Chapter 7 Tilda #2
“You’ve made a good dent already, lass.”
“Thanks.”
“How’s the old cottage holding up?”
I look up at him, surprised at the question. “Good, thanks. I’m trying to get it cleared up so I can sell it.”
“Is that so?” He looks at me thoughtfully.
“That’s the plan,” I say, climbing off the wall. “Although I need to work out how to get started.”
“One day at a time,” he says with a measured nod. “You’ll get it all worked out, lass. I’m sure of that.”
And he walks off, leaving me puzzled.
By mid-afternoon the sun has made its way across the courtyard, and I’ve hauled an ancient looking hose out of the barn to scrub out the planters.
It’s seen better days, and the metal attachment is stiff with age, but I manage to shove it onto the outside tap.
Water shoots out in a satisfying arc. I hum to myself as I aim, obliterating decades worth of grime.
And then I feel a prickle down my spine, that unmistakable sense of being watched.
I turn to find Finn, leaning against the parked Land Rover, arms folded across his chest, face as impassive as one of the statues buried in the rose border. How long has he been standing there?
My pulse jumps despite myself.
He’s close enough that I can see the fabric of his plaid shirt pulling tight across his broad shoulders while the afternoon sun catches the amber flecks in his dark eyes.
I don’t know why I’m even looking.
“We try to monitor our water use,” he says, his gaze dropping to the jet of water in my hand, then slowly traveling back up to my face. The scrutiny makes my skin feel hot.
“I have to scrub these clean.” I shift my weight, acutely aware that my dungarees are damp and clinging, that my hair’s falling out of its tie, and I probably have dirt smudged on my face.
I tighten my grip on the hose. What’s irritating is that I know I could have done this with a bucket and a scrubbing brush and some Jeyes Fluid, but I also know what happens in theory and what happens in practice are two very different things.
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” he says, pushing off from the Land Rover and taking a step closer. “You mentioned it in the documentation.”
I look away for a second. So he did read it. Something flickers in my chest before I can stop it.
“I’m not sure I’d trust you with a bucket,” he adds, and there’s something different in his voice, lighter, almost. When I look back at him, he’s tipping his head slightly with a ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
Is Finn Kinnaird… teasing me?
I’m so surprised that as I turn to face him properly the hose whips around with me. A freezing arc of water slaps him square in the chest, soaking the grey T-shirt beneath his shirt with a dark stain that spreads across the fabric, so it clings to every ridge of muscle underneath.
Oh god.
“Oh!” For one glorious moment I forget to be horrified. The sight of him standing there, dripping wet, shirt plastered to his chest is—
Focus, Tilda.
Then I burst out laughing. I can’t help myself. The look on his face is priceless.
Finn doesn’t laugh. He runs a hand down his face and flicks the water away, his eyes never leaving mine.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. Water drips from the edge of his shirt onto the gravel. My laughter dies as something shifts in the air between us.
Then instead of stepping back he steps forward.
Close. Too close.
“You find this amusing?” His voice is low and dangerous, and I feel a heat low in my stomach.
My breath catches. Suddenly, this doesn’t feel funny anymore. It feels like something else entirely. The hose is still in my hand, but I’ve forgotten it completely.
“I—” My voice comes out as barely a whisper. “It was an accident.”
“Was it?”
He’s looking at me like he can see through every single defence I’ve ever built, and I forget how to breathe.
He takes another step. I’m backed against the planter now with nowhere to go, and he’s so close I can feel the heat radiating from him. Close enough that I have to tip my head back to meet his eyes.
“Finn—” His name comes out shakier than I want.
His eyes drop to my mouth, only for a second, but long enough for my already unsteady pulse to skyrocket and my knees to feel unsteady.
“Be more careful, Tilda.” His voice is rough and there’s something in the way he says my name that makes my stomach flip. “With the hose.”
The words should be innocent, but the meaning is not.
Then he steps back again, and I haul in an unsteady breath.
He turns and walks away, water still dripping from his clothes, and I’m left standing there with my heart banging against my rib cage, the hose hanging uselessly from my fingers, trying to work out what the hell happened.
I press my free hand to my chest, feeling my pulse racing beneath my palm.
“Shit,” I whisper.
Flora, who’s been watching this entire exchange from her sunny spot by the wall, gives me a meaningful look.
“Don’t judge me,” I tell her.
I work until precisely five thirty, but I’m useless. My mind keeps replaying the moment over and over. The way he’d looked at me, the roughness in his voice when he said my name. How close he’d been – close enough to—
I head down the drive, my departure unmarked and unnoticed.
Back at the cottage, my hair is full of dried leaves, and my dungarees are still soaked, but I can barely register any of it.
All I can think about is the way my body responded to his proximity like he was magnetic north and I was a helpless compass.
Flora hops up onto the sofa and flops upside down, her ears spread out like velvety angel wings. I collapse back on the cushions with a groan, pressing my hands to my hot face.
“This is bad,” I tell her. “This is very, very bad.”
Because Finn Kinnaird is my boss, he’s infuriating and impossible, and I’m only here for six weeks. I don’t need complications. I definitely don’t need brooding Scottish men who look at me like they want to either fire me or—
Nope. Not going there.
I stare out of the window as the last ferry of the day sails out of the harbour. It was a fluke, a moment of insanity.
My phone buzzes with a text from Poppy, asking how my day went.
I stare at the screen for a full minute. What do I even say?
Fine. Garden’s a disaster but it’ll keep me out of trouble
I raise my eyes as I hit send.
It’s not the garden I have to worry about.