Chapter 7
seven
CLAIRE
The bus barfed me out onto the square like I was an unwanted furball, the door snapping shut when I was barely clear of it. The ancient four-wheeled tin wheezed away, leaving me humphing my shopping bags toward the cottage.
My fingers burned under the weight of the paint tins and groceries, and I cursed the lack of deliveries.
I’d need to hunt down a supermarket that offered shopping drop-offs.
The sky above the cottage was postcard blue, and the rose-covered cottage looked so bloody charming.
From the outside, at least. Internally, it was a shambles.
The sooner I got started on painting, the sooner I could banish the furniture sheet-ghosts and cosy in for the rest of my escape.
‘You look like you picked a fight with B he stood without reacting at all. ‘I’ll send my diary through, and we can find some dates that work for both projects. If that’s all right?’
‘Yeah. Great. I mean, that’s fine.’
He set his empty mug down and glanced at the door. ‘I should get back. Tours don’t run themselves.’
‘Shame, I was going to get you scraping paint.’
‘All in good time, city girl.’
We walked to the kitchen, and I wondered if it was only me who felt the bubbling of tension. At the door, he paused, one hand on the frame above his head. I nearly melted at the sight.
‘Text me if you need anything. Even if it’s a Wednesday.’
I let him leave, sneaking glances at his backside, before closing the door and leaning back against it dramatically.
‘Okay, Otterleigh,’ I said. ‘If I do this, you'd better let me climb your whisky man at least once.’
Trevor screamed in the distance, and I rolled my eyes.