The front door of the bungalow opened and a dark-haired woman rushed out. I met her at the end of the path. “Are you Emma?”
The woman shook her head. “No, I’m Sal. I’ve been told to send you straight up to the main house to meet Joe.”
“Joe? But I was meant to meet Emma?”
A shadow crossed the woman’s weather-beaten face. “Emma is more of an online person. It’s Joe you need to deal with now you’re here.”
Okaaay.Nothing about this trip had worked out the way I’d expected, and I’d only left London this morning. Of course the woman I’d arranged to meet was MIA. It went hand in hand with the book of notes I’d forgotten to bring and the ominous rattle coming from my car. If I hadn’t spent my whole adult life training myself to think otherwise, I’d have thought the world was against me. “Should I leave my car here? Or is there somewhere to park by the house?”
“Take the car,” the woman—Sal—said. “It rains a lot here, and you won’t want to be traipsing through the mud to fetch it if you want to go out.”
Going out wasn’t in my fun-packed schedule of tying myself to my laptop, but I thanked Sal anyway and got back in my car, making a mental note of her directions to the main house. I followed the dirt track through the fields, passing more paddocks and barns until I came to a small, stone house. A tall figure was waiting for me on the doorstep, smoking a cigarette and watching my approach with a gaze I could only describe as vaguely hostile.
Unnerved, I parked my car for a second time and got out, turning to face the utterlygorgeousman who had deigned to get to his feet.Jesus. They don’t make them like him anymore.I proffered a shaky hand. “Joe?”
A cool, calloused hand gripped mine and shook it briefly. “Right. You the bloke renting the room?”
“Yes. I’m Harry.”
“Holistic Harry?”
I blinked. “If you want to call me by my Instagram handle.”
Joe shot me a dead-eyed glance, which was disturbing as I considered the riot of moody blues colouring his eyes. Vibrant and yet conversely lifeless. Was that even a thing?
“Um,” I went on when Joe said nothing. “I’m here to rent the room? I’d arranged to meet Emma at the bungalow across the fields, but Sal sent me here.”
“Sal’s my mum.”
“She’s nice.”
“I know.”
That he loved his mum enough to agree made me want to run my fingers over the strong, tanned forearms he’d folded across his chest. I adored my own mother and missed her desperately now she’d retired to Spain. It was only that she deserved to live out her days in peace and sunshine that eased the ache in my heart.
“Are you coming in or what?”
I blinked again to find that Joe had stepped back to the front door of the house and opened it. He was staring at me expectantly, and I was just, well, staring.
Idiot. I pulled myself together and followed Joe into the house, trying to break the instant fixation I’d developed with the back of his deeply tanned neck. His hair was inky-dark and stuck up in all directions, like he’d spent all day upside down, but it curled beautifully just below his ears, and the urge to stick my finger in a perfect spiral was so strong I shoved my hands in my pockets.
It had been a while since a bloke had caught my attention like that. The last time had been Angelo, but I’d got over it pretty quick when—aside from the obvious client-therapist issues—he’d talked about nothing but how in love he was with his gorgeous boyfriend. Even now, the light in his eyes whenever he mentioned Dylan stung. I was jealous—not of Dylan, but of them both. I wanted someone to burn for me the way they did for each other, and to feel the same way in return.
At least, some days I did. Others I just wanted to escape the rat race my life had become. Which brought me back to the large stone-floored kitchen Joe had led me to.
“This is the kitchen,” he said unnecessarily. “Ma cleared a shelf for you in the fridge, and you can have one of the cupboards. She cooks enough dinner for an army every night, though, so you’re welcome to eat with the rabble.”
“The rabble?”
“Staff.”
“That’s nice,” I said absently, glancing around the homely space that was nothing like the sleek kitchen in my London flat.
“What is?”
“That you feed your staff. I’m lucky to get a mouldy water cooler where I work.”
“Yeah, well.” Joe scratched the back of his head. For a moment he looked directly at me. “It makes up for the peanuts I pay them.”