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“We dinnae have any sheep, Da,” shouts back McTavish. “We had to sell them all, remember? So it doesnae really matter. I wonder what it’s doin’ here, though?”
The helicopter turns and flies back over the yard, bringing a small collection of debris with it. The wind is so strong it makes me stagger backwards, and Ben reaches out and grabs me just in time to stop me from landing flat on my back. I clutch instinctively at his arm in order to keep myself upright, and at that exact moment the helicopter turns slightly, now low enough that we can see the pilot through the window, with someone sitting in the seat next to him.
“Hang on,” yells Scarlett in excitement. “Is that who I think it is?”
The chopper comes closer, and my hair whirls around my head, tying itself in knots, until I reach up to brush it away, almost falling over again in the process. Ben’s arm snakes around my waist, pulling me in close, and the figure in the passenger seat finally comes into view, making me draw in a sharp lungful of dusty air as he looks out of the window and right at me.
“Yup,” says Scarlett from beside me. “Thought so.”
Jack’s back.
Chapter 21
Much to the disgust of McTavish Senior, the helicopter comes in to land in the field next to the yard (“Maybe we could start renting it oot as a landin’ pad?” says McTavish, who seems to have perked up slightly —although not as much as Scarlett, who I can tell is itching to get back to theGazetteoffice so she can file a story.). We stand there watching for what feels like an interminable amount of time as the whirring blades slowly come to a stop.
“Well, this is just ridiculously over the top,” sniffs Ben, who’s still clinging to my waist like a koala. “I suppose he thinks it’s impressive, turning up in a helicopter. Flashy git.”
“Yeah, I guess it does make your pedalo arrival pale slightly in comparison,” agrees Scarlett, smiling wickedly.
“Stop it, you two,” I mutter, struggling out of Ben’s grip. I squint towards the helicopter, trying to see what Jack’s doing behind the glare of the windows. It looks like he’s busy rummaging through paperwork of some kind.
But why is hehere? That’s the question.
How did he knowI’dbe here? That’s another one.
Most of all, why is he faffing around with his stupid paperwork, rather than throwing himself out of the door of the helicopter and running towards me, his arms outstretched, like we’re in a movie, and he’s about to sweep me off my feet and whisk me away somewhere where we’re not accompanied by my ex-boyfriend, the local journalist, and a surprised-looking cow, which has just appeared at one of the barn doors to join in the fun?
That’s the biggest question of all, really.
“Takin’ his time, isn’t he?” says McTavish Senior as the door of the chopper finally opens and Jack jumps down, looking impossibly gorgeous in a crisp shirt, open at the neck, and dark sunglasses. In my head, the theme tune toTop Gunstarts playing loudly, even though I’m pretty sure that had something to do with planes, not helicopters.
Talk about taking your breath away, though.
Now you come to mention it, the events from the past few minutes actuallyarethreatening to take my breath away: and I’m not just talking about the way Jack’s choice of transport created a small, localized tornado which blew the breath straight back into my lungs as soon I exhaled. No, I’m talking about the way my entire body suddenly feels like it’s been through one of Brian’s more sadistic workouts, leaving me with trembling legs and an elevated heart rate. As Jack tucks the papers he’s carrying under his arm and comes striding towards me, I feel a bit like an Edwardian lady who’s just received a scandalous proposal and desperately needs her smelling salts. As feelings go, it’s much less fun than Jane Austen and co. always made it sound. I’m painfully aware that I’m covered in dirt, and probably smelling like the farmyard I’m currently wearing. Which is the part of Regency romances you rarely see covered, isn’t it?
Please be going to sweep me into your arms anyway and tell me everything’s going to be okay. Please be here to tell me how much you’ve missed me, and still want to marry me, even though my ex-boyfriend’s been trying to convince me you’re a con-man. Please, whatever you do, don’t just walk straight past me, like I don’t even exist.
He walks straight past me.
Like I don’t even exist.
While my brain frantically tries to re-calibrate the situation, and my face struggles to decide which expression is appropriate for that moment when your fiancé rocks up in a helicopter, but isnot here for you, Jack goes over to McTavish, who looks likehemight be needing someone to pass him the smelling salts, too.
“Jack,” I say, my voice almost as shaky as my legs. “Jack, I’m over here.”
I raise my hand and give him one of those cringey half-waves that seem to be becoming my trademark, just on the off-chance that he hasn’t seen me yet.
Please let it just be that he hasn’t seen me yet. Please don’t let it be that he’s pointedly ignoring me. Even though that’s exactly what it looks like.
“Yeah,” I know, he says blandly, barely even glancing in my direction. “It’s McTavish I’m here to see.”
“McTavish?Really?”
The words come out sounding more indignant than I intended, but can you blame me? I mean, of all the times he could have chosen to decide to hang out with McTavish, he decides to do itnow? When our entire relationship is crumbling, and he’s been ignoring my messages for two whole days?
The Edwardian lady inside me abruptly drops the smelling salts and sits bolt upright on the chaise longue, her eyes flashing dangerously.
“McTavish,” says Jack, holding out his hand, which McTavish shakes warily.
