“I’m too dangerous and scarred for your beauty,” he mutters. “Your dad would want you to be with someone your own age. Not a grumpy old bastard.”
I screw up all my courage. “You’re not grumpy with me.”
This time his smile is genuine, if rueful. “I guess not, because you’re you.”
It’s as good as him saying I’m special, and so even when he warns me, my heart sings.
“Don’t push me, Mia. I’m not a saint. I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life. Don’t let…” He breathes in and considers his words, “This be one of them. I never want you to have any regrets.”
Me? Have regrets? He has no idea.
I watch his broad shoulders as he rolls away from me and stands. Everything he just said makes me twice as determined. I am not going to regret this, and I feel certain that with all his nurturing affection—that he isn’t grumpy withme—the only regret either of us will ever have is if I leave here without him having been inside me and claimed me for his own.
For lunch, he cooks us creamy vegetable soup—gotta have my five-a-day he points out—with crusty sourdough bread slathered with salty butter.
I notice him watching my mouth again, and lick my lips more than strictly necessary.
“And what do you want to do this afternoon?” he asks indulgently.
“Do you have another castle for us to explore? With lots of bedrooms.”
A grunt of what sounds like discomfort escapes him. “No more castles, sorry. But the thunder has passed. We can go outside.”
“Really?” I think my eyes light up, because James laughs and tweaks my nose. Childish as the action is, it speaks of fondness and brings him close enough for a second that I can see the silver in his stubble.
It fills me with the longing to feel it, sandpaper on my skin. “I don’t have anything to wear.” My small bag didn’t have room for bulky winter hats and coats.
Concern furrows his brow. “I’ll get you all the clothes you want and more. Once the storm clears.” That statement seems to pain him. “In the meantime, we’ll make do.”
He dresses me in his jacket—deliciously oversized—and rolls up the sleeves for me. After that he picks a tartan scarf, a pair of fleece-lined gloves that make me look like a clown but are warm and fluffy on the inside, and a soft grey beanie hat that he pulls over my eyes. I grumble and drag it back up with clumsy fingers to find him looking down at me with a gooey expression that makes my tummy flutter with a summer’s worth of butterflies.
Outside, the snow falls in lazy floating specs as James points out where we should be able to see the mountains he calls Munros. All there is in the distance is speckled white, a perfect textured video background from one of those lifestyle videos of women in elegant mohair sweaters. I can see only the outlines of his home, a pencil sketch as he shows me where the limits of the walled gardens are, a terrace, spindly naked trees and bushy dark evergreens pointing to the sky and trying to spear up out of the snow.
“You’ll love this view in autumn. It’s beautiful lit up with yellow and red leaves.” He points to the stick trees on the edge of visibility before it’s all white. “Here, look.”
I move close to see from exactly the right angle, and as he lowers his arm, his hand brushes mine and I slot it into his. Without either of us acknowledging, our hands find each other’s, and he squeezes my fingers through the multiple layers of gloves.
He shows me every building and vista, half proud, half embarrassed, I think. As well as the castle, there are a dozen stone barns and courtyards for storage and leisure. But the way he talks—describing how different places are in spring when the vivid lime green shoots come out and the bluebells, and the red roses in summer—I wonder if he’s assuming I’ll be here. It makes my heartbeat surge.
Everywhere we walk leaves a pattern of my smaller footprints and his big-footed strides and although I know that the snow is transitory, being covered even as we tromp through digging channels, it feels like a contract.
There’s a large flat lawn that is ideal for making a snowman. It doesn’t take much persuasion and he’s helping me roll a massive body, then a head. Sticks for arms and bits of gravel to make a face, and we stand back to admire our work.
It’s not done yet though. I slant a look at James. He has a green tartan scarf hanging loosely over his neck that would finish our snowman perfectly.
“See the problem is…” I snatch the scarf by one tasselled end and go to wrap it around the snowman.
“Oh no way.” He lunges for the scarf. “That’s mine. It’s not going on a snowman.”
“What?” I yank the scarf to me and stumble backwards. “It’s the rule! Snowmen have to have a scarf!”
“Uh-uh.” He stalks towards me. “Not my favourite scarf. Give it back, Mia.”
“Nope!” And I don’t know why, but I take off as fast as I can in the deep snow. “Mine now!” I toss the lure over my shoulder.
I know as soon as he’s coming after me because he’s not subtle or small. He crashes through the snow, a yeti, the abominable snowman.
I hold the scarf out, a trophy and bait, and propel myself forwards. I only make it a short distance, enough to force my heart to pump.
