Chapter 11
eleven
CLAIRE
The beach looked idyllic, soft golden sand stretching as far as the eye could see. But autumn’s chill numbed my fingers until they turned pink.
I loved it.
I’d never been to a beach on a cold day. Previously, beach days were a rare escape from work when the city heat became unbearable. A vanishingly rare adventure.
The tide pulled itself flat against the shore, the waves almost non-existent.
The morning sky unfolded in the palest shade of blue, cottony clouds gathering on the horizon.
Scruff, Morag’s dog and my borrowed companion, trotted beside me part of the way, dashing off at regular intervals whenever he spotted treasure.
That treasure being increasingly ridiculous-sized sticks.
‘That one is a small log,’ I told him, balancing a stuffed croissant in one hand and a growing collection of sticks between the other. Scruff would bark at me until I picked up his treasures and took them with us.
‘We need to discuss hoarding, Scruffleupagus.’
He dropped another stick at my feet. It was smooth from years at sea and nearing golf club proportions. Then he looked up at me with eyes that said, What are you waiting for?
‘We need to renegotiate our positions here, my four-legged friend. I’m not here to be your stick caddy.’ I bit into my croissant and stifled a moan. Cream oozed out of one end, and I caught it with my thumb, unwilling to let a single morsel escape its inevitable doom in my stomach.
Scruff wagged up at me, sitting and tapping at the stick with a demanding paw.
‘Give me a minute, Scruff. If I eat my snack, I’ll have double the carrying hands.’
A light breeze kicked up, ruffling my hair as I soaked up the picturesque moment.
No meetings. No calendars with more coloured squares than I could balance.
No clients who didn’t know what they wanted until you gave it to them, and then wanted something else.
No going home to Marty and the never-ending balancing of his moods.
Just clean air, and some sticks.
Inhale, exhale.
Salty air. Sugary pastry. Soggy dog.
‘Claire!’ The wind carried my name over the sand, and I turned to find Owen jogging down the steps from the footpath, dressed for painting.
His old jeans were speckled with paint, and an ancient navy jumper hugged his rugged chest. The breeze made his hair dance in wild disobedience.
He looked like he’d walked right out of a calendar for horny housewives.
The cream dripped from my croissant as if mimicking the situation in my nether region.
I lifted my croissant in a wave before nearly dropping all of the sticks. Smooth. Scruff abandoned his current treasure and barrelled toward Owen with a series of excited barks. How Owen avoided tripping over the animated furball, I’d never know.
‘Morning, Scruff,’ Owen said, bending to rub the dog behind the ears. I wasn’t jealous. Honest. He straightened and looked at me, with those no-nonsense blue eyes, and I swore I fell just a little bit more in lust with him.
’Fancy seeing you here.’ I attempted to sound chill, but there was no hiding the breathiness to my words. ‘I’m not running late am I?’
Taming my timekeeping had been an integral part of my transformation into a city girl. I’d gone from chasing my tail to being five steps ahead. In Otterleigh, time seemed like more of a concept than a definitive.
‘No, I’m early,’ Owen stopped next to me, looking out over the sea. I spied his rolled-up sleeves and had to focus really hard not to throw myself at him again. He’d come over to paint, but I really hoped we’d get utterly distracted with one another instead. Operation drive him wild commenced.
The breeze caught my hair and tossed it in my face. I wrestled it back while juggling my croissant and sticks. ‘We’ll be there in a minute. Scruff is very busy cleaning up the beach.’
On cue, Scruff presented me with another stick.
‘What am I supposed to do with these bloody sticks, Scruff?’ I asked.
In a flap of terror, Trevor arrived like a flying plastic bag, stopping a few feet away on the sand. With all the air in his chest, he screamed at me.
‘Do not even think about it,’ I warned him.
Trevor took two deliberate steps towards me. A feather-coated nightmare. I side-eyed Owen, who looked torn between laughing and defending me.
‘You’re popular this morning,’ he said.
‘I’m not sure I’m his focus.’ I pointed my croissant at Trevor. ‘Back off.’
Trevor made his move with a sudden burst of speed. Wings. Beak. Chaos. I yelped and stepped back, losing my croissant to the flying devil. Before I could gather my bearings, my foot slipped behind me into a well of nothingness.
A hole, likely dug and forgotten by a child or dog, sent me arse over tit. I went down in a flurry of limbs and sticks, squealing in surprise. Scruff barked as I lay on the sand, half inside the hole, and wholly burning with embarrassment.
