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He met Kitty in the hall and she was carrying a tray holding steaming coffee and a plate of her delicious home-made shortbread. ‘Though you might want a break,’ she said fussily. ‘You work too hard.’
Morgan hid a smile. This was her way of saying he was now forgiven. ‘Thanks, but I’m just on my way out,’ he said, and it was only in that moment he realized he’d been intending to call round and see Willow from the moment he opened his eyes that morning. ‘I’ll be back as and when,’ he added, ‘so don’t worry about dinner. I’ll grab a sandwich or something when I come in. Your roast was enough to keep a man going for twenty-four hours.’
He left before she could ask any awkward questions and for the same reason took the Harley. It would have been a giveaway if he’d walked. Kitty had a nose like an elephant as it was.
When he knocked on the door of Willow’s cottage his heart was slamming against his ribcage with the force of a sledgehammer and his mouth felt dry. In any other situation he could have laughed at himself. This evening, though, he didn’t feel like laughing.
The door opened and he hoped his nervousness, his rush of wanting, wasn’t obvious to her. She stared at him wide-eyed, her delectable mouth slightly open, and he had to swallow hard before he could say, ‘Just wondering how the sofa and things are drying out.’ Weak, but it was the best he could do.
‘They—they’re still a bit damp.’ She smiled warily.
He nodded. ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, noticing she was wearing a big baggy furry kind of top over her jeans.
‘I haven’t been able to light a fire.’
No, of course she hadn’t. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. He nodded again, in a I-thought-asmuch kind of way. ‘I know a nice warm little pub not far from here that does wonderful meals and the Harley’s waiting.’
She blinked a couple of times and then, as though regaining control over her composure, she smoothed her hair in a little-girl gesture that spoke of confusion. ‘Is—is this you being friends?’ she said with a monosyllabic breath of laughter.
‘Absolutely.’ If ever there was a situation where a lie was called for, this was it. ‘Scout’s honour and all that.’
Their gazes met and held for a moment before hers skittered away. He didn’t know whether she liked him or not, Morgan thought triumphantly, but she damn well wasn’t unaffected by him and he’d take any encouragement he could get right at this moment. ‘And it’s also being a good neighbour,’ he added, deadpan. ‘Such a quality is highly thought of in this part of the country, believe me. Part of the countryman’s code and unbreakable.’
She smiled and lust, pure and hot, knifed through him. Well, hot at least. White-hot, in fact.
‘OK.’ She lowered her head, her hair falling in a sleek curtain either side of her face. ‘Come in a minute while I change. I can’t go anywhere in these old things.’
Once in the cottage the chill was obvious, even through his leather jacket. He stood, hands thrust in his jeans pockets and his gaze directed at the ceiling above which she was changing. The place was an ice-box. Concern for her brought his mouth into a straight line, moments before he told himself it was none of his business. She had made it clear the day before she was in charge of her life. Furthermore, that she wouldn’t appreciate any efforts to alter the status quo. He had to respect that.
She reappeared, and his voice sounded husky even to his own ears when he said, ‘Ready?’ She looked like all his Christmases rolled into one: gorgeous, self-possessed and as sexy as hell. And yet the demure little top she was wearing covered her to the neck and halfway down her arms, even though it clung in all the right places. A hundred women could wear it and it wouldn’t stir his pulse above normal, but on Willow…
‘This is very kind of you, Morgan.’
She meant well, but he found he’d had enough of the label. ‘I never do anything I don’t want to do, Willow.’ He smiled to soften the statement as he helped her on with her jacket. ‘I’m your typical selfish male. We’re born that way.’
‘But honest.’ She was smiling back at him as she reached for her handbag. ‘Well, you are at least. Aren’t you?’
‘I try to be.’ He nodded. ‘Yes, I think I am.’ Then he grinned. ‘Most of the time anyway.’
‘Well, I guess that’s not bad for the male of the species.’ Her voice was light but there was something in her tone that jarred on him. Whether she was aware of it or not, he didn’t know, but immediately she followed with, ‘Some females too, come to think of it. Women are more inclined to tell little white lies so as not to hurt someone’s feelings, I’ve found.’
