Chapter Three
Laurel
Laurel’s little flat in Lower Houghton was her haven. It was a few minutes’ drive from Little Willow Farm and that time in her little car was the most beautiful decompression time ever. It signified the end of the farm working day and the beginning of Laurel’s time. She never brought work home. If she needed to, she would go in early and finish late, but her flat was a work free zone. She needed at least some respite.
The flat was clean whites and greys, glass and marble, sharp edges and straight lines. It was a world away from the warm, pastel-coloured farm, with its artfully distressed signs, soft curves and fuzzy ducklings. No, this was modern and cool, her books neatly stacked on the floating shelves beside her TV, her sofa standing on industrial style metal legs.
Laurel had rinsed the worst of the cow muck off her dress in the farmyard, and rubbed copious amounts of Vanish into it, praying that most of the staining would come out before she sent it to the dry cleaners.
The first large glass of white wine barely touched the sides. Laurel curled up on the sofa and was well into her second when Rebecca called.
‘Why hasn’t my husband shut up about Nate Daley, and why has Nate Daley turned my best friend into a moping weirdo?’ She didn’t even say hi.
‘I’m not moping.’ Laurel pouted, pulling the blanket tighter around her.
‘You are moping, I can feel it. And why, for the love of god, is Jack ironing a shirt?’ She could hear the beep of the oven timer as Rebecca put tea on for the kids.
‘Apparently, they’re going for drinks tonight.’ Laurel tried not to sound bitter. ‘Jack and Nate,’ she clarified.
Rebecca fell silent.
‘How has Nate Daley turned my life upside down, and I haven’t even seen him in ten years?’
‘Yeah well, join the club,’ Laurel muttered, swallowing another mouthful of sauvignon blanc.
‘Are you still there? Do you want to come over?’
‘No, I’m at home. I left early. Couldn’t go up to the site because he was there.’ Laurel left out the part where Nate had actually invited her to the dig site at any time. On her own land. Laurel was not about to give him the satisfaction.
‘You left early? That’s like me leaving a pair of heels in the shop,’ Rebecca said. ‘It doesn’t happen.’
‘I’ve had a shitty day. The meeting with the accountant was less than good, the wedding I showed around wasn’t biting, and I fell on my arse in cow shit in front of Nate fucking Daley, so yeah, I left early.’ Laurel took a large gulp of wine. ‘Jack forced me to go,’ she admitted.
‘Say that last bit again?’ Rebecca said, closing the fridge and glugging post-work wine into her own glass.
‘Jack forced me to go.’
‘No, no, about falling in cow shit.’ The grin in Rebecca’s voice was evident.
‘I’m sure Jack will fill you in. It was mortifying! And then Nate Daley in his stupid perfect shirt with his stupid perfect hair was all like “oh let me help”, and my arse literally suctioned out of the shit.’ Laurel took a breath. ‘Don’t you dare laugh.’
Rebecca swallowed loudly down the phone. ‘I’m not laughing, I promise. Suctioned?’
‘Suctioned, squelch, suction.’ Laurel rolled her eyes and held the phone away from her ear as her best friend roared with laughter, exactly the same as Jack had done.
Rebecca caught her breath. ‘In front of Mr Perfect Hair?’
‘In front of Nate fucking Daley,’ Laurel said, which set Rebecca off into further howls. Talk about a supportive best friend.
‘Oh, come on Laurel. That is absolutely hilarious, it’s the kind of stuff that only happens in films.’
Laurel allowed herself a little smile. ‘I suppose he won’t forget me in a hurry.’
‘Is he still hot? I can’t wait to see him, check out who my husband and my best friend are both into,’ Rebecca said. ‘Hang on.’ She held the phone away from her face while she shouted, ‘Lila, Micah! You’d better be putting those toys away! Okay, Laurel, go.’
‘Stop giving my niece and nephew a hard time.’ Laurel smiled. ‘And yes, he is still hot. But never tell him that. In fact, don’t even talk to him. I can’t have my brother and my best friend swooning over him.’
‘Why, because only you’re allowed to swoon over him?’ Rebecca teased.
‘Fuck off, Rebecca. He was a dick then, he’s a dick now, and that’s it. End of.’
