Nick stood by the side of the bridge and watched the workmen. One man was lowering another over the side of it, and the man dangling on the end of the rope looked decidedly pale. He wore a hard hat, a suit and tie, and a high viz vest over the top, and Nick guessed he might be an engineer. Apparently, there had been a flock of them there over the past few days, supervising the removal of the tree and prodding at the increasingly exposed old stonework as the water returned to its former level. It was remarkable how quickly a river could rise, and just how swiftly it could fall again.
The brief inundation had caused some damage, mainly to the properties adjacent to the river itself, and now that it was safe to go back inside the residents of three of the five cottages had returned to deal with the mess. The fourth was still unoccupied and, as no one knew how to get hold of the owners, nothing could be done. The remaining cottage belonged to Betty Roberts who, Nick had been reliably informed, was still staying with Stevie.
He wanted to take a look inside, to assess what needed to be done. Which meant he’d have to go to the tea shop to ask Betty if she’d mind and to ask her to give him a key. Which also meant he’d probably bump into Stevie, considering she owned the place, and who he was determined not to think about. At least, not in the way he had been thinking about her.
He saw her before she saw him.
Lingering outside the shop, Nick watched her for a while, liking the way her hair was piled on top of her head, a bright beacon in the grey and overcast day, wisps of it curling around her face and neck like a cascading sunset.
Bloody hell, what was up with him?! Waxing all lyrical about a mop of ginger hair? Only, it wasn’t ginger, it was more of an apricot or peach – strawberry blond, he thought they called it. And her eyes were a sort of smoky grey, not the green he would have expected with her colour hair. Not that he could clearly see her eyes from here, but he knew from memory how they changed colour slightly, depending on the light; or her mood. And those freckles, dusted across her nose and cheeks like the sprinkles of chocolate on a cappuccino.
He shook his head in exasperation, closed his eyes, and counted to ten.
He hadn’t even made it to five when a tap on the shoulder made him jump. His eyes flew open and he looked straight into those grey eyes he’d been trying not to think about a few seconds earlier. He noticed they were a deeper hue today, like a storm-tossed sea, and—
‘For Pete’s sake, you nearly gave me a heart attack,’ he said, wondering if he was coming down with something. The flu maybe, or at the very least, a nasty summer cold from getting soaked through the other day. It would certainly go some way to explaining the fuzziness and the silly thoughts he was having.
‘What do you expect if you stand in the middle of the pavement with your eyes shut?’ Stevie asked. ‘Were you praying?’
Nick snorted. ‘Yeah, praying you won’t give me any more grief.’ His tone was gruffer than he intended, but this girl kept popping into his mind and it was starting to annoy him that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Maybe it was because practically every time he came into contact with her, there was some kind of drama.
‘When have I done that?’ she wanted to know.
‘Ever since you arrived. First, you nearly killed me in your car when you drove like an idiot around the horse I was riding, then—’
‘Wait up there, cowboy, what do you mean, “I nearly killed you”?’
‘You mightn’t remember, but I do. Bloody idiot drivers. You’ve got to be careful around horses, especially if they are on public roads.’
Stevie sent him a sheepish look. ‘I hadn’t forgotten. I’m sorry, I was a bit distracted and I wasn’t sure where I was going, and then this car beeped, and— Hang on, why were you riding it in the middle of the village if it was so dangerous?’
‘He was doing fine until you appeared,’ Nick argued.
‘OK, I’ll let that go, but I still think you shouldn’t ride horses on a busy road.’
Nick glared at her, debating whether to keep arguing, but all he could think of was cradling her in his arms, and the way she had snuggled into his neck. He tried not to think about what he’d seen under the dressing gown, but it was hard not to when those lovely curves were standing right in front of him.
He dropped his gaze and kept his attention firmly on the pavement, hoping his discomfort wasn’t showing too much.
‘Are you coming in, or not?’ she asked.
‘Only to see Betty,’ he said, grumpily. Stevie really was having a rather unfortunate effect on him – whenever he saw her he turned into a right surly git. What on earth must she think of him? Suddenly Stevie’s opinion mattered very much indeed, and he got up the courage to look at her.
‘How is Saul?’ he asked, and could have kicked himself.
