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Maybe she was a lost cause. Maybe no amount of practise could make up for whatever was wrong inside her. Even this simple act of holding hands was threatening to overwhelm her. Jay kept talking about reaching the uncomfortable palm stage, but for her that had started the moment he took hold of her hand.
His hand was so warm. It seemed to practically vibrate beneath her skin. And it was attached to a strong, warm arm that sometimes brushed against her as they walked. Andthatwas attached to a living, breathing man with a pulse and a heartbeat and muscles and a quick, derisive tongue and troublesome grey eyes and a scent she was beginning to learn that was part fresh-laundry and faint, masculine aftershave and also somehow partly the crackle of a warm fire and the weight of a soft blanket.
It all overwhelmed her like a thick fog, and it was hard, even harder than usual, to hear the things he was saying and think of the right words—any words—to say in reply.
“Your garden is so…neat,” said Jay after a while.
“It’s my mother’s pride and joy,” responded Sophia on autopilot. People always complimented the garden, and that was what she always said in reply. Though it didn’t look its best now, with autumn well under way. There were few flowers except some late-blooming roses.
“I missed it when I was in New York,” she found herself telling Jay. “I was in a flat—an apartment—with no green space anywhere around.”
Jay gave her a speculative, sideways look. “Yes,” he mused. “You need flowers.”
She opened her mouth to ask him what he meant but then heard a door close in the house behind her, followed by her mother’s voice. “Sophia? Are you home?”
Startled, she tried to pull her hand free from Jay’s, but he held firm. With a grin, he ran down the garden, pulling her with him, and ducked through the arch at the end. He darted to the left and drew her with him, stopping with his back pressed to the brick wall, laughing at her wide-eyed expression.
“Let me guess, you’ve never hidden from your mother before.”
“No. Well, sometimes her guests if I don’t feel up to making small talk.”
His smile deepened, tilting up in amusement. “I knew you had a rebellious streak.”
The teasing light in his eyes drew out her smile. “Desperate times…”
Jay laughed, and the hand he held hung loosely between them. If he pulled, it would make her take a step closer. And just as she thought it, he glanced down at their hands as though considering exactly that. Instead, he brushed his thumb, once, twice, over the base of hers, then nodded at something over her shoulder. “Is that an archery target?”
Sophia glanced behind her, though she knew exactly what he had spotted. At the far end of the old orchard was, indeed, an archery target. She shot most days and had spent an hour that morning with her bow, trying to calm her nerves.
Jay pushed off the wall and walked over, still holding her hand, of course, so she had no choice but to follow.
The big white board with the black, blue, and red rings and yellow centre was on a wooden frame. Jay let out a low whistle as he examined the target. “That is alotof bullseyes.”
“I like to shoot,” she said pointlessly.
“Remind me not to get on your bad side.”
She knew he was joking, so she didn’t bother to point out that she would never shoot a person. “I like sports,” she said instead. “Solo ones, anyway.”
“I know you run,” said Jay.
“And swim, and ride. Though we sold my horse when I moved to America.”
“You’re basically a pentathlete,” said Jay, smiling.
“I just find…it’s so much easier to do things with my body than it is to talk to people… When I’m doing a sport I like, I know what to do. I’m in control. It all makes sense. Then someone tries to talk to me and I feel…lost. There are too many variables. Too many ways to get it wrong.”
Jay gave her another of his thoughtful looks. They suited him, Sophia thought. They allowed all the handsome planes and angles of his face to relax and show themselves, and his grey eyes looked much clearer without their usual wry disdain.
“Do you shoot guns?” he asked.
“Only clay pigeons.”
“Me too. Though I haven’t shot in ages. I should get the range set up… We have a pool too. I’m assuming you don’t here?”
“No. I used to use Rose Orton-Grey’s, but she’s moved now.”
He squeezed her hand. “Use ours. That’s another thing I haven’t done in an age. I used to swim every day religiously.”
