So reluctantly, I let her go, watching as she tries to disguise her limp in a lame attempt to convince me she’s okay. “Nice to meet you,” I say quietly, slowly reversing my steps and ripping my gaze away from her fleeing form.
Let her go.
I head for my truck, looking over my shoulder a few times, seeing her getting farther away, until I glance back for the last time and find she’s gone. I stop, laughing under my breath. Well, that was…weird.
Shaking my head clear, I realign my focus, grimacing when I take in the damage. “Motherfucker,” I breathe, kicking the tire. “Welcome home, Ryan.” I jump in and take it steady up the rest of the dirt road, trying to ignore my whirling thoughts. Let her go. Let her go. I press the brake and come to a stop, my fingers tapping on the wheel, my mind tangled. But it’s getting dark. She’s hurt. “Fuck it.” I quickly turn my truck around and race down the road to find her, dead set on taking her to wherever she’s going. Where was she going? And where the hell did she come from?
I scan the darkening road in front of me as I drive, searching for her. Nothing. “Where’d you go, sweetheart?” I muse, pulling to a stop when I reach the junction that’ll take me back to the main road into town. I look up and down. It’s empty. And I sit there for a few minutes, thinking. Who is she?
“What do you care?” I say quietly, slamming my truck into reverse and turning, heading home.
I park under the tree, and as soon as I make it into my cabin, I fling open all the windows and head straight for the fridge, finding a beer and twisting off the cap, relishing the hiss of gas. That first glug is like no other. I head back out to the yard and straight to the hammock, dropping in, kicking my feet up, and relaxing back, staring at the treetops.
Home.
As I lie, lightly swinging, sipping my Bud, I wonder how Jake is doing, but the mystery woman whom I nearly flattened quickly takes up first position in my mind space. Has she made it home okay? Speaking of which, where does she live? And again, who the hell is she? I’ve lived here my whole life; there isn’t one person I don’t know in Hampton. Or there wasn’t. I close my eyes and see a rainbow of colors dancing in my darkness, and I hear the sharpness of her potty mouth.
And I’m smiling again. Who are you?
Chapter Four
HANNAH
It takes me a stupid long time to get home. My knee hurts, my shoulder hurts, my ego hurts. I’m cursing under my breath as I yank my broken bicycle through the front door of my store, the wheels creaking as I push it through the shop. I unbolt the back door, unlock it, and pull it open, more or less tossing my bike into the small courtyard. “Stupid,” I pout as I wriggle my toes in my Birkenstocks, feeling blisters. God, I’m a walking disaster.
After dropping the blinds, I make my way upstairs to take a shower. And when I see myself in the bathroom mirror, I am utterly appalled. “Oh, Hannah,” I sigh. There’s not one inch of my body not covered in paint. Every color you could imagine, and a few new shades, too, not to mention all the dry leaves and twigs stuck to me. I am a multicolored mess of a woman. Wrinkling my nose, I reach up and pull my head scarf free, pointlessly poking at the pieces of hair sticking out everywhere. “A bloody mess.”
After stripping down, I hop in the shower and wash the day away. I also shave, something I’ve recently let slip. And I leave a deep conditioner in my hair for three minutes while scrubbing my nails of all the dirt beneath them. Then clean and fresh, I slap a bandage on my grazed knee, hissing and wincing while I do, before crawling into bed.
Of course, my thoughts soon go back to the dirt road I was lost on, and I chide myself for being so damn rude to a man who was only trying to help me, even if he was to blame for my brush with death. But at least it was an accident. At least he didn’t hurt me on purpose. And at least he was genuinely remorseful.
Who is he?
* * *
I wake with a start, bolting upright in my bed. Sweat pours from my brow, my mind working fast to remind me of where I am. You’re safe, Hannah. I swallow and spend a few moments gathering myself. Breathe, breathe, breathe. Once my stupid hands aren’t shaking too much, I reach for my iPad, load Facebook, and type in my sister’s name. I won’t be able to see any of her statuses, since we’re not Facebook friends—we can’t ever be friends—but I can see a photograph of her. I can look at her face. I need to see her face.