‘Mmm hmm, I remember what you were like, Laurel, all moon-eyed and swoony. Ooooh Nathanial.’ And like she was five, Rebecca made smoochy kissy sounds down the phone. ‘Not that you ever talked to him.’
The fact that Rebecca knew Laurel so well, all her secrets and fears, her embarrassing moments and her deepest desires, was fine. Until now, when she was taking the piss relentlessly about a crush Laurel had had ten frigging years ago.
‘No, thank you,’ Laurel said. ‘Hey, I’ve got to go, I’ll talk to you later.’
‘Oh, Laurel, before you go, Fletcher family dinner at your dad’s on Sunday, I’m cooking, two o’clock.’
‘Alright, I’ll bring rice pudding.’ She could feel Rebecca rolling her eyes down the phone. ‘It’s Dad’s favourite, so shut up.’
‘Didn’t say anything! Okay, talk to you later, love you,’ Rebecca said, before ending the call.
Laurel flicked idly through Netflix. So what if Nate Daley had aged like a fine wine, and smelt like choppy seas and thunderstorms? So what if he was befriending her brother? So what if he was going to be in her back yard for the next few months.
It’s not like she would see him all the time, was it? Perhaps just in passing. Now and again.
Only when she had to inspect the farm and happen upon the site, and possibly catch a glimpse of him in those jeans that hugged his arse just right (yes, she’d seen, oh boy, she had seen), and that faded salmon dig top that makes his skin warm and seductive, and that stubble on his jawline, rugged and daring. Perhaps his hair would fall, unkempt, over his forehead and his brown eyes would look at her and really see her. Not the her that was pimping the family farm out, the middle sister, the boring, business one, the one that had to sort everything out.
Perhaps he would see her as Laurel Helena Fletcher, person in her own right.
Who was she kidding? This was Nate Daley she was thinking about, of course he wouldn’t. He was a cold-hearted, weaselly coward ten years ago, and there was nothing to suggest that he had changed at all.
Except his eyes had changed, hadn’t they? They weren’t the bright light of youthful exuberance anymore. They’d lost their sparkle, become wary, careful, thoughtful.
What was she doing? Why was she thinking about Nate Daley’s eyes? Screw this, Laurel needed another glass of wine.
Nate
Harold had dug the trenches exactly how Nate wanted them. Exactly. To the millimetre, as shown on the plans he had provided, so all that posturing and ‘oh it can’t be done’ had been worth it.
The students were in varying states of filthiness. They quietly scraped, dusted and blew at the earth, uncovering its hidden secrets, the things that it had kept cocooned and warm for centuries until it was ready to give them up to his curious eyes.
Nate breathed in the scent of freshly turned dirt and the aniseed tang of cow parsley hidden by hedgerows. It was lush and verdant out here, so quintessentially English. He was surprised that the maypole wasn’t out.
Running a dig wasn’t messing around in the dirt all day, stealing back human treasures from the earth, but Nate wished it was. He gathered his paperwork from the put-up table. The summer breeze was a little too breezy, and no matter how he angled his laptop, he couldn’t see a damn thing with the glare bouncing off the screen. They hadn’t been granted enough funding for a dig tent – a large tent with flappy walls, electricity and lighting – so he was making do.
Or not, as the case may be.
‘I’m going to head down to the farm. You’ve got my number if anything interesting comes up, or if you have any questions,’ he called.
Anwar, a masters student, waved but the rest ignored him, intent on their own little patches of earth. He took a longing look at them, sighed, and closed the gate behind him.
Paperwork. Great.
Nate was the most senior staff member. He was running the dig. Ivor was supposed to be, but let’s face it, he was months from retirement.
Nate headed to the cafe. It had free WiFi, large tables, coffee on demand and was much more spacious and comfortable than the bunkhouse. In fact, the bunkhouse didn’t even have a desk. It had a miniature two-person table, already covered with stuff that couldn’t go anywhere else; a camera, books, notepads, a skull called Dave (Nate had no idea who had brought that). So, the cafe it was.
He negotiated his way around a couple of prams, smiled wanly as a toddler tried to hand him a green lorry, and ignored the looks and whispers of a couple of mums. Nate wasn’t delusional. He was the only eligible guy in the cafe, and these ladies looked like they would whisper about anything with a pulse. Nevertheless, he made sure to give them a little smile. Well, he did have a pulse.
