‘This is it.’
Even in the dark, the cottage looked like something from a postcard, its stone walls comfortingly solid behind a high, ivy-clad fence. Mo killed the engine and unclicked his seatbelt, reaching into the back seat to retrieve the bag of mystery supplies Rhona had hastily packed for them.
‘Let’s get in and get the fire going.’
The icy wind tore at Netta’s dress as she raced from the car to the front door. A security light sparked to life as she approached, swathing the cottage in gold. A naked climbing rose clung to its walls, snaking its way around the white-framed windows, and a pair of garden chairs sat to the left of the entrance, overlooking the small front yard. A brass knocker adorned the front door that had been painted a glossy black and the briny smell of the ocean hung in the frost. Mo fished the key from his pocket and opened the door, flicking the light on as Netta hurried in behind him. Smooth flagstone floors stretched out under their feet and a voluptuous navy couch sat, draped invitingly with blankets, facing a huge fireplace.
‘Fuck me.’ Mo rubbed his hands together and brought them to his mouth to blow warm breath into them. ‘It’s arctic in here. I’ll have a go at the fire.’ He slid his suit jacket off and draped it around Netta’s shoulders. His body heat clung to the tartan lining and she wrapped it tightly around her.
He set to work, expertly stacking wood from the pile next to the fireplace into the hearth. Netta watched his back move under the crisp white fabric of his shirt, pulling tight, revealing the breadth of his shoulders, the delicious narrowing to his hips. As the fire took, he blew on the flame and soon it was licking the timber hungrily, crackling its ascent to a full-blown fire. A-sex-in-front-of-the-fire kind of fire. Forget waterboarding—thiswas torture.
Mo stood, dusting off his hands. ‘Tour?’
Netta nodded and followed him through to a small but picture-perfect kitchen with cupboards painted a deep teal, glossy timber benchtops and tiles a bright shade of beetroot. Shiny pots hung from hooks and the overhead glass cabinet displayed a mish-mash of crockery.
‘Kitchen.’ Mo swept his hand around the room like a game show host. ‘Bathroom is just through there and the bedrooms are upstairs.’
Netta climbed the stairs behind Mo, wrestling her skirt into submission against the narrow staircase. One room held a double bed dressed in expensive-looking linen and the other a set of bunks.
‘I’ll take the bunks. You can have the big bed. It’ll warm up in here once the fire’s been going for a while,’ he said, seeing Netta pull his jacket tighter around her shoulders. ‘Why don’t we put some warmer clothes on? God only knows what Rhona’s packed.’
He skipped down the stairs and reappeared with the bag, plonking it on the bed. ‘Fucking hell, Rhona,’ he said under his breath as he rifled through its contents. He lifted out a novelty Christmas jumper and a pair of bright red Adidas tracksuit pants. ‘Looks like this is my costume.’ He rolled his eyes. ‘She’ll be lying in bed pissing herself about this. Let’s see what you’ve got.’ He passed Netta a long cashmere cardigan in an alarming shade of purple, a vintage Blondie T-shirt and a long, Lurex tube skirt.
‘Anything else in there?’ Netta hugged her outfit to her chest.
‘Socks. Crisps, chips, whatever you want to call them. Wine. Chocolate. Matching pyjamas—fuck’s sake.’ Mo rolled his eyes again. ‘And Rhona said we can help ourselves to the bathroom cupboard. They leave new toothbrushes and stuff in there for Airbnb guests.’ He quickly zipped up the bag and hiked it onto his shoulder. ‘I’ll get changed in the other room.’
Once the door clicked shut behind him, Netta slid gratefully from her high heels, her arches orgasmic with relief. She shrugged out of Mo’s suit jacket and took one last look down at herself in the dress. God, it was beautiful. She ran her hands over the fabric and twisted her hips, swishing the skirt around her bare legs as her frozen fingers fumbled with the zip, struggling to pull it down. She brought her hands to her mouth and warmed them with her breath but her second attempt revealed a kill-me-now truth: it wasn’t her fingers that were the problem, it was the zip. The very, very stuck zip.
‘Meet you downstairs.’ Mo’s voice was deep and resonant through the closed door.
‘Okay!’ Netta tried the zip again.Shit.
She wriggled her shoulders free from the straps and tried to pull the dress down, but it was so beautifully fitted, the best she could manage was partial boob exposure—anything lower than that was trapped by meticulous designer tailoring and the stupid bloody fucking zip. She was sweating now, despite the chilled air, her pulse quickening, her neck prickling with heat. She stooped to gather the skirt and tried lifting it over her head, but was once again halted at her ribs. She tugged the skirt back down and adjusted the bodice over her bra, leaving the straps dangling under her armpits. She might just have to wear the dress for the rest of her life.
‘Netta, you coming?’ Mo’s voice called from the bottom of the stairs. ‘I’ve poured you a wine.’
‘Coming!’ Netta tried the zip again. ‘Actually … I think I need some help. I can’t get the dress off.’ She willed the floor to open up and swallow her whole.
There was a long pause before Mo answered. ‘Er, yep. Okay.’
He knocked quietly and entered the room as though approaching a sleeping tiger. The ridiculous outfit he wore did nothing to dampen his appeal.
‘The zip is stuck,’ she said miserably. ‘I can’t get it off any other way.’
‘Right.’ Mo sat on the edge of the bed and spread his knees wide. ‘C’mere.’
Netta positioned herself between his legs and lifted her arm to reveal the zip, keeping her other arm clamped over her chest to stop the dress from falling.
Mo’s fingers explored the zip, his face a picture of concentration. ‘I can see where it’s stuck,’ he said. He pushed his sleeves up, revealing strong, inky forearms. ‘It’s caught a tiny piece of the material. I think I’ll be able to get it out.’
Netta held her breath as he massaged the fabric, his fingertips achingly close to her breast. Every cell of her body was on alert as she tried to corral her breathing. The last thing she needed was for him to notice what this was doing to her. She looked away as he worked, concentrating on the vintage Bally print hanging on the wall and definitelynotthinking about the kiss on the red carpet. Or how much she wanted to kiss him again. The dress tightened on her rib cage as he gently pulled at the zip, opening it a touch then stopping, agonisingly, at the curve of her waist, his skin almost, but never quite, making contact with hers.
‘There. Got it.’
‘Thank you.’ Netta moved away and held the dress in place as he stood, keeping his eyes determinedly averted as he made his way back to the door.
He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll, ah, see you downstairs.’
