Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
I come awake to the sound of birdsong and a warm breeze tickling my nose.
For a moment, I think I’m still in London, but then my memory returns, and my eyes fly open.
I’m in a small bedroom with whitewashed walls and sandblasted beams. The window is open, and sunlight is laying stripes across the old floorboards.
I struggle up on my elbow and look out on a view of rolling hills and a sky as blue as a cornflower.
Back at home, I wake up to the sight of my neighbours’ bins, so this is a vast improvement.
A soft snore reminds me of my companion. Not Zeke, unfortunately—I should be so lucky. No, Bodge had nosed the door open last night and taken up residence on the bed in a manner that strongly suggested I just get used to him being there.
I reach for my watch. It’s seven o’clock. The house is very quiet, and I wonder if Zeke is out already. I fall back into the sheets, inhaling the faint smell of lavender. I wanted to get up early and go out with him on his chores, but I’ve slept far too late for a farmer’s hours.
I yawn and run my fingers through my hair.
I thought we’d stay up late on our first night catching up, but instead, tiredness had caught me.
Hardly surprising, as I’ve barely slept since I saw him last? too filled with excitement and memories.
So instead of a long night’s conversation, I’d sat over a takeaway, yawning until my jaw creaked and my eyes watered.
I’d tried valiantly to bring up the subject of him being gay, but my body let me down.
I’d barely touched the food, too busy trying not to nod off, until he laughed and steered me up the stairs, saying there was plenty of time to chat and I needed to sleep.
I barely remember getting undressed, so he probably had a point.
But now I feel rested, refreshed, and raring to spend the day with him. I throw the covers back and climb out, only to pause. What am I doing? Zeke is my friend. Just because he’s gay, doesn’t mean…
Pausing to boggle once again at the mind-blowing news, I drop into the downward dog position on the rug, feeling the lovely pull of my muscles.
Right. Just because he’s gay, it doesn’t mean that he’d fancy me.
Maybe he’s in a relationship. That thought is depressing for such a sunny day, but I still consider it.
No, I decide. He’d consider faking being my boyfriend as being disrespectful to his current partner.
Zeke was never the type of boy to disregard someone he cared about, and he doesn’t seem to have changed as a man in that respect. He has to be single.
Bodge pokes his head over the bed and eyes me as if contemplating joining me in yoga before rolling over and displaying his bits to the ceiling. I curl into child’s position and think about Zeke some more. He’s always been my favourite subject.
Memories of how happy I was when we were friends have come flooding back, and I realise how missing him has been like an underground stream in my mind—rarely visited but still clean and coolly shadowed.
Dismissing these pointless thoughts, I slip into the en suite bathroom for a quick shower.
Fifteen minutes later, I clatter down the stairs and head for the kitchen.
We sat in here last night, but I’d been too tired to take in the details.
Now I see it resembles a spread in a magazine, with light oak cupboards, steel appliances, and a granite worktop.
It’s also intimidatingly tidy, and I say a prayer of thanks that he’ll never see the mess that’s my own tiny kitchen in London.
I drift over to the sink and look through the big window.
From here, I have a view of the valley and a patchwork of fields that seem to stretch into the sky.
“You did a good thing, Clive,” I say softly.
“Another happy farmer just like you.” I smile at the memories of the kind man and make a mental note to pop over to his grave after the wedding.
I’ve been paying a local lady to keep it nice and top up the flowers, but I want to pay my respects before I go back to London.
I think of the city with its fast pace and strangers everywhere, and feel a pang of dismay at the thought of returning to that.
Shaking off the silly mood, I spot the all-important kettle and head over to grab it, filling it with water and setting it on the boiling plate of the Aga.
My movements are easy and practised—muscle memory from when Mum and I lived with Clive.
His Aga had been older than him and very temperamental, unlike this gleaming machine.
Leaving the kettle to boil, I open and shut a few cupboards, looking for something to have for breakfast. They’re completely the opposite of mine, being full of everything you could need to cook.
I suppose Zeke gets that from his mum, who was always in the kitchen cooking.
She made her own jams and marmalades and even baked her own bread, unlike my mum, who’d have burnt water if she’d stayed still long enough.
Bodge sits at my feet, observing my movements as if I’m on the stage. His mouth is open as he pants, and it makes him look like he’s laughing at me.
