Always You and Me

Chapter Fifteen

With an impatient sigh I tossed the paperback on to the settee beside me. It landed beside the first two I’d plucked from Josh’s bookcase and abandoned. The problem wasn’t the books, it was me.

I was filled with restless energy, the kind that has zoo animals pacing their cages – or savaging their keepers, I thought darkly, my eyes going to the workshop on the other side of the clearing where Josh had disappeared three hours earlier.

I’d spent the first hour of his absence working my way to the bottom of the coffee pot, which in hindsight might not have been the best decision. When you’re already climbing halfway up the walls, an overdose of caffeine is probably the last thing you need.

I paced Josh’s cabin until I knew exactly how many steps there were from the bedroom to the kitchen, and the lounge to the larder. After my fourth circuit, even Fletcher abandoned me for a spot in front of a crackling log fire in the lounge which Josh must have lit earlier.

‘Four more days of this and I might truly lose my mind,’ I said out loud with a despairing shake of my head. I wasn’t sure why the isolation felt so much worse here than it did when I was alone in the home I’d shared with Adam. Perhaps it had something to do with being constantly reminded that the man who lived here didn’t want me under his roof. So much so that he’d sooner spend hours in a freezing cold outbuilding than in my company.

Fletcher’s paws were twitching as he ran through a dream, chasing something he’d never catch. And in a way so was I, trying to crack the mystery of why Adam had sent me here, but only if Josh was willing to lower his defences. What I needed was something to use as a metaphorical white flag to call a truce in our sniping.

My restless feet had taken me on yet another tour of the cabin’s floorplan, and I came to a stop inside Josh’s Armageddon-style larder. And there was the answer right there in front of me, innocently disguised as a shelf full of canned rice pudding. Josh had always had a sweet tooth, and I owned a cake-making business. It didn’t take a genius to work out what I should do next.

I’d never tried to change someone’s mind with a gateau before, but I had literally nothing to lose.

Lack of electricity made it a challenge, but I was determined to try and excited to discover if baking a cake on top of a wood-burning stove was even possible. If nothing else, it would make an amusing anecdote for the Rainbows and Cupcakes blog.

For the next thirty minutes I allowed myself to get lost in something that felt as familiar and natural to me as breathing. Baking calmed me, soothed me, in much the same way as I suspected working with wood did for Josh. That was something we still had in common, and something which perhaps Adam hadn’t initially understood . . .

‘Lily?’ Adam said, wiping his eyes blearily as though he couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.

I looked up from the large earthenware mixing bowl, momentarily lost behind a cloud of icing sugar. I took a moment to appreciate the flat planes of his taut stomach and how the boxers he slept in left very little to the imagination.

‘Sorry. Did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet. I didn’t use the mixer.’

Adam had the look of someone who was still more asleep than awake as he shook his head, as though he wasn’t quite sure whether this was a dream.

‘Lily, it’s’ – he glanced down at the watch he wore, even when sleeping – ‘it’s three o’clock in the morning. Why are you baking a cake?’

I bit my lip guiltily, tasting the sweetness of the airborne sugar particles.

‘I couldn’t sleep,’ I said, as though that explained my peculiar middle-of-the-night activity.

Adam padded barefoot to the worktop and pulled out one of my breakfast bar stools.

‘You couldn’t have tried counting sheep?’ he asked, taking a seat.

I shook my head regretfully. ‘That never works for me.’

Adam was staring at me, with a look halfway between bemusement and bewilderment. I’d been here before with previous boyfriends, and to be honest it had never gone well. It was, admittedly, a very peculiar habit. ‘Whisking up a Genoise sponge isn’t quite as sexy as getting down and dirty with a potter’s wheel in the middle of the night,’ my friend Andie had observed, when yet another guy had referred to my nocturnal baking as ‘downright crazy’. It had become a kind of relationship litmus test, I suppose. And so far, every person I’d dated had failed it.

Adam leant forward and scooped up a blob of dropped mixture with his finger. He lifted it to his mouth, and all at once my attention was a million miles away from the ingredients in the bowl. I watched, fixated, as the finger travelled past his lips and he took the raw cake mix into his mouth. I swallowed noisily and felt something stir down low between my legs.

‘So,’ Adam said, his eyes locked on mine in the half-darkened room where I’d been working by the light of the under-cupboard lamps. It made the small kitchen in my flat feel curiously intimate. ‘Does this happen often?’

I gave a small, almost helpless shrug. ‘Now and again,’ I admitted, before shaking my head. ‘No. Maybe more than that. Once a month or so?’ I felt small and vulnerable, almost naked, despite the silky camisole and shorts I’d pulled on when I’d slipped out of his arms and the bed we’d been sharing. ‘It’s usually when I’m overthinking stuff or worrying about something.’

Adam’s eyes clouded. ‘And are you worried about something right now?’

The middle of the night is made for honesty and the sharing of secrets.

‘Is it us? Is it me?’ he asked, and there was no trace of sleepiness in his eyes anymore.

