Weddings Collection. Кэрол Мортимер
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inspection of her and then he grinned. ‘Tell me, sweetheart, have you ever done this before?’
Willow firmly squashed her heart back into place. It had no business to be leaping about in that giddy, unrestrained way. He would have left her at the altar if she hadn’t got cold feet on the way to the wedding, she reminded herself. Jilted her. If she hadn’t jilted him first. She concentrated on what that would have felt like and resolutely forbade her arms to get their own way and fling themselves about him.
‘This is unfair, Mike. What the hell do you think you’re doing here?’
‘Much the same as you, I guess. At a loose end and feeling the need to do a little good.’
‘And you just happened to pick the same place as me?’
‘Is that a problem for you?’ he asked with a bland expression that she didn’t trust. He was up to something. ‘Volunteers have been called for. I’m volunteering. I’ve even brought my own sleeping bag—’
‘You can stuff your sleeping bag and your good intentions and find somewhere else to hide out!’
‘And a bottle of chilled white wine. I can’t guarantee the quality, but the guy in the pub down the road said it was drinkable—’
‘I haven’t got a corkscrew.’
‘And some Chinese food which could probably do with heating up,’ he continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ she declared roundly. But as the scent of the food reached her from the bag he was carrying, her stomach rebelled, noisily betraying her.
Taking that as a change of heart, he looked around. ‘Is the cooker connected?’
‘Mike, we made a mistake!’ With him there in front of her she knew they’d made a mistake. They’d made a mistake in running away from their problems instead of facing them, but it was too late to change things. And this wasn’t helping. ‘We both agreed. We said goodbye. Please don’t make this any harder…’ She stopped. It wasn’t meant to be hard. She’d chosen this.
He appeared not to notice how close she’d been to admitting regret. How close she’d been to giving him her heart on plate. It wasn’t her heart he wanted. Not when push came to shove.
‘You think I want to be here? This is tough for me, too, sweetheart. But you’re going to need some help if this place is going to be ready in time. Volunteers would appear to be a bit thin on the ground.’ He headed for the cooker, switched it on and loaded the cartons onto the shelves. When he straightened, he turned and looked at her. ‘Just because we decided not to get married, Willow, doesn’t mean we can’t behave like civilised adults. We can still be friends.’
‘Friends!’ Outraged, her feelings finally caught up with reality. She didn’t want to be friends.
‘Why not? I like you. I like you a lot.’ She looked doubtful. ‘What? You surely don’t think I kept asking you out just because you’re great in bed?’ That was a loaded question. She was a loser whatever her answer, so she kept quiet. ‘Come on, Willow. We both need to stay out of sight. Let’s help one another out, here. For old times sake.’
‘We haven’t had any old times. We’ve only known one another for a few months.’
‘Five months, two weeks, four days. Just because we made the mistake of nearly getting married…’ she wished he wouldn’t keep saying that! ‘…doesn’t mean we have to cross the street to avoid one another. Does it?’ He offered her his hand. ‘Pax?’
‘Pax?’ she repeated, keeping her hands to herself, not convinced that it could be that easy. He looked far too innocent to trust. Except she would trust him with her life. ‘Friends?’
‘Good friends, I hope.’
This was the mistake. She was sure of it. The magnetic attraction that had been so fierce, so inescapable from the first moment they met, had not dimmed one jot during those five months, two weeks, four days. But he was right about one thing. What she knew about painting and decorating could be written on a postage stamp. A very small postage stamp.
And the cottages were isolated. It would be good to know there was someone within shouting distance if the floorboards started to creak in the middle of the night.
Her hand slid into his. Warm, strong. For a brief moment, all she’d wanted in the world.
‘Just good friends?’ That shouldn’t have been a question. Her voice ought to have been firmer.
For a brief moment his hand tightened about hers and she was sure his assurance that they would keep things on a platonic basis was just a ruse. Before she could reiterate her determination to keep it that way, though, he released her fingers, turned away to look around at their temporary home and she couldn’t be sure whether she was relieved or infuriated that he found it so easy to keep his word.
‘It’s a bit spartan,’ he said, and Willow dragged her thoughts back to reality and thought guiltily of the beautiful kitchen cabinets in their would-be marital home that she’d made such a performance about. ‘That wall could do with some shelves.’
‘Yes, it could. Do you know a good carpenter?’
‘Yes,’ he said. Then turned and looked down at her. ‘I don’t suppose there are any glasses, are there?’
‘Disposable cups, that’s all.’
‘Then, we’ll make do with those.’ He produced a multi-purpose penknife from his back pocket, opened out the corkscrew and set to work on the bottle of wine. ‘Plates?’
‘Paper ones.’
‘Chopsticks?’
‘We’ll have to make do with plastic forks.’
He grinned. ‘No fighting over the washing up, then.’
‘Good friends don’t fight, do they?’
‘No?’ He pulled the cork. ‘Maybe not. But then, we never did fight.’ He filled two of the plastic cups she produced from a cupboard. ‘We always had better things to do.’ Willow turned swiftly away, checked the food. ‘How is it?’
Painful. She’d been such an idiot. They could have been in Mike’s flat right now. Or hers. Curled up together with nothing better to do than be together. If she’d just stayed put that Sunday night, for once indulged the man she loved. But no, that would have been breaking her own rules.
She’d thought she was so damned smart. But she wasn’t smart. She was arrogant and stupid and now she was paying the price. Now and for ever.
Mike had obviously never really wanted marriage or he wouldn’t have beaten a hasty retreat from the church. He’d just been carried away by the heat of his libido.
But what was her excuse? Hot grey eyes that promised her the earth? And delivered…
‘Another few minutes to be on the safe side, I think.’ She fixed a smile to her lips, then turned and took the cup of wine he offered, spilling a few drops as his fingers brushed against hers. ‘So, what’s the toast, Mike?’ she asked brightly. ‘The great escape?’
For a moment the muscles in his jaw tightened, then he too managed a smile. ‘Sure, why not?’ But he took little more than a sip of the wine before putting the cup down on the draining-board. ‘Why don’t you show me round while we’re waiting.’
‘There’s not much to see.’ The holiday centre had been converted from a row of artisans’ cottages and the rooms all opened from a single corridor, with a staircase at each end.
‘Downstairs there’s the kitchen, dining room, day room, quiet room.’ She led the way, opening doors without stopping, taking the stairs swiftly to keep a pace ahead of him, so she wouldn’t feel his breath on her neck. ‘And upstairs, two big rooms that’ll have bunk