“Oh my God,” I whisper when I see she’s uploaded a new profile picture. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.” I smile like crazy as I stare at my older sister, Pippa. This is such a treat, because not only do I get to see my older sister, I get to see my niece, too. The little girl cuddled into my sister’s lap looks more like her mum each time I see a picture of her. Dark hair, blue eyes, a beautiful heart-shaped face. She’s the spitting image. “Look at you, Bella,” I say, tracing the edge of her cute chin. “You got so big.” She’s seven now, and in this photograph they’re at some kind of party. I can see a bouncy castle in the background and a hot dog stand. My niece’s face is painted, too, beautiful butterfly wings spanning each cheek.
Paint.
“Oh shit,” I blurt, tossing my iPad to the bed and jumping up. I pelt into the bathroom. “Shit, shit, shit.” I scrub my teeth, throw on a loose black long dress, shove my feet into some flip-flops, and dash downstairs. I skid to a stop at the mirror by the door, quickly and clumsily knotting my hair on top of my head. Then I’m out the door and rushing up the street to the general store. My heart sinks when I see it’s not open.
I peek through the glass, hoping to see Mr. Chaps, who owns the shop. Nothing. “Your sign says you open at six thirty,” I mutter to the window. “It’s six thirty-two, for crying out loud.” Resting my forehead on the glass, I curse myself to hell and back. Molly was depending on me for paint, the paint that is now splattered over a lovely rhododendron bush thanks to a huge man in a huge truck.
My whole body goes heavy, and I jump a mile in the air when something lands with a bang at my feet. “Jesus,” I breathe, seeing a stack of newspapers on the ground. Won’t people stop making me jump out of my damn skin?
“Morning,” a man chirps as he makes his way back to his van.
“Morning,” I mumble with my palm on my chest, looking back into the store. My fright is forgotten, and I nearly kiss the glass when I see old Mr. Chaps wobbling toward me. “Oh, thank God.”
I barely let the poor old man move from my path before I barrel through the door. “Morning, Mr. Chaps,” I call over my shoulder as I rush to locate my wants and stack them into my arms until my chin is resting on top of the bags of flour.
“Morning, Miss Bright. You’re nice and early today.” He passes me with his stack of newspapers, heading for the checkout desk.
“I have an emergency,” I call, struggling my way to the next aisle to find salt.
“Here.” I turn and find him holding out a basket to me. “You’ll drop all that and make a mess of my store.”
“Thank you.” I let him help me transfer my bags of flour into the basket before I continue on my way. I find the salt and throw a few bags in, and then I’m in the bakery section. I snatch a croissant from the shelf and start nibbling at the corner as I head to the end of the aisle and take a left to the checkout. And stop dead in my tracks, my croissant hanging out of my mouth, my abruptness causing the heavy shopping basket to clang against my shins. I don’t even feel the pain.
I feel…
I swallow my mouthful, dropping the half-eaten pastry into the basket and quickly wiping the flakes away from my mouth. I don’t know his name, but he’s standing in front of the fridges. And he’s shirtless. Shirtless? I grimace, not because it isn’t a lovely sight—it’s a very lovely sight—but because every mortifying moment from last night has just come flooding back to me. The paint, my awkwardness, my rudeness, my inappropriate ogling. I’m ogling now, the weight of my overflowing shopping basket forgotten. He’s sweaty. His chest is glimmering. He has earbuds in. What’s he listening to? What ki
nd of music does he like? Does he run every morning? How’s his truck? Should I talk to him? Thank him? What, for running me off the road? No, silly, for trying to tend to me after. For obviously forcing himself to smile in an attempt to ease me. He doesn’t smile often. I can tell. He has no wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and every mature man has those. How old is he?
My brain spasms, and I laugh out loud. What’s with all the questions, Hannah?
Then he turns away from the fridge, and his eyes land on me. I snap my mouth closed, dip my head, and scuttle off, probably walking like I’m harboring forty pounds of potatoes in my knickers. And yet again, I’m mortified. I heave my basket onto the checkout desk and give a meek smile to Brianna, the store assistant. She looks a lot more awake and chirpy than I do, and when I notice her attention isn’t on me, I turn and see that the guy at the end of the aisle is walking away toward the freezers.
“Does he always strut around in just his shorts?” I ask, returning my eyes forward and pulling some money from my pocket.