I leant across the worktop between us, touching his cheek gently with flour-covered fingers. ‘No. It’s definitely not us. I’m really happy with where we are right now . . . with where we’re going. I know it’s only been a few months, but it feels . . . it feels . . .’ The small hours of the morning aren’t the best ones when you’re trying to express something that important, and I had a horrible feeling I was going to say it all wrong. ‘It feels right,’ I finished lamely.

Adam’s smile lit up everything around me – the kitchen, the worktop, my heart. Everything.

‘It does, doesn’t it?’

We shared a smile that I took a mental photograph of, because it was one I knew I wanted to keep forever.

‘So, what is bothering you?’

I blew out my cheeks in a long sigh. ‘Work. Bank loans. Juggling finances. Letting people down. Disappointing customers. Disappointing anyone.’

‘Well, there’s one person you don’t ever have to worry about disappointing . . .’ Adam reached for the bowl, dipping his finger into the mixture, but this time lifting it to my lips. ‘Me,’ he completed, his voice as low as a purr as he slid his forefinger into my mouth. My knees almost buckled. Baking was a lot of things to me, but erotic wasn’t usually one of them.

‘And for what it’s worth,’ Adam continued, ‘I don’t think any of your customers could ever be disappointed in you. You put so much of “you” into your work. It shows, Lily. It really does.’

His words felt like walking into sunlight after being in the shadows.

‘It’s why making cakes – especially these types of cakes – has always been my dream,’ I confessed, wanting him to know me, really know me. ‘People are celebrating something important in their lives, whether it’s a wedding, an anniversary, a birthday . . . or the birth of a baby. And I get to be part of that. And I love that about my job, I really do.’

‘And I love you.’

The air went still. It was the first time he’d said those words. It was the first time, and yet it felt like they’d been there all along, since the very first day.

‘I love you too,’ I breathed softly.

There was cake mixture on my fingers when they slid around his neck, but he didn’t care as his mouth met mine. There was a sweetness to that kiss that had absolutely nothing to do with the cake I’d been making. The cake I happily abandoned as Adam lifted me up and my legs locked around his hips . . .

Forty minutes later, when I stood back to admire the very basic cake I’d made in Josh’s kitchen, I was beaming as broadly as a Bake Off winner. The simple Victoria sandwich was a million miles away from my usual creations, but I couldn’t have been prouder of my achievement. I automatically reached for my phone to post a photo on Instagram, before remembering there was still no internet and my battery was low. I was starting to miss social media like a lost friend and wondered yet again how Josh had so easily withdrawn from that kind of interaction. And more importantly, what had caused him to do so .

Fletcher reappeared at some point during my endeavours, ever hopeful that a dollop of raspberry jam or buttercream might hit the floor. He was practically drooling in anticipation as I cut a large wedge of sponge and transferred it to a plate.

The cabin was filled with the mouth-watering aroma of cake, a fact that Josh was unaware of, for he’d failed to put in an appearance at lunchtime. Perhaps he always worked through, or perhaps he was trying to pretend my presence here was just a bad dream that he’d wake from soon.

Fletcher jumped excitedly to his feet as I shrugged into my coat, clearly ready for another walk. ‘Later,’ I promised, picking up the cake plate in one hand and a mug of tea in the other. He padded behind me to the front door, not giving up until I squeezed through a narrow gap to prevent him from following me. Through the closed door I heard his disappointed sigh.

The deck was treacherous. I almost lost my footing twice on the snow-covered wraparound and cursed my footwear with its zero traction. Walking as gingerly as an OAP, I reached the shallow steps that led down to the clearing. There was a smooth wooden rail beside them, but with my hands full of peace offerings, I had to descend without it.

It happened when I was almost on solid ground. The last tread looked no different from the others; there was no way of knowing that beneath the thin crust of snow was a layer of black ice. The smooth soles of my fashion boots didn’t stand a chance.

My startled cry was whipped away by the wind as my left leg shot out from under me. My arms pinwheeled, sending scalding tea and Victoria sandwich in every direction, while my legs did that running-on-the-spot thing seen in cartoons. But then my heel skidded, and I was suddenly airborne.

I landed badly, crashing to the frozen ground with a bone-shuddering jolt. I knew instantly I’d done damage. My left ankle was twisted beneath me and felt as though it was on fire. Equally painful was the throb at the back of my head, which had connected sharply with something unforgiving beneath the snow.

A hot shaft of pain lanced through my head when I attempted to sit up, and I felt a fledgling flutter of panic. I tried to straighten my leg, but my ankle immediately protested. I was going to need help getting up . . . and there was only one person around to ask.

My first attempt to call Josh was a pitiful squeak that he’d never have been able to hear. Winded by the fall, my lungs felt like broken bellows, incapable of gathering enough oxygen to summon up a whimper, much less a plea for help.

I called Josh’s name repeatedly, but my voice was no match pitted against the howling wind and the creaking boughs of the trees. The workshop was less than fifty yards from the cabin, but Josh might as well have been a hundred miles away. For now, I was on my own. Or maybe not.