‘Coffee, decaf, black,’ he said to the waitress hovering near the large table he spread his papers over. The laptop swung open, and Nate settled down to work.
Three decaf coffees later and Nate’s quiet haven was becoming more and more like a child’s play area. The kids had multiplied somehow, and the cafe was busy with parents with prams. A couple of grandparents doted on cute pudgy kids, and those who were child-free looked on adoringly.
He’d managed to get halfway through the weekly report due to the university, had planned out the report due to his funders, ordered more materials and catalogued the few noteworthy finds that had come to the surface. It wasn’t unusual to find a lot of early 20th century debris in the first layer – bottle caps, drinks cans, coins – but he was a bit concerned. They hadn’t even found any Victorian junk yet. Geophysics had said that there should be finds here, and Nate trusted geophysics more than he trusted most people. He just had to be patient.
Nate pushed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Sleep was an issue on those fucking bunk beds, and the noise in the cafe was giving him a headache.
‘Ahem.’
Nate dragged his hands down his face slowly and looked up at the woman who had sidled up to his table.
He straightened up in surprise when he saw it was Laurel before him, in a pretty green sundress, arms crossed over her chest.
‘Oh, hey,’ he said.
Laurel surveyed his mess of paperwork, and her lips curved up in what could have been a smile, if her eyes weren’t blazing with annoyance. ‘Hi. You’ve been here for nearly an hour and a half.’
So? Nate shrugged and shook his head; she must be driving at something. Why did she care where he was?
‘An hour and a half. In peak time,’ she added meaningfully, raising her eyebrows. Nate looked around. Huh, yeah, it was busy.
Laurel sighed. ‘You can’t work here. The cafe needs the table. You’ll have to find somewhere else.’
He didn’t have the patience for this.
‘Where, Laurel? You know full well that there’s nowhere in the bunkhouse I can work,’ he said, leaning back in his chair.
‘There’s a dressing table in the apartment. That should be big enough for your...’ she surveyed his table again, ‘work.’
‘I’m not in the apartment. I gave it to a couple of masters students who live together,’ he said, checking his coffee. He let a tiny self-satisfied smile curve his lips at her surprise.
‘Oh.’ She bit that full bottom lip, thinking, narrowing her eyes as she weighed up her options.
If she didn’t give him somewhere to work, then he would take up this very same table each and every day. Just to piss her off.
‘Come with me,’ she said, taking a couple of steps away from the table.
Nate flipped his laptop shut and scrabbled for his papers, clumping them together messily. Two pens were in the mix somewhere and Nate scooped it all up to his chest. He scowled as he pressed the work to his chest and scraped the chair back.
Nate had taken three steps after Laurel before those pens started making themselves known.
Oh no.
They were rolling between his laptop and notebook, and no matter how hard he clenched the papers to him, they were starting to slide. The noise of the cafe was overwhelming and everything was slipping. She was walking too fast and blatantly choosing the most tortuous route. He hoisted the laptop against his chest again.
As if in slow motion, a sticky handed child with a snotty face trundled into his path and oh god. Nate swerved and twisted to avoid the corner of a table and it was happening. He clutched the papers to his hips as the laptop slid dangerously low. It was all falling, he was losing his grip and instinctively grabbed the computer as the papers exploded out of his arms, showering down in a rain of print and scrawl.
‘Fuck,’ he said loudly, dropping to the floor to collect his work.
Laurel whirled around, her face flashing from shock to fury.
‘Sorry everyone.’ She smiled brightly at the reproving looks from mothers and the elderly. ‘What are you doing?’ She whisper-shouted at him, lips pulled back into a not-smile.
‘You could help,’ Nate muttered aggressively, stretching under a table to retrieve scribbled notes.
‘You could be less clumsy,’ she hissed back, all pretense of a smile disappearing as she knelt in front of him, shoving papers into a pile.
‘It was your fault for rushing me,’ Nate snapped. He was close enough to see the flecks of gold in her annoying whiskey eyes. How did she smell so fresh when it was sweltering in this goddamned cafe? ‘Couldn’t wait to get me alone?’
