark and extremely good-looking, and that there was a sexual tension between him and Katie that was palpable.

Arlo had certainly felt it.

Katie had been dumbstruck by the arrival of her ex, if he really was her ex. She’d seem stunned but also fascinated. As for Ned … Arlo thought he’d heard the name before and when he’d set eyes on the man, he’d remembered instantly where he knew him from.

How could he not recognise the actor that his ex, Rowan, had badgered him to watch in a play at the National when they’d been living in London? It had been something deadly serious about a poet – Keats – and it hadn’t ended well, obviously.

Ned had written and starred in the production and been a few years younger then. Considering he was supposed to be dying of TB in the play, he still looked pretty healthy to Arlo. Rowan had adored the show and at the end the audience had given Zanetti a standing ovation. Arlo had felt obliged to join in even though he’d felt it was two hours of his life he could never get back.

He’d gone because he’d wanted to please Rowan, because he’d have paid a hundred quid to watch paint dry if that’s what she wanted. He’d been in love with her and her happiness had been pretty much all that mattered.

He’d have done anything for her.

The axe wasn’t quite steady in his hands.

He’d never wanted to be cared for or reliant on anyone, least of all Rowan. So why had it been such a shock when the unthinkable happened – when she hadn’t wanted to help or support him?

Arlo laid down the axe, the handle moist. His breathing had become faster and a vague feeling of fear had crept up on him out of nowhere.

Jesus. Not again. Not now. That shit was in the past.

Arlo balanced another log on the block, picked up the axe again and brought it down with a crack that sent the two halves of the log flying. Small birds flew, screeching, from the trees. He stood back, breathing harder, and bent to pick up another log.

‘That’s such a cliché, you know.’

He spun round.

Standing a few metres away was Katie.

‘What is?’ he asked.

‘Taking your frustrations out on the woodpile.’

‘What frustrations?’