Weddings Collection. Кэрол Мортимер
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far end.’ Just in case he had any lingering hope that she might be prepared to share hers.
‘Willow—’
‘What?’
‘Nothing, sweetheart.’ His slow smile was an essay in the art of teasing. ‘I’ll lock up.’
She swept up the stairs—or she would have if she hadn’t been wearing jeans and a T-shirt stiff with paint—convinced she could hear him laughing. Let him laugh, she was damned if she would yell for help. She could cope with a spider. If she had to.
But she bypassed the girls’ shower room and when cautious inspection revealed that the boys’ was a spider-free zone, she turned on the water in the first stall, adjusting the temperature. She’d stripped down to her underwear when she realised she had a bigger problem than spiders.
No soap. And no towel.
She’d thrown a change of clothes into her bag thinking… No, that was an exaggeration. She hadn’t been thinking. She hadn’t been thinking for weeks.
She fetched a clean T-shirt from her bag and pulled it over her bra, then went to the top of the stairs. ‘Mike!’ His face appeared below her. ‘Could you throw up that bar of soap on the kitchen sink.’
He didn’t throw it, he brought it up. ‘It’s a bit basic,’ he said, sniffing at it.
‘Basic is fine. I need something capable of shifting paint.’ Then she asked, ‘I don’t suppose you thought to bring a towel with you, did you?’
‘Sorry, I’m a man on the run. I didn’t get beyond a razor and a change of clothes. To be honest, I envisaged staying in an hotel tonight.’
‘You could try the pub. They do rooms.’
‘Sounds inviting. What about you?’
‘I’m happy where I am…’
‘In that case I’ll dry myself with a spare T-shirt.’ He grinned. ‘You can share if you like.’
‘Thanks, but I’ve got my own.’
‘Mine’s bigger.’
‘Don’t brag, Mike.’ She took the soap from him. Then she demanded, ‘What are you doing?’ as he peeled off his T-shirt, unhooked his belt. He dropped his trousers, kicked them off and stepped into the end stall, so that only his head and shoulders were visible. ‘Mike, you can’t do this!’
His boxers joined the rest of his clothes on the floor. ‘When you use the boys’ room, honey, you have to be prepared to share.’ And he turned on the water. ‘Take your pick. Spiders or me.’
She knew she was being silly. What difference did a day make? A hell of a lot. ‘Mike, this is impossible. You jilted me.’
‘The words “pot” and “kettle” spring to mind, but I’m not whining. Nobody says you have to look.’
‘I’m not looking!’ She stamped but, shoeless, she might as well not have bothered.
‘Pass the soap, will you?’ He extended his hand and she passed it to him. ‘And next time you stamp your foot, watch that beetle. He hasn’t done anything to you.’
‘Beetle? You expect me to fall for that?’ Then something with scratchy legs ran over her foot and she screamed and leapt in the shower stall with him. ‘Where did that come from?’
‘In here,’ he said, grinning broadly as she stepped back. Except with his body blocking the exit, there wasn’t anywhere to go.
‘You rat!’
‘Nobody’s perfect.’ He reached up to soap his hair, his arm brushing against her, doing nothing for her determination to keep this platonic.
‘Excuse me,’ she said, attempting to extricate herself without touching any more of him than was absolutely necessary. ‘These aren’t exactly made for two.’
His arm was around her waist in a heartbeat. ‘That beetle is lying in wait for you.’
‘Please, Mike…’
His eyes darkened. ‘You should get out of those wet things, you know. You’ll catch cold.’
She swallowed, but found it impossible to look away, pull free, although his arm was loose about her waist, his hold anything but imprisoning. ‘This relationship is over.’ She made her mouth say the words, but she knew that her body, responding mindlessly to his touch, was giving him an entirely different message.
‘Is it?’ he asked softly. Then, not waiting for an answer, his mouth came down on hers, tender, undemanding, still offering her the choice to say no. Irresistible. For a moment she didn’t resist. Just for a moment, with the warm water pouring over her, soaking into her T-shirt, into her underwear, she let herself drown in the honey of his mouth, let herself be drawn into the sweet deception that this was a relationship still going somewhere. Then she caught his wet shoulders with her hands and pushed herself away from him. He made no attempt to stop her, there was nowhere for her to go. He just said, ‘Over?’
‘It has to be. I want a career. I don’t know what you want.’
‘You,’ he said.
She didn’t doubt it. She knew that look. She swallowed nervously. ‘So how come we were having pasta on the motorway when we should have been knee-deep in smoked salmon and champagne?’ She banged her elbow on the taps and seized the chance to say something very rude to cover the hurt she was feeling.
‘You’re right. These shower stalls were definitely built with single occupancy in mind,’ Mike said as he ran his fingers gently along her arm, checking for damage.
‘It’s basic,’ Willow agreed. ‘But at least it hasn’t got those disgusting gold taps.’ And for a moment they shared a vision of the huge shower stall in the house they should have been moving into.
‘That’s a bonus,’ he agreed after a moment. Then, glancing at her, he said, ‘I thought you liked them. You waxed positively lyrical when Dad gave us the grand tour of the house.’
‘He’d just given it to us as a wedding present. What did you expect me to say?’
He stilled. ‘You really didn’t like the taps?’
She shrugged. ‘They were rather…ornate, for my taste. You?’
‘I prefer things to be simple and functional,’ he agreed.
‘Then, this should suit you fine. But if you’ve finished, I’d be grateful if you’d get out and let me take a shower—alone—in peace.’
By the time she’d finished, he’d dried himself with his T-shirt and was respectably clad in trousers. She mopped herself dry as best she could and then felt positively naked in a pair of knickers and a damp T-shirt that clung to her breasts. She shivered. ‘It’s cold now, isn’t it?’
‘Not from where I’m standing.’
They parted at her bedroom door. ‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ Willow said awkwardly, as he turned to go. It seemed entirely wrong to sleep in separate rooms, to be apart. It would have been so comforting to have his arms around her tonight, some reassurance that she hadn’t stepped off the edge of the world without a parachute.
‘Not before nine-thirty on a Sunday,’ he warned. ‘And I take three spoonfuls of sugar in my tea.’ He almost smiled as he bent and lightly brushed her cheek with his lips. ‘But you already know that.’
She shut the door in his face. But only to stop herself from hooking her fingers into his waistband and dragging him inside with her.
Willow had always assumed that the country was quiet. There was no traffic hum to disturb her, it was true, but the house was full of noises as the air cooled and the old timbers creaked and settled. Above her in the attic space, small creatures