Above, Trevor circled with my food in his beak, mocking me. Little fucker.
For a second, I just lay there. Contemplating how I go from looking like an idiot to getting the hot Scot to ravish me.
The more time we spent together, the more I seemed to recede into my past self.
Like the sea air was stripping back the version of me I’d so carefully constructed and replacing it with, well, my sand-coated self.
Owen knelt beside me, his face etched with concern. ‘You all right?’
‘Internally or externally?’ I couldn’t exactly pretend I hadn’t just been publicly mugged by a bird. I struggled to sit, my hands sinking into the sand. ‘Externally, yes, I think so. Internally, I might die of shame.’
He offered a hand and I took it, trying to ignore the jolt of electricity that zipped through me at his touch. Sand fell around me as if I were a shaken snow globe.
‘You’re covered.’ All of a sudden, his large hands brushed the sand off my coat sleeve, my jeans, the back of my thighs. The swipes of his hand were all business, no pleasure. Like he was brushing off a dirty horse. Even so, it brought a rush of heat shooting through me.
I remembered his rules.
He stared intently like he remembered them, too.
‘Thank you,’ I said, gathering up Scruff’s sticks. ‘If you hadn’t noticed, that crater attempted to kill me.’
‘I noticed.’ God, he was so serious. What would it take to crack through that hard shell of his?
‘It’ll probably be on the noticeboard by noon.’ I rubbed my cold backside with one hand.’Stupid English woman maims local beach with her clumsy arse. Bet Trevor wouldn’t even be blamed.’
His mouth twitched. The tiniest amount.
‘You might make the paper, if you’re unlucky.’
Scruff nosed my knee and sat by a stick I’d missed. The dog was relentless.
‘Absolutely not,’ I told him. ‘I’m out of stick-carrying capabilities. Maximum load had been reached.’
Scruff tipped his head.
Owen came closer, his hands touching mine where I gripped Scruff’s horde. For a second, I felt a rush of adrenaline and thought he might kiss me. Stupid, really, how just being this close made my chest ache. Leaning forward and capturing his lips would be so easy. Just one little movement.
His rules stilled me. Obeying them frustrated me; as a grown woman, I hated it. But deep down, the anticipation filled me with a sweet ache.
I could suffer for a smidgen longer.
‘The sticks,’ he said at last, taking them from my frozen fingers. Oh. I’d misread his intentions. I dumped them in his arms, feeling like an idiot. ’Let’s go see how you’re getting on with the cottage before you start a war with the wildlife.’
‘They started it,’ I muttered, tucking my sand-dusted hair behind my ear.
We fell into step while Scruff bobbed along at our feet. The path up from the beach stole my breath, but when the cottage roofs peeped over the hedge, my heart did that thing where it warms as you approach home.
I hadn’t felt that in a very long time.
My flat with Maddie was a stopgap. And my sole drawer at Marty’s hardly made it feel like I belonged there.
‘So, ceilings first? Then we can figure out what colour you want the walls to be, let me guess, a variety of beige? Porridge or mushroom?’
‘Porridge is milky beige. Mushroom is a beige that has had a dalliance with a forest. But no, I think the owner is looking for something a bit more cottage-core. Something that will appeal to tourists.’
‘Noted.’
‘Also, thank you for not laughing when I fell,’ I said.
‘I laughed internally. Thought I’d best contain it in case you walloped me.’
‘How considerate.’ I rolled my eyes as we walked along the path toward the row of cottages, me leaving a sand trail behind me.
‘It’s what I’m known for,’ he said, and the way he said it sent a flurry of excitement into me. It may be my active imagination, but it sounded like a bedroom-related promise.
The village spread itself out like a postcard. I smiled as Morag appeared and lifted a brow at Owen.
Scruff barged into her garden and ran into her cottage.
‘What do we do with the sticks?’ I asked.
‘Pop them by the gate, Alistair disperses them again when he goes out to get his paper.’ Morag looked from Owen to me, her mouth opened and closed as though she was swallowing down a million probing questions.
‘So Scruff hints for the same sticks every day?’
Morag laughed. ‘Indeed.’
‘Well, no wonder he is so insistent on us taking them all back home.’
Moving a few paces to the right, we headed for Rose Cottage.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s make the white ceilings whiter.’
Owen nearly smiled.
I moistened.
‘Ceilings,’ he said, ‘After you.’
‘After me,’ I echoed.
I pressed past him to unlock the door, feeling his stare on the back of my neck.
Now to figure out how to seduce him while painting.