Laurel’s lips curled. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘Why else are you rushing me out of here?’ Nate knew full well why she was rushing him, but his frustration was bubbling in his stomach and he couldn’t help himself.
‘You’re pathetic, you know that? Pathetic.’ She scowled, those full pink lips pulled in tight.
‘The only thing pathetic,’ Nate scoffed, ‘was that weak ass, pathetic come back.’
Her eyes flashed with anger, and a fleeting sense of satisfaction warmed his throat.
‘Get your stuff, Doctor Daley,’ Laurel said dangerously. She pushed back on her heels and stood, hands on her hips as she frowned down at him. She was an angry teapot and didn’t have half the gravitas she thought she did.
Nate was furious, both with her and himself. Laurel had rushed him with her prissy, uptight eyebrow, commanding him to move from her precious table; she had thrown him, and he’d allowed himself to be thrown. Nate kept his eyes on hers, realising that the longer he glared at her, the redder she would get.
This was his power play, and he knew it was petty, but he would not let her win. That rosy pink blush flickered up her neck, skittered across her jaw and it was headlights on full beam by the time it reached her cheeks. Nate smirked.
‘Urgh,’ Laurel rolled her eyes and spun on her heel, sweeping her way across the room.
Nate smiled to himself. He was going to make her wait. He made sure his papers were poker straight, secured the two pens in his pocket, and straightened his slightly crumpled shirt before following her across the cafe.
Laurel
How had Nate fucking Daley thought it was a good idea to sit in a busy cafe for an hour and a half, taking up a six-person table? Did he not have eyes? Was he incapable of seeing how busy it was?
He was following her up the stairs and Laurel refused to either speed up or slow down, regardless of the fact that he was probably eye level with her arse. She was going to have to put him somewhere because he was absolutely right; the bunkhouse wasn’t geared for office work.
But what annoyed her more was that her mind went blank at any moment of conflict, no matter how trivial. Laurel could be commanding, snarky, and use that eyebrow to its best effect, but a snappy rejoinder? A withering comeback on the hoof? Nope, not her. Her mind didn’t work that way.
Laurel led Nate along the pastel peach corridor, past the tiny kitchenette area, and stepped into Sylvie’s office.
‘Can I put Dr Daley in here with you please?’
Sylvie looked up from her computer screen and glanced at the man standing behind her, a smile stretching her face. ‘Of course, but...’ she trailed off, wincing apologetically as she gestured to the spare desk in the room.
Nate made an annoying self-satisfied ‘hmm’ noise behind her.
Why was he standing so close? Hadn’t he heard of personal space? She could feel the heat of his chest behind her and his stupid seashore at dusk smell was way too enveloping.
The desk was covered. Absolutely, soul-destroyingly covered with papers, printed spreadsheets, invoices, remittances and notes, the sheer magnitude of which Laurel’s mind could not even begin to fathom.
‘What. Is. That.’
In through the nose, out through the mouth.
‘It’s Barbara, she’s organising, she’ll be back in a minute, she’s just popped to the loo,’ Sylvie said, eyes flicking between Laurel and Nate.
As if summoned from the fiery depths of disorganised hell, Barbara, the part-time accountant, excused her way into the office, pushing past Nate appreciatively and giving Laurel a wide berth.
‘Oh hello, Laurel.’ Barbara pushed her glasses up her nose.
‘Hey, Barbara,’ Laurel said. ‘What you doing?’ She pointed at the paper-covered desk.
‘Oh, you know, just a bit of sorting,’ Barbara said cheerily.
Sorting? If Barbara wasn’t the best payroll clerk and office accountant Laurel had ever had the fortune of finding, who had been at PWC for years before deciding to ease into retirement with a part-time job on a farm, she would have lost her shit.
Lost. Her. Shit.
How Barbara could work in that mess was beyond Laurel.
‘Okay, Barbara, okay.’ Laurel forced a smile on her face, her eyebrow itching to rise. ‘Carry on!’
Laurel whirled and crashed straight into Nate’s chest. He was obviously made of some sort of military grade metal, because he didn’t even flinch as Laurel ricocheted off him. In fact, he put his arm out to steady her, gripping the top of her arm to stop her swaying too far back on her heels.
That smirk, again.
‘After you,’ she said, pointedly, indicating that he should get out of her way.