Brianna is now scanning my items, her eyes preoccupied, oblivious to what she’s actually scanning. “Yeah,” she sighs dreamily.
I take a bag and start to pack my shopping. So I should expect to be rendered stupid often, then? Great.
Brianna finishes up, I hand her my cash, and she gives me my change, all without looking at me. “He’s a bit old for you, isn’t he?” I say, probably inappropriately, as I slip my change into my pocket.
“I’m nineteen.”
“And how old is he?” I should be ashamed of myself.
“Late thirties, I think. But he looks better each time he comes back to town.”
I try not to be curious. I really try. “When he comes back to town?”
“He’s been gone a month. And now he’s back.” Her eyes dance. “I have to ogle him as much as I can when I can. Who knows when he’ll leave and when he’ll be back.”
“Ogle?” I say on a little laugh, ignoring the fact that I have also definitely been ogling. He’s rather easy to ogle. And there’s a lot to ogle, too. “He should wear a T-shirt when he’s shopping for groceries,” I mutter stupidly, earning a well-deserved snort of disgust from Brianna. “Who is he, anyway?”
“Ryan Willis. And he’s the only beautiful thing around these parts, so don’t say silly things like he should wear a T-shirt when he’s shopping.” Suddenly her eyes widen, and she’s looking at me for the first time since I arrived at the checkout.
I’m about to ask her what’s up when a basket lands on the counter beside me with a thud. I startle a little and snap my mouth shut, watching as Brianna virtually melts all over her cash register.
“Hi, Ryan,” she coos, her head tilting, her eyelashes fluttering. He’s a step behind me, and I can’t seem to see him no matter how much I strain my peripheral vision. So I check out his basket instead. Sparkling water. Beers. Milk. Bread. My forehead wrinkles. Ice cream? His big hand wraps around the tub of Chunky Monkey, and I see him move forward. Unable to stop myself, I peek up, having to go past his sweaty chest as I do. Our eyes meet. His face is stoic. My blood heats.
“Hi,” he says, his voice as rough as I remember. Gravelly. Low. Manly.
I stare at him like a freak, stuck for words. And struck by the sheer magnificence of the man before me. I blink and quickly swing my eyes to Brianna. “Thanks,” I squeak, dragging my bag off the counter and making a swift exit. I’m sweaty now, too, and I pull at the front of my dress to circulate some air. For God’s sake.
“You forgot your croissant,” he calls, and I freeze by the door, my grip tightening around the handle as I close my eyes and fight to get some stability into my voice.
“You can have it.” Pulling the door open, I hurry out of the shop and scuttle back to my store, cursing myself the whole way. You can have it? What the hell is he going to do with a half-eaten pastry? “Urhhh.” I drop my head back as I traipse down the street. I’m pathetic. Say hello. That’s all I needed to do. Smile. Be polite.
Having a stern word with myself, I let myself into my shop, going straight to the kitchen to mix up more paint. You can have it? I slam the door of the cupboard hard and slap my palm into my forehead. Lame, Hannah. So damn lame. The man must think I’m a total weirdo. And I hate that.
* * *
I have no idea how, but I make it to Molly’s before she leaves for work at eight, and thankfully all the paints are still in their containers. Mrs. Hatt was kind enough to point the way when I passed on foot, and I found Molly’s little cottage set back from the road with ease. She’s eternally grateful as I stack the pots on the side while she gets her coat on, showing her all the colors before apologizing for leaving it so late.
“Oh, please, Hannah. You’ve saved my skin.” She throws her arms around me and squeezes, and I can’t deny it feels good. There’s just something so warm about Molly. “We must do drinks tomorrow night.”
“Sure.” I accept easily. Because…why not? “I’d love that.”
“Give me your number.”
“Oh yes.” I pull out my phone from my pocket.
“Jesus!” Molly blurts. “Are you planning on murdering someone with that thing?”
“What thing?”
She laughs and takes my mobile from my grasp, turning it in her hand. “It’s a brick.”
“It makes calls and receives texts.” I shrug. “That’s all I need it for.”
“And could be used as a lethal weapon.”
I chuckle, because she’s right, and snatch it back playfully. “Take it easy on the phone. What’s your number?” She reels it off, and I call her so she has mine. “Done.”
