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‘Why are you so wet?’
‘In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s raining outside.’
‘Yes, I had noticed, but you’re absolutely drenched.’
‘Oh, I cycled down from the Manor. Sorry, I’ll dry out – especially next to this beauty.’ He perched his buttocks on the towel rail running the full width of the Aga. Steam rose from his damp clothes and, disconcertingly, Rosie found her desire spiral with it, forcing her to remind herself that Charlie, with his dark sultry good looks and cheeky ripostes, was not her type. They had nothing in common; she, a corporate financial executive, he, a sometime-helper in the kitchen up at the Spa Hotel who, it seemed, didn’t even have access to a car.
She immediately quashed that uncharacteristically patronising thought and berated herself strenuously for her imagined superiority. Who did she think she was? She was no longer a corporate employee and had a personal life resembling a barren wilderness strewn with the debris of disappointment. And what was more, her own means of transport was her aunt’s prehistoric bicycle. She smiled at Charlie as she set down the huge brown teapot and three of the better biscuits on a Wedgwood china dessert plate.
Charlie relinquished his seat at the Aga and slumped down at the scrubbed pine table where he eased off his green Wellington boots before curling his fingers around his mug of hot tea, his elbows propped on the table.
‘Wow! These sketches are stunning. Someone is a very talented artist.’ His eyes met Rosie’s with an enquiry.
‘Oh, yes, well, they’re not mine. They’re my Aunt Bernice’s. She was engaged as a children’s book illustrator before she passed away. These are some of the drawings she scribbled of the contents of the garden she adored, for her own pleasure.’
Rosie tried to slide the journal away from Charlie’s grasp, but he held on tight.
‘Hmm, and I see that there are recipes to accompany each one of the herbs and plants she depicted.’
As he continued to scrutinise the journal, Charlie selected one of Rosie’s basil biscuits and bit into its rock-hard texture, crumbs drifting down his darkening chin as his eyes filled with mischief and he expelled a guffaw of amusement.
To her excruciating horror, Rosie realised he had seen the title of her baking experiment. A hot flush seeped across her cheeks, and she cringed at what conclusion he must have drawn. She had no doubt that at that precise moment he was painting amental picture in his mind of a witch stirring her cauldron as she concocted a potion to make the local handsome solicitor fall in love with her.
Oh God! It was worse than that!
Charlie had just eaten one of the biscuits and he was reaching out for a second!
She tried again to remove her aunt’s journal away from his gaze.
‘I have to say, Rosie, the flavour of these biscuits is exquisite, despite the over-bake.’
‘Oh, andyouwould know, would you?’ she said, a little flustered by Charlie’s unsettling presence, as well as the way he was rhythmically caressing the handle of his teacup with his thumb as he held her gaze.
‘Actually, yes. I told you I work up at the Manor. I know about baking.’
Rosie threw him a sceptical look. ‘You told me, when I caught you lurking behind the exhibition tent, that you helped out in the kitchen – not that you are the head chef!’
‘Well, yes, my services are occasional called upon as a lowly baker’s apprentice, on the conveyer belt of clotted cream teas for an insatiable stream of guests. In fact, that’s why I’m here.’
‘Ah, at last he gets round to the point of his visit.’
Why was she being so short with him? It wasn’t like her at all. But she knew it was her embarrassment at being caught baking “love potion” biscuits that was making her snappy.
‘It’s Sunday. All the shops around here are closed, and I need a bunch of fresh mint for tonight’s menu. Could I purloin a posy from the garden? Chef apparently used to call on youraunt’s garden as “nature’s store cupboard” in emergencies. I volunteered to cycle down on the mercy mission.’
Charlie grinned at his valiant deed, his dark eyes holding hers, and to Rosie’s annoyance, a blade of intense lust sliced through her abdomen and continued southwards. She averted her gaze, and with a supreme effort, she fixed a neutral expression on her face.
‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘I’m always happy to help,’ said Charlie, settling back into the wooden chair and crossed his jeans-clad leg over his knee, displaying odd socks. He glanced again at the journal, then ran his eyes over her dishevelled appearance. ‘Getting ready for a date, then?’
Rosie groaned inwardly, ruing the fact that in both encounters she’d had with Charlie, she’d been dressed like a country bumpkin; scruffy Barbour and mud-encased wellies or, as now, in a frilly apron and dusted with flour, especially when she could do Manhattan glamour as well as the best of them.
‘No, of course not. But if you insist on digging into my privacy, as it happens, I do have a date for Friday night.’
As soon as the sentence had slipped from her lips, she regretted it. What was she telling him that for? Her cheeks reddened once again, and she reached up her thumb and forefinger to twist her earring in her lobe but found it missing.
Charlie’s smirk rattled her.
