Heidi Rice - Summer At Willow Tree Farm - The Perfect Romantic Escape

‘No one forced him to climb the tree. And he survived.’

‘How do you know that? You don’t know anything about him, you only just met him.’

‘I know he’s a little boy. And little boys need the chance to cut loose now and again. Not get wrapped in cotton wool by their mothers.’

She sputtered. She actually sputtered. The Red Arrows circling her head now. How dare he tell her how to raise her child, when he’d clearly spent no time at all raising his own. ‘Oh really, well maybe that explains why your daughter thinks she’s a little boy too.’

‘At least my daughter doesn’t think she’s fat.’

‘He’s not fat.’ She wanted to hit him. She squeezed her fingers into a fist, to resist the urge to lash out. ‘He has a traumatic relationship with food.’

‘Uh-huh? All I’ve seen so far is his traumatic relationship with you.’

‘You son of a bitch.’ The Red Arrows hit the sound barrier, the sonic boom going off inside her head as she swung her bunched fist towards his face.

He dodged back, and she hit thin air, flinging herself off balance and tumbling to earth. She body-slammed the ground, her reflexes too dulled by fatigue and incandescent rage to react fast enough to break her fall. Air gushed out, and pain ricocheted through her ribs, tears stinging her eyes.

She heard a curse, as strong hands gripped her waist and hauled her back onto her feet.

‘You all right?’ His gruff voice reverberated in her head, the low-grade headache now hammering her skull in time with the throbbing pain in what she suspected might be a dislocated shoulder.

‘Piss off,’ she said, but the expletive lacked heat. She hurt everywhere, her pride most of all.

The nausea galloped up her throat as blunt fingers pushed the hair off her brow. ‘You look knackered.’

Of course she did, she’d just hit the deck with enough force to puncture a lung.

‘I think I’m going to be sick,’ she said, her humiliation complete.

‘Put your head down.’

His palm cupped the back of her head and suddenly she was staring at the ground between her feet, studying the decaying leaves and a small beetle burrowing into a mound of twigs and wild grass.

‘Breath through your nose, it’ll go away in a minute.’

She wanted to tell him where he could stick his first aid advice. But she couldn’t speak round the lump of anguish, so she watched the beetle.

‘When did you last eat?’ he asked.

She tried to focus on his voice, which seemed a million miles away. ‘Yesterday morning, before we left home.’

‘Then you’re not likely to be sick,’ he said.

The dizziness and nausea began to subside. He released her head, and drew her upright with the hand he had clamped on her upper arm. The feel of his fingers, rough and cool pressing into her biceps, sent sensation zipping through her system.

Which should have been mortifying, but somehow wasn’t, because the pain had drifted away, to be replaced by a floating feeling. The warm numbness spread through her body.

‘Can you walk?’ he asked.

‘Of course,’ she said, but as she took a step, it was as if she were walking on the moon, about to bounce off into the cosmos.

‘Shit, here we go.’ She heard the husky words still a million miles away, but now from underwater.

Then she wasn’t vertical any more, she was horizontal and focusing on the scar that nicked his chin and made a white sickle shape in the dark stubble.

Her focus faded as she blinked. Once. Twice. The pleasant numbness enveloped her, her limbs going loose and languid, as she sank into a hot bubble bath that smelled of motor oil and laundry detergent and something else – the musty earthy scent of man.

Consciousness beckoned through the magical twinkle of stars and the comforting scent of lavender. Ellie’s eyelids fluttered open and she found herself cocooned on an iron-framed double bed, the cluster of fairy lights draped over the mantelpiece opposite dotting a hand-sewn coverlet with sparkles of light.

A dark figure appeared from a door to her right, holding a towel, and looking muscular and intimidating in oil-stained overalls. The magical twinkles surrounded him like dancing fairies until he stepped into the light.

Art.

The dull ache in her ribs throbbed as the events before she’d blacked out came back. Her stomach cramped. And she scooted across the bed, ready to heave over the side. ‘I need a bucket.’

And after that please leave me alone to die in peace .

The polished wooden boards creaked. And the mattress dipped as Art sat on the bed.

‘Here.’ He slapped a cold wet cloth on her nape, then lifted her wrist to position her hand over it and hold it in place. ‘You don’t need a bucket. You’re not going to puke.’

She rolled over and propped herself up to glare at him – somewhat miffed the nausea had passed. ‘How would you know?’

‘Because you haven’t eaten anything for twenty-four hours.’

She tried to hold on to her indignation, but she didn’t have the strength. Had he carried her all the way up here? And where was here?

The room looked vaguely familiar, but her brain was still too fuzzy to figure out why. ‘Where am I?’

‘Your old bedroom. Dee redecorated it when she got the email saying you were coming over.’

The room was exquisite. No wonder she hadn’t recognised it.

The space was fresh and clean, decorated with bold colours and inspired prints. A couple of huge overstuffed armchairs in one corner sat next to a sturdy wooden dresser, its vibrant yellow paint making a statement against the white walls even in the dappled glow of the fairy lights. New curtains in retro gingham were draped stylishly over long sash windows that looked out into the reddening sky as dusk fell over the woods. The Victorian grandeur of the room looked inviting now instead of forbidding. Under the scent of lavender, Ellie detected the turpentine aroma of new paint.

‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured.

‘She put a lot of hours in fixing it up.’

The pang of guilt hit under her left ventricle, not dull this time, but sharp as a blade. What was she supposed to do with the knowledge that Dee had decided to welcome her back with home-made curtains and newly painted walls and fairy lights, like a treasured, long-lost child?

‘I wish she hadn’t gone to this much trouble,’ she said, knowing the effort her mother had put into redecorating the room would force her to reconsider her plans to leave tomorrow.

Art shrugged. ‘She wanted to do it.’ Standing up, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his overalls. ‘How are the ribs?’

‘I’ll survive.’ She placed a hand on her side. Her embarrassment at the way she’d swung at him and missed more painful right now than the bruises.

She noticed the sunburned column of his throat. Her gaze darted away, the glimpse of chest revealed by the open neck of his overalls making her aware of how much more body hair he had now than he’d had at fifteen. Not something she needed to be noticing.

‘Did you carry me all the way up here?’ she asked, the thought of those muscular arms holding her aloft not good for her equilibrium.

He nodded.

‘Thanks,’ she said, grudgingly. ‘But you didn’t have to do that.’

‘You’re not heavy. And Dee would have had my hide if I’d left you out there all night.’

The lack of sentiment was strangely comforting. At least she knew exactly where she was with Art.

But, as he put his hand on the doorknob, she felt compelled to add, ‘Thanks for getting Josh down from the treehouse. I’ll apologise to your daughter next time I see her. I shouldn’t have shouted at her.’