“Seven tomorrow at the pub?”
Perfect. I know I’ll need a drink tomorrow evening, something to take my mind off the predictable low mood I’ll be in after my usual Saturday morning since I moved to Hampton three weeks ago. “See you there.” After checking that her dog is fine, I leave Molly searching for her work bag and wander down her cobbled footpath to the pavement. I pull the gate shut behind me and stare up the street, seeing the start of the dirt road in the distance. That track road led me to somewhere unfamiliar last night. Not just unfamiliar surroundings, but unfamiliar feelings.
It’s been years since I’ve looked at a man in that way. But something about Ryan Willis didn’t give me much choice. He was worried about me—a woman he doesn’t know. He cared that I was hurt. He tried to help, to make it better. And while bamboozling me with his attention, he knocked me back with his rugged handsomeness, too. He’s a nice guy. A stand-up, decent man.
My feet move without me telling them to, and I’m suddenly at the dirt road, staring past the low-hanging trees to the curve where I was taken out by his truck. The trees sway. The birds tweet. The morning sun beats down between the gaps in the dense canopy. Peace. I feel, see, and hear only peace. He said he lived there. He lives in the woods?
I take one more step forward and stop sharply when a rabbit dashes across the road.
Back away, Hannah.
Nibbling my bottom lip, I turn with effort and start my walk back into town. But I’m constantly looking over my shoulder as I go. Curious. Wondering about him.
* * *
When I get home, I have the shower I missed in my haste this morning, before throwing on a red sundress and tying a bright-blue scarf in my hair. I slip on my silver Birkenstocks and head downstairs just before nine thirty, unlocking the door to my store and propping it open with a stone statue of a Highland terrier. Then I put myself behind the counter.
And I sit there. And I twiddle my thumbs. An hour later, I tidy a shelf of brushes that doesn’t need tidying. And an hour after that, I sweep the floor that’s already clean. I see people passing by, people I recognize from the town—some by name, some by face—but none of them come in. I don’t let it dishearten me.
When it reaches noon, I pop to Mrs. Heaven’s café next door to buy myself a sandwich and one of her famous blueberry muffins. As I’m wandering bac
k, I notice Molly by the lamppost outside my store. “Hi,” I say as I approach, craning my neck to see what she’s doing. She has a roll of tape in her mouth, her hands on the lamppost.
She smiles through the roll and finishes taping a piece of paper to it. “Hey.” Stuffing a few bits in her purse, she nods toward my shop door. “How’s business?”
“Quiet,” I reply, though I suspect she has seen that for herself. Everyone around here must have. “I’m hoping my online store will pull the art lovers in.”
Molly smiles and takes the tape from her mouth. “Thank you so much for helping me out this morning.”
“My pleasure.” I toss the remnants of my sandwich in a nearby bin. “How’s the solar system looking?”
“Colorful.” She laughs, but then she’s quickly wincing, looking at my legs. “What happened to your knee?”
“Oh.” I wave my hand flippantly. “I fell off my bike last night.” I won’t go into details. “It’s just a graze.” Diverting my attention to the poster she’s just stuck to the lamppost, I go for a quick subject change. “What’s this?”
“The town’s annual fete.” She reaches forward and pats down the tape. “A kind of celebration of the founding of Hampton. We close the high street and put on a bit of a party.”
“Sounds great.”
“Yeah, it’s good fun. Mrs. Heaven sells her famous cakes, the pub landlord brings barrels of cider out onto the street, and Mr. Chaps sets up a toffee apple stand. Country dancing, a beauty pageant, that kind of thing.”
I read the poster. “Hosted by Lord and Lady Hampton?” I say as I return my attention to Molly. I just catch her eye roll before she can hide it. I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them yet, but I’ve heard all about the richest family in town who live in the mansion on the Hampton Estate.
“Their ancestors founded Hampton centuries ago. This annual event is really just so they can bask in the glory of the oh-so-wonderful town we live in, thanks to them.” Another hugely sarcastic eye roll. “We only have to stroke their egos for a day. It’s no hardship, and everyone has fun.” Her eyes suddenly light up. “Hey, you’re good with paint, right? I mean using it, not making it.”
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