Chapter 19 Tilda
TILDA
The days that follow are a blur of lists and long nights.
Georgia takes command from the kitchen table in Benruar House, clearing it off with a ruthless efficiency that leaves Finn muttering and swearing about missing paperwork and bits and pieces he’s left in specific places for specific reasons.
Nobody dares cross him while he’s fuming over the change of the kitchen layout, but after an hour or two of steering clear we return to find him sitting quite happily in the armchair, the spaniels and Flora at his feet and his laptop on his knee.
“Alright, you win, it works far better like this.” He gives Georgia one of his rare smiles. “I apologise for being a bear with a sore head.”
Georgia shrugs and smiles. “Everyone’s entitled to a meltdown now and again.
Right,” she says, taking out a brand-new planning board.
“We’re going to divide and conquer.” She takes the lid off a bright green marker pen and starts scribbling headings.
“Gardens, paintwork, tasting room, visitor flow. Malcom, you’re in charge of—”
Malcolm, who has slipped in unnoticed to anyone except Georgia, folds his arms and gives a brief nod. “Visitor experience. Aye.”
Georgia gives him a benign nod. “Well done. “Tilda, gardens, obviously. Finn, you’ll support Tilda when necessary.”
Finn gives a barely audible grunt.
“Two secs, I’ve forgotten my pink highlighter.” Georgia disappears out of the side door.
“I think this might be going to her head a little,” Finn says out of the side of his mouth, making me laugh.
“No time for jollity,” says a returning Georgia brightly, uncapping her pink pen.
The gardens come first. The storm’s left its mark and we have to shift some fallen branches which have blown down from the oak tree in the side paddock where the picnic tables are.
But with the worst cleared and a second cut on the grass I can finally see progress – the edges of the beds are crisp and neat, the soil’s been turned over and raked neatly, and any emerging weeds are beheaded with a daily going over with the hoe.
Finn appears by my side with a wheelbarrow and a mattock. He offers me a pair of spare gloves which are comically huge.
“Got anything smaller?” I flap my hands like a seal at the zoo.
“Not in this house.”
I tug them on anyway, warm from his pockets, and reach for the mattock. A root ball gives all at once and I tip forward. His hand finds my hip, steadying me. The touch burns through to my skin and for a second, neither of us moves.
“Careful,” he says, his voice low.
“If you wanted me to fall at your feet, there are easier ways.”
The corner of his mouth flickers, then drops too quickly for it to be an accident. But his hand lingers on my hip a beat longer than necessary before he lets go.
He hauls, I plant, he digs. And though we barely speak, because we’re so focused on what we’re doing, there’s something oddly companionable about it. Georgia films us both, humming cheerfully about “before-and-after reels” while I pretend not to mind, and Finn rolls his eyes in horror.
The next day we focus on the paintwork. The roofers are gone from the cottage, and it’s lying empty, making me feel vaguely uneasy about outstaying my welcome here at Benruar.
But for now, there are scuffed windowsills and peeling walls to tackle.
The gates are painted – not perfectly, but well enough – with a fresh coat of dark green paint that covers a multitude of sins.
I cut back the wisteria and rip out armfuls of weeds from the base, and Finn – with surprisingly neat craftsmanship – repaints the Benruar Distillery sign that was previously faded and half-obscured by weeds taller than me.
“You’ve got—” he says, gesturing vaguely.
“Where?”
He sighs, steps in, and wipes it away with the hem of his flannel shirt, his knuckles grazing my cheekbone. For a second I breathe in as he breathes out and we’re so close I can see the darker ring around his irises, smell the peat smoke, and clean soap on his skin. My heart skips.
Not for the first time, his gaze drifts to my mouth.
“Gone,” he says, his voice low. And then he’s already stepping back, putting distance between us.
Georgia whoops from the gateway. “Gold,” she crows, delighted. “That’s going straight in an Instagram reel.”
Finn glares at her while I bend down to pick up a barely visible weed.
I’ve spent the whole day with a brush in my hand, and my shoulders are killing me.
Malcolm’s perched precariously on a stepladder beside me, brushing cobwebs from the wooden soffits under the roof of the stillroom.
Finn holds the ladder without comment, his sleeves rolled up.
I force myself not to look at his forearms and fail, catching a glimpse of corded muscle and dark hair before I turn away, conscious of the blush rising on my cheeks.
Inside, Georgia’s taken charge in the tasting room. She’s stacked chairs and collected vintage Benruar bottles, setting them on a wooden shelf where they catch the light.
“We don’t need all these frills,” Finn mutters.
“Tourists do,” says Georgia, flicking a duster at him.
He scowls but doesn’t argue.
Midweek, Georgia insists that Finn tries on his kilt.
He grumbles furiously, heading upstairs in a bad grace, but returns in full tartan regalia and my stomach flips over.
His shoulders fill the dark jacket, and his legs are as muscled as the rest of his body.
I let my hair fall over my cheek in a curtain, catching a curl and twisting in in my finger to hide my face as Georgia claps her hands in delight.
“Perfect,” she says. “You are going to knock ’em dead.”
He looks over at me, just once, as if he can hear my pulse hammering from across the room.
I manage to keep my expression neutral, but my insides are molten.
I don’t know how one man can look so hot.
It should probably be illegal. On Finn, the way it emphasises his height, the broad shoulders, and his muscled legs.
I get up from the table with what I hope is studied indifference, summoning the dogs.
“Come on, you three,” I say, heading for the door. “I’ll give you a run before dinner.”
Poppy calls when I’m out with the dogs. I sit down on the bench in the paddock while they chase around, and I don’t know why it spills out now, at last, but I tell her the truth about Jack and the money.
She launches into a long and complicated stream of legal talk, but I have to stop her midway because Flora’s heading for the bottom gate.
“I’ll call you back,” I shriek into the phone, as I start running down the hill.
By the time I catch Flora there’s a message waiting.
Leave it with me
I look at it and raise my brows. It sounds vaguely threatening.
Later that night, spurred on by Finn’s outfit check, I drive down to the cottage to fetch my dress, but it’s hopelessly wrinkled from being stuffed in a bag for weeks.
I shove it on the back seat of my little van and head back to Benruar House, hanging it on a rail in the bathroom in the hopes the steam from the shower will take the worst of the creases out.
By Friday we’ve come on in leaps and bounds.
The place is starting to look respectable, but we’re exhausted and frazzled.
Finn disappears at the end of the afternoon and reappears half an hour later with fish and chips from the little cafe by the harbour and we sit around the table, eating and laughing.
Finn catches my eye across the table and raises his can of Irn-Bru in a mock toast. I raise mine back, and something warm fills my chest which has nothing to do with the chips.
It feels good to be part of something, even if it’s only for a little while.