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He slipped on an undershirt and then a woollen jumper, and pivoted.
I averted my eyes, making for the fire. Who was I kidding? Just because I had a sleeping bag didn’t mean I wasn’t sleeping beside him on the mattress.
I couldn’t deny I was still attracted to him, after everything we’d been through.
Being stuck in his hut with Tom Turner was going to be the longest night of the year.
* * *
Tom
Christ on a tin roof. It was still really dark in the hut, so Rosie couldn’t see just how red my cheeks were at the idea of the minimal bedding situation.
Bleating in the distance—the opposite direction to the holding pen—pulled me out of one-bed thoughts.
“Did you hear that?” Rosie straightened. “More sheep?
“Yep, hoping their homing instincts kick in and most of the remaining escapees head here to find their buddies.”
Snow could make things harder to find the missing flock tomorrow, but fingers crossed …
Rosie headed straight for the fire as I discreetly sniffed my work shirt. It reeked of sweat, horse and sheep.Oof, fragrant.
I was very glad to have half a bucket of water and soap. At least I wouldn’t smell like livestock lying beside Rosie.
Oh man. Don’t think about that.
I hung up my shirt and her sleeping bag over the clothes line and then checked the food cupboard for any ancient supplies.
“Woah, ho. We’re in luck.” I held up a dusty bottle of port. “Perfect for this night’s weather. Want some?”
Rosie huffed. “Soup and port. A feast in this fine hotel.”
She wrung her hands, just as nervous as I was, which was both a comfort and also nerve-wracking.
Part of me was glad everything was out in the open now; about us and our past affair of sorts, and the truth about what Amanda had done.
The hut had basic supplies of plates, bowls, enamel mugs and cutlery.
I cleaned the dust from the mugs and poured generously in each and handed one to Rosie.
“What about a toast?”
“Okay. To what? A good muster, obviously.”
Rosie nodded and became thoughtful. “To the truth.”
I sharply inhaled. Why not toast the truth with a bottle of old port?
“To the truth.”
We clinked mugs and sipped.
Rosie groaned as she swallowed. “Boy, that’s really good stuff.”
I took another sip and looked at the fire, the floor, her sleeping bag—anything in this tiny one roomed shack—so I didn’t have to think about that groaning sound.
“Soup,” I declared, and my stomach growled. “I’m starving.”