Damn it! He hadn’t meant to say that and he had no idea where the question had come from. It had simply jumped out of his mouth without his brain having anything to do with it. He watched as Stevie’s face closed up and he wished his mouth had stayed shut.
‘Fine, I think,’ she said, not looking at him.
‘Did he stay and help clean up?’ Nick really wished he’d offered to stay himself but seeing Saul there and the easy way he had with Stevie, and knowing she had spent the afternoon with him, made Nick feel like a spare wheel. He could tell Saul hadn’t wanted him there too, especially when he had staked his claim by mentioning the date he had with her.
Which was the reason why he hadn’t offered to stay and help, if he was honest.
‘Is Betty here?’ he asked, changing the subject with relief.
‘Come in. She’s in the kitchen whipping up some madeleines. She’s a really good baker. Did you know? Her Victoria sponge is better than mine!’
He didn’t. He knew very little about the old lady, apart from the fact she needed some help if she was to return to her own home.
He followed Stevie into the shop, trying not to look at the way her hips swayed or how well her bottom fitted into her tight jeans, and he was glad when she stood to the side to let him enter the kitchen on his own. Her nearness was rather off-putting. He felt a little hot and his stomach kept clenching. Maybe it was a sort of stomach upset he was coming down with, rather than the flu.
‘Nick, my dear, what a nice surprise. Here, have a madeleine.’ Betty picked up a shell-shaped cake and offered it to him.
He took it reluctantly. Eating was the last thing he wanted to do, although he could murder a cup of coffee.
Betty must have read his mind. ‘You can’t eat it without a coffee,’ she announced. ‘Sit yourself down and I’ll fetch you one.’
He did as he was told, and as he waited for her return his eyes were drawn to the island in the middle of the room. What he saw there, wasn’t racks of cooling cakes and pastries, nor was it bowls of buttercream, or compote, or jam; what he saw was a mound of clothes as they slowly sat up to reach for him.
The memory made him smile. He had acted like a right idiot, running out into the street as if the hounds of hell were after him. What a prat! Still, he’d had the guts to go back in, and he was glad he had (once more the image of a semi-naked Stevie nestling in his arms popped into his mind) because she’d needed warming up.
‘Get your lips around this,’ Betty said, scattering his thoughts. She plonked a cup of strong black coffee in front of him.
He was about to ask for milk, when Betty added. ‘It’s best to dip the madeleine in the coffee, then eat it. When you take a drink, the bitterness of the coffee will be offset by the sweetness of the cake.’
‘Madeleine? I take it these are French? Is that how our cousins over the water eat them?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s how I like to eat them. Now, you didn’t come here just to eat cake, or to ogle Stevie,’ Betty observed, astutely.
If he hadn’t just had a mouthful of sweet, buttery goodness, he would have refuted the notion of him ogling anyone, especially Stevie, but the Madeleine was too good to rush, so he waited until he’d enjoyed every last bite before he said anything. Betty was right about the coffee, too.
‘If you let me have the key to the cottage, I’ll start cleaning up,’ he suggested.
Was it his imagination, or did Betty suddenly look a bit deflated? Poor love, she’d probably managed to forget about her predicament for a while and now he’d gone and reminded her of her situation. But it had to be done, because she couldn’t stay here forever.
‘I don’t know where they are,’ she replied, her eyes darting about the kitchen as if she expected to see them hiding amongst the cake tins and spatulas.
‘They’re in your coat pocket,’ Stevie said, catching the tail end of the conversation. ‘At least, that’s where I think they are. I heard a jangle when I hung it up last night. Let me go and check.’
Stevie darted up the stairs and was back down again in a trice, clutching the keys in her hand.
‘Here they are,’ she said, handing them to Nick.
An electric shock rushed up his arm and squeezed his chest when her fingers touched his. He inhaled sharply, and the scent of her flooded his nose – a faint hint of perfume mixed with something sweet. It made his mouth water.
Swallowing, he muttered his thanks and stood up.
Big mistake. Now he found himself almost nose to hair with her, their bodies nearly touching, and he took a quick step back, not trusting himself to be this close to her.
Disconcerted, he whirled on his heel and strode out of the shop, and as he stomped down the street towards the river, he wished he could rid himself of the sight of her beautiful smoky grey eyes.