Chapter 18
‘You can’t say that!’ Scarlett laughed as they turned onto the country road leading into Meadowfield, and she changed gear.
Spending the afternoon out in the fresh air, strolling around Stratford-upon-Avon, working in her sketchbook while Rowan was in his meeting, had been just what she’d needed.
She felt as though she’d been productive but had also enjoyed the afternoon getting to know Rowan a little more, and she was increasingly beginning to think they’d stay firm friends, wherever she might end up after her visit to see Laura.
Shaking her head, she pushed the thought away.
She wasn’t going to think about it. There were so many options now that she was living in her van that it all felt a little overwhelming.
She should probably travel up to the Highlands to see her dad but then she’d face even more questions over her future plans and the reason things didn’t work out with Tyler, whereas when she rang him, she was in control; she could easily cut the conversation short when certain topics came up. In person though…
‘I can because it was true. His moustache was literally twice the width of his face. It looked odd.’ Rowan chuckled as he pinched his fingers together and glided them across an imaginary moustache.
‘And when I tell you it made him look just like a sea lion, he really did. My description just isn’t doing it justice. ’
Scarlett grinned. She could listen to him for hours; the slight Welsh twang in his voice and the way he described things were just mesmerising.
If she hadn’t been driving, she’d have been tempted to close her eyes, tell him to talk, to talk about anything, everything, nothing, and she’d just bathe in the sound.
‘You realise that you’d better hope you don’t get that contract now, don’t you? ’
‘Why? Because every time I sit down around a table for a meeting with him, I won’t be able to help but picture him as a sea lion?
’ Rowan again demonstrated how long the moustache had been.
‘I was very tempted to stick my hand out and touch it. Just to see what it felt like, you know, whether it was soft or if it had a ton of wax or lacquer or whatever they used to use to keep it set in its perfect shape.’
‘A dab or two of the good old Brylcreem?’ Scarlett grinned. She remembered asking her nan what the little floral covers hung over the backrest of her grandad’s chair had been for, to be told it was to stop the Brylcreem he used on his hair from staining the cloth of the chair.
‘A dab or two? He’d need more like a tin or two the size of his moustache.’
‘Oh, I know what you could do…’ Scarlett burst out laughing, speaking through the giggles. ‘Give him a moustache cup as a freebie if he orders a hundred bags of your coffee.’
‘A what?’ Rowan’s lip twitched.
‘A moustache cup. A cup with a little ledge on the inside of the rim so…’ Scarlett continued to laugh ‘…so it doesn’t get wet in the tea, or coffee in your case.’
‘Hey, not in my case. I wouldn’t be able to grow such impressive facial hair even if I tried.’ Rowan chuckled.
‘Oh, I bet you could.’ Scarlett glanced towards him. The truth was his dark stubble suited him perfectly; she couldn’t imagine him growing a beard or, heck, even a moustache. Still, it was fun to tease him.
As though he’d noticed Scarlett glancing at his stubbled chin, he cupped his chin and ran his thumb and forefinger across his stubble as though he were deep in thought.
‘So does the moustache just naturally lie on the ridge or do they have to manually pop it on? Mr Sea Lion would have to fold the thing, and even then, it probably wouldn’t fit on the ledge. ’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen a moustache cup in real life. I just remember my nan telling me about them.’
‘Unless rolling would do a better job. You know, wind the moustache around each forefinger before placing it on the ledge before drinking.’
‘How would that even work? If they’re wrapping the hair around their forefingers, they’d need a third hand to pick up the cup.’
‘I’m not sure. Let me see.’
Sensing Rowan’s movements beside her, Scarlett glanced across at him again. He was actually acting it out, pretending he had a moustache and circling his forefingers as though wrapping it around them.
‘You might be right, I might need a third hand.’
‘Rowan! I can’t…’ Slowing, she pulled the van to the side of the road and pulled the handbrake up before creasing over with laughter. ‘You can’t do things like that whilst I’m driving. It’s just not safe.’
‘What do you mean? Things like this?’ With his lips twitching, ready to break into a chuckle, Rowan proceeded to once again mimic trying to drink out of a cup with an invisible moustache.
‘Rowan!’ Leaning forward, Scarlett playfully grabbed his hand to stop him as she gasped for breath between the laughter. ‘Stop, please!’
Looking down at Scarlett’s hand on his, Rowan lowered his other hand, his eyes still fixed on hers.
‘Sorry.’ Feeling the flame of embarrassment flush across her cheeks, Scarlett went to pull her hand away, only for him to gently take hold of it.
Twisting in the passenger seat, Rowan looked into her eyes and gave a slow smile. His skin was warm against hers, his smile easy; the touch felt natural. It all felt natural. But…
Suddenly catching a glimpse of movement out of the corner of her eye, Scarlett jumped, knocking his hand to his lap as she drew hers back. ‘Did that hedge just move?’
Shaking himself, Rowan peered out of the windscreen, searching the hedgerow where Scarlett was pointing. ‘Yes, it definitely just moved.’
Scarlett blinked, trying to make sense of the scene unfolding in front of them.
The hedgerows and grass verges lining the country road were still covered in a light dusting of snow, even though the roads were now clear and turning to slush.
As they watched, there was more movement, almost as though a section of the hedge had inched out of place. ‘You do see it, don’t you?’
‘Yep, I do.’ Rowan leaned forward a little more, placing his palms on the dashboard in front of him. ‘If I’m not mistaken, it’s a sheep.’
‘A sheep?’ Placing her hands on the steering wheel, she gripped it as the familiar sense of dread filled the pit of her stomach.
Suddenly the white mound turned and glared at her, its eyes fixing on hers before it moved off further along the hedgerow.
Ducking its head to the ground, it seemed to move its nose, muzzle, whatever it was called, from side to side as if to shake the stubborn snow from its feast of the green grass below.
Succeeding, it dipped its head and savagely pulled at the greenery.
‘Come on, it looks as though our afternoon is turning into a rescue mission.’ Rowan opened the door and jumped out.