From within the cabin I heard the sound of paws scrabbling so frantically against the door they were sure to have scratched the woodwork. The noise was accompanied by a series of high-pitched, keening wails that I didn’t think I’d ever heard Fletcher make before.

My eyes filled with hot tears at the reminder that Fletcher wasn’t just my dog, he was Adam’s too, and he was doing exactly what his owner would have instructed: he was trying to help me. Fletcher began to bark. Volley after volley ricocheted around the clearing, the sound bouncing deafeningly from tree to tree.

I turned my head on its lumpy pillow of snow, and stared at the sliding doors of the workshop, willing them to open. Sleet was falling on my face, stinging my skin like a thousand tiny needles and making my eyes water, but they were open when the doors finally wrenched apart.

Josh’s face looked entirely different with its mask of indifference ripped away. This time I finally recognised him. But in an instant a new expression took over: panic. He covered the fifty yards or so between us at Olympian speed, never once losing his footing on the ice and snow. He dropped to the ground beside me, his jeans immediately saturated.

‘Lily! What happened?’

‘I fell,’ I said, hugely embarrassed by the wobble in my voice.

‘What are you doing out here? Why aren’t you—?’ His voice broke off and a look of terror flooded his features. ‘Christ. You’re bleeding. Don’t move.’

‘I am?’ I asked, confused. Had I impaled myself on something hidden beneath the snow? If so, why couldn’t I feel it? It was only my head and ankle that felt painful. Oh . . . and my pride, that had definitely taken a beating.

‘Don’t move. I need to see where it’s coming from,’ Josh instructed, sounding more scared than I’d ever heard him. He was looking down in horror at a circle of red that had pooled beneath me. ‘Fuck. I think it’s coming from your back. We might need the air ambulance.’

I glanced down, and then incredibly began to smile. ‘Or maybe just a fork?’

‘Huh?’ Josh said, his eyes darting around the clearing, as though assessing its suitability as a helicopter landing pad.

‘A fork,’ I repeated, reaching up and taking hold of his hand. It was the first time since I’d arrived that he didn’t flinch or pull away from my touch.

‘It’s jam,’ I said. ‘Raspberry jam.’

Cautiously, Josh dipped a finger in the red-tinged snow, brought it to his face and sniffed deeply before investigating the residue with the tip of his tongue. Watching the realisation dawn on his face was something I wouldn’t forget in a hurry. The relief changed every feature, one by one.

‘Why, exactly, are you lying in a pool of jam?’ he asked, sitting back on his haunches. The damp stains on his jeans now went all the way up his thighs, and I noticed for the first time that he was only wearing another washed-thin t-shirt. He had to be freezing.

‘I made a cake and was bringing you a slice when your steps sabotaged me.’

Josh was still in the hinterland between receding panic and ‘normal service has been resumed’, but there was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he offered me his hand to sit up. I needed it more than I realised, for the clearing immediately began to spin like a carousel as he tugged me upright.

With his eyes trained on me, Josh instantly saw my wince of pain as the colour drained from my face.

‘Where does it hurt?’ he asked, the humour in his voice gone as fast as it had arrived.

‘I think I bumped my head when I fell,’ I admitted cautiously, sucking in a huge gulp of air as his hand reached out and gently swept the hair back from my temple. There was an old snapshot memory in the vaults of the past from when he’d done that in an entirely different situation.

Did he remember it too, because he certainly sounded shocked as he cried out, ‘Fuck, Lily! You have an enormous bruise on the side of your head.’

Tentatively I touched the area with my fingertips, flinching the way I’d done that morning when I’d spotted the dark purple mark in the mirror.

‘Oh, that’s nothing. I got that yesterday when my car went into the ditch.’

Josh narrowed his eyes. ‘When you told me you weren’t injured at all?’

I attempted a shrug that I couldn’t quite pull off because it made the new injury at the back of my head too painful.

‘Damn it, Lily. You’re a bloody liability. Is there anything else that hurts before I attempt to get you back inside the cabin?’

I bit my lower lip. ‘Erm . . . I think I’ve done something to my left ankle.’ I was trying to play down the severity, which was pointless when we both looked down at my foot. Even through the soft leather boots, it was starting to swell.

‘Anything else?’ Josh sounded almost angry, as though I had deliberately fallen over to screw up his day.

‘No, that’s it.’

‘Okay. Then hold still and I’ll try to be as gentle as possible.’

Before I could argue or suggest that I hopped to the cabin, Josh slid one arm beneath my knees and the other behind my back.

‘Put your arms around my neck,’ he instructed. It was an awful lot of touching for a man who couldn’t seem to bear the feel of my skin against his anymore. But there was something in his voice that told me this wasn’t the time to object. I did as he asked, and in a movement that he made look surprisingly easy, I was carefully lifted off the mattress of snow and squashed cake and was being held firmly against him as he carried me into his cabin.

His gentleness confounded me, and it really shouldn’t have done. Because for as long as I’d known him, almost everything Josh Metcalf did surprised me.