“Everyone’s a judge,” I inform him, and he tosses his head in a diva sort of fashion.
“Ah, so this is why my dog abandoned me.”
I spin around, putting my hand carelessly on the hot plate as I see Zeke leaning against the door.
“You should wear a bell. Ouch!”
He frowns. “Are you okay?” He strides over and takes my hand, where I’m cradling it against my chest. “Did you burn yourself?”
“It’s okay,” I say huskily, observing his finery.
He’s barefoot and shirtless in just a pair of old jeans that fall from his narrow hips and cling to his long legs.
I’d remembered him as being tall and thin, but the boy has most definitely turned into a man.
His chest is broad and golden-skinned, with a small smattering of hair between his pecs, and his nipples are copper discs.
He smells of warm, bare skin, and I feel a wave of heat rush through me, making all my muscles tense up.
I realise he’s saying something and tune back into the conversation. His expression is concerned. “Can I see?”
“See what?”
His brow furrows. “Erm, your hand where you burnt it.”
“Oh, that. Yes, of course.” I force my hand at him.
Reluctant amusement dawns in his eyes before he examines my palm. “Shit. That’s got to hurt.”
No longer so consumed with his half-naked state, I look down and see a large red mark on my palm. “Ouch,” I say again plaintively. The burn starts to smart as soon as I’ve become aware of it.
“Come here.” He pulls me to the sink. He lets go of my hand and washes his own hands quickly before reaching into a cupboard and pulling out a small glass jar filled with a golden-coloured liquid. When he opens the lid, I smell a sweet, sugary scent.
“Honey?” I say huskily.
“It’s very good for burns. Honey has antimicrobial properties that stop bacteria growth and help speed up healing.”
“Thank you, Nurse Debby.”
His mouth turns up in a crooked smile. “It’s manuka honey. I trade with a farmer mate of mine in New Zealand.”
“Can you not make that variety here?”
“No, some people have grown manuka trees in Cornwall, but I think it tastes better from its source.” He spreads the honey gently over the burn, and I forget the pain as I’m absorbed by the sight of his long body and the feel of his big hands so gentle on my skin.
“Sticky,” I say, and I hardly recognise my own voice. It’s thick and hoarse.
Zeke’s head shoots up. Our eyes catch and hold, and the connection is bright and bold, zinging between us like an electric current. His hand slows on mine, and we stare at each other, the scent of honey sweet.
I reach up to touch his glossy hair, but then suddenly I remember he’s my friend, and I force my hand to my own hair, brushing it back casually. “Thanks. I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“What?” he says, his face clouded.
“Erm, my burn.” I brandish my hand at him to illustrate.
“Oh. Yes.”
“You okay?”
His eyes dart from my hand to the kettle to the window, landing everywhere but on my face. My heart starts to thud. “Zeke?”
He licks his lips. “I need to tell you something. I—”
We both jump as his phone buzzes on the table.
“Shit,” he snaps. He directs a cross look at the offending item, which is bouncing and buzzing on the old, worn table surface. “I need to get that.”
“That might be easier if you pick it up,” I offer helpfully.
He snorts before scooping up the phone and answering it with a terse, “Zeke here.”
I don’t know who else the other person was expecting on his phone, but I suppose it’s nice to make sure everything is clear.
I grab the sticky teaspoon, wash it, and then examine my burn.
It’s already less sore, so these bees obviously know a thing or two.
Zeke’s answers are short, and I can hear the tinny sound of whoever is on the line.
I’m trying not to eavesdrop on his call, but his face is frowning.
Still, he hasn’t moved away for privacy, so I don’t bother to do so myself.
Instead, I sit down at the table and scroll social media while trying not to stare at his naked torso. His skin is olive and tight over his muscles.
“No, I understand,” Zeke says a couple of times. “It’s fine.” He sighs. “It’s no big deal.”
I look at him curiously as he ends the call and slides the phone into his back pocket.
Then, to my disappointment, he puts on his shirt.
It’s a navy shirt featuring the logo of a honey pot and the words Taylor’s Honey Farm.
It’s a nice enough shirt, but covering up those abs should be a criminal offence.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He grimaces. “Sally rang in sick. She’s one of the guides on the farm.”
“Oh no. So, are you going to have to fill in?”
He nods. “I’m so sorry.”