‘Okay.’ He shot a beautiful smile at Sylvie, who was watching them with wide-eyed interest
She closed the door behind her, because if she couldn’t see Barbara’s overly laden desk of hideous mess, then surely it didn’t exist. Laurel avoided his eyes, and her shoulders dropped resignedly. There was nowhere else to put him, other than her office. The conference centre was in use, the cafe was a definite no, and the bunkhouse just didn’t have the space.
‘Come with me.’ Like an obedient puppy he was quick on her heels.
It was strangely intimate, letting him into her office. It was the space where she spent the most time, besides her haven of a flat, and she was disturbingly concerned as to what he thought. She flattened herself against the wall as Nate entered, broad shoulders taking up too much space in the room. He glanced around, taking in the pastel paint, the pictures on the wall, the rustic shelving, all designed to help her be in ‘Little Willow Farm mode’.
Before she could direct him to the conference table, he’d put his laptop on her desk and was heading to her ergonomic, perfectly aligned for her spine, cream chair.
‘Uh, no.’ Laurel pushed off the wall and pointed to the conference table.
A flash of surprise passed over his face.
‘Oh.’ He glanced around the room. ‘This is your office?’
‘Yes, and that,’ she pointed, ‘is my desk.’
Did he think that he would get his own office? She’d worked so hard for the dig and provided so much for them. What more could they possibly want?
‘I see.’
He took a long look at her before grabbing his stuff and throwing it haphazardly on the conference table.
Laurel sat behind her desk, tapping at the keyboard to bring her computer to life. She clicked through her emails and tried to focus on the latest online issue of Farming UK.
There was absolutely no need to look across the room at Nate Daley.
‘Is this you?’
Laurel dragged her eyes from the screen to Nate.
He was leaning back in his chair, pointing up at a photograph of her, Jack and Robin outside of the farmhouse, Robin’s pudgy arms around her leg and Jack’s arm thrown carelessly over her shoulder. They looked happy, but it had been taken a few months after their mother had died. Laurel had been trying to hold things together and quite frankly, she had not been equipped. Their dad did his best, but three kids and a time-consuming farm? That’s hard.
‘No, it’s three urchins who wandered onto the farm and Dad thought it was a good idea to snap a photo.’ She looked back to her computer.
Sarcasm she could do.
‘I was just asking,’ he said, defensively. It was silent for a beat. ‘You don’t like me much, do you?’
‘It doesn’t matter whether I like you or not.’ Laurel tapped on her keyboard, writing an email mainly comprised of skdhfoossdfjjdooshciiso so she didn’t have to look at him.
‘If we’re going to be sharing an office, then we might as well get along,’ he said, linking his fingers together on his stomach and turning those blue eyes earnestly on her.
She cut her eyes towards him.
‘Firstly, you’re in my office. We are not “sharing”. Secondly,’ Laurel took a breath, because she wasn’t exactly sure what ‘secondly’ was. ‘I don’t not like you, I don’t know you. I never knew you.’
Could she sound any more bitter?
Nate cocked his head and frowned at her.
‘So, get to know me.’ His voice was low.
Laurel’s stomach tightened and she flicked her eyes towards him briefly to see if he was kidding. He was relaxed and languid in that uncomfortable hard chair, one long leg stretched out. The only thing that hinted at him being uncomfortable was a tightness around his jaw.
‘Hmm.’ The noise came from her throat, and she swallowed, not trusting herself to speak. Nate Daley still had the ability to make her stomach flutter.
Nate scoffed, and shuffled his chair under the table, shaking his head slightly.
Perhaps she was being immature and petty in not immediately jumping on his offer of friendship, but she needed time to rearrange her thoughts. The kind of doom that you feel at age twenty, when everything is big and dramatic, stays with you and shapes your interactions with other people, your relationships. That kind of crushing embarrassment moulds who you are as a person.
Thing is though, he was in her space, in her home and he wasn’t leaving any time soon.
Nate was right. It would make it easier on everyone if she could put what had happened before in a bucket, lower it into a well and seal the top, with only whispers to be heard now and again.
Laurel would think about that another time. Right now, she had to get through the next few hours of Nate Daley sitting close enough that she could see the angle of the stubble on his chin.