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She swallows, then looks away and clears her throat. “Want a drink?” she asks eventually. “I’ve got some whisky in the office.”
“Sure,” I say, relieved she hasn’t thrown me out.
She heads over to the offices next to the barn, and I follow her. She’s just rummaging in one of the drawers when all the lights go out.
“Shit!” She jumps.
“Christ. Hold on.” I pull out my phone and switch on the built-in flashlight. “I should have brought a torch with me—that was always going to happen.”
“I think I’ve got one in the cupboard by the sink.” With me shining the light on the drawers, she retrieves the whisky bottle, then brings it over to the small kitchen. She finds the flashlight in the cupboard and hands it to me, then retrieves two glasses and pours a small measure of whisky into them.
She hands one to me. I hold it up. “To world peace.”
Her lips curve up and she gives a husky chuckle. Wow, that sent a shiver all the way down my spine. “To world peace,” she repeats, tapping her glass to mine.
We take a sip, and then, carrying the whisky bottle, she leads the way back into the barn. At one end, she’s spread out a blanket and her sleeping bag, and we go there and slide down the wall onto the blanket.
“Whisky’s pretty good,” I say. “Canadian?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I could tell from the notes of treacle and burnt ash.”
“Really?”
“No, I read the label.” I gesture to where it’s sitting in the straw to one side, and she laughs.
“Yeah,” she says, “that’s a bit of a giveaway. So you’re not a whisky connoisseur then?”
“When the budget allows.” I bite my tongue. Poppy’s a member of the wealthy King family, and I don’t want to draw attention to the fact that she has money and I don’t. “I like the Islay malts,” I tell her, hoping to distract her. “Ardbeg, Lagavulin, and Laphroaig, especially.”
“And if you don’t drink it all, you can always use it to wash any wounds,” she says.
I grin. “It does have a strong, medicinal smell.”
“It’s definitely an acquired taste.”
We sit in the quiet for a while, listening to the wind howling around us. Occasionally boards rattle, but I did a check around the farm this morning, nailing down anything loose, and so far it seems to be holding.
I look across at her. She’s studying a piece of straw, twirling it in her fingers. I think she’s doing it so she doesn’t have to look at me. I know she’s thirty, and I’m two years older, but it feels as if we’re a couple of teenagers.
“I should have brought a book over,” I say. “I could have read to you.”
“What are you reading at the moment?”
I name the series of thrillers I’ve recently got into. She’s also read the first two, so we spend a pleasant few minutes talking about the plots and characters, and then we discuss the movie version.
It’s the first time we’ve spoken like this, on our own, without anyone else listening in. Previously we’ve always been in a group, or chatting in the square, with people walking past. She’s softly spoken, and up close like this I can see how she considers each question thoughtfully.
I want to get to know her better, to spend more time with her like this. To find out her likes and dislikes, her hopes and dreams. I want to make her laugh again, to have her nudge me the way she just did, to have her tease me, her eyes look up into mine with admiration and longing. I want to kiss her. I’ve wanted to kiss her for a long time.
“So,” I say, aware I have to broach the subject eventually. “Maybe tomorrow, when the storm is over. How do you fancy coming to dinner with me?”
She lifts her gaze to mine. Her eyes glitter in the beam from the flashlight.
“Marc…” she whispers.
“I like you,” I tell her. “I have since the first moment I laid eyes on you. But Albie said you’d had a bad breakup, so I waited for a bit. I didn’t want to push you. But it’s been a few months now, and… well… I didn’t want to wait any longer.”
