Forty Things to Do Before You're Forty

by Alice Ross

  ‘Are you a burglar?’ she asked. The question came out more like a strangled squeak.

  He snorted with laughter. ‘No. Are you?’

  ‘Of course not,’ she snapped. ‘I’m the caretaker.’

  ‘I thought so.’ He nodded pensively, one side of his deliciously sensuous mouth curling upwards. ‘The uniform gives it away.’

  Uniform? What uniform?

  ‘Would you, er, like a hand with your helmet?’ he continued, pointing to her head whilst plainly doing his utmost not to laugh.

  Confusion engulfed Annie. ‘Wh-what?’

  ‘Your helmet.’

  What on earth was he-? Oh no. She was still wearing the helmet from the suit of armour. As if she didn’t look ridiculous enough.

  ‘No thank you,’ she huffed. Swamped in mortification, she put down the sword and shield, placed a hand either side of the helmet and attempted to tug it off. It didn’t move.

  ‘Here, let me help.’

  Before Annie had a chance to protest, he set down the carton of juice, and his long legs took the few strides necessary to bring him directly in front of her. He was so close she could smell his citrusy shower gel mixed with his own masculine scent. Through the gap in her helmet her eyes were directly level with the V of his T-shirt from which a few dark hairs were visible. She watched, mesmerised, as a drop of water fell from his head and landed on the bare skin at the V, before trickling down under the T-shirt. To her dismay, she had to summon every ounce of willpower not to slide her hands under the T-shirt to explore exactly where the drop had gone.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  Ready? For what? Surely he didn’t know what she was thinking. He couldn’t possibly mean-

  Before she knew what was happening, in one deft movement he pulled the helmet from her head.

  ‘There you go.’ He handed it to her, then stepped back.

  Annie attempted to ignore the bizarre wave of disappointment that engulfed her at the distance now between them.

  ‘Thanks,’ she muttered, avoiding eye contact, as a deep flush crept up her neck. What on earth was happening to her? She didn’t know what it was but she had to get a grip. Take control of the situation. Or at least try and control something – starting with the hurricane of lust that was swirling around her. She tilted up her chin and met his gaze. Bad idea! No sooner had she looked into his eyes than she immediately wished she hadn’t. They were exactly the same shade of navy-blue as his T-shirt, framed by long dark lashes and sparkling with humour. The devastating combination set off a swarm of butterflies in her stomach.

  ‘Look, maybe we should start again,’ he said, holding out his hand to her. ‘I’m Jake. Jake … Sinclair.’

  Annie gawped at the large tanned hand. The thought of touching it made her dizzy. But she couldn’t just stand there like a plank.

  ‘Annie Richards,’ she said, aware of her blush deepening and a strange swirling sensation sweeping over her the moment she placed her hand in his. So light-headed was she, she thought she might swoon. Not that she made a habit of swooning. She had never swooned in her entire life. But perhaps that was because she’d never met such a devastatingly drop-dead gorgeous male in her entire life.

  ‘I’m an old friend of Jasper’s,’ he continued. ‘He offered me the use of the manor.’

  Did he now? Well, trust Jasper to forget to tell her. Not that Annie was surprised. While Portia verged on the academically brilliant, her brother – despite an education costing more than the national debt of some countries – had never been the brightest bulb in the many Pinkington-Smythe chandeliers.

  ‘Have you, um, duelled with many burglars lately?’

  Had she duelled with many burglars? Was that an attempt at humour? Because Annie really wasn’t in the mood for humour. She was too busy wading through her pit of mortification, searching for the exit sign. ‘Um, not many, no,’ she mumbled, tucking a wayward curl behind her ear.

  ‘So, if you’re the caretaker, you must live nearby,’ he continued.

  Annie nodded. ‘In the gatehouse.’

  ‘Right. Nice and handy then.’

  ‘Very handy. Yes. Thanks.’

  Thanks? Why was she thanking him? And why was he standing there looking so … so … gorgeous? And so … cool? While she felt like a complete turnip. She glanced longingly at the door. She couldn’t just make a bolt for it. She’d have to make some attempt at conversation. She cleared her throat.

  ‘How long are you staying?’

  She held her breath hoping it was just overnight. Or a couple of days. Or even until mid-week. She could cope with that. Probably.

  ‘Six weeks or so.’

  Six weeks! Yet again Annie’s legs almost caved. She made another grab for the bannister. Six weeks. That was what? … forty-two days. Which would be – she did a quick mental calculation – approximately one thousand hours. Good lord. It was like … forever. He might as well have said “a whole month and a half”, because that’s what it equated to.

  As if attempting to justify his presence, he added, ‘Jasper told me the place would be empty for a while. I’m … trying my hand at writing a book.’

  Annie raised an unimpressed eyebrow. ‘Writing a book’ sounded exactly like something Jasper’s rich, spoiled friends might dabble in; a ‘little project’ to while away the time between parties. Still, on the positive side, it could mean he’d be holed up with his computer for as long as the whim lasted. Which would be fine. Perfect, in fact. Well, perhaps not perfect. Perfect would be if he wasn’t here at all. And her dignity hadn’t been through the shredder – twice.

  ‘Right.’ She forced her lips into some semblance of a smile. ‘I’d better let you settle in. Do you need anything?’

  Oh lord. Please, please, please let him say no.

  She watched as his mouth stretched into a disarming smile, causing a bolt of desire to flash down her spine.

  ‘Thanks. I think I have everything I need.’

  I just bet you have, Annie resisted saying. She quickly checked herself and attempted to dredge up something of her usual professional manner. ‘Good. Well … I’ll just tidy up these things and get out of your hair then.’

  Out of his hair? An image of her in his hair, threading her fingers through it as he trailed a stream of kisses down her- A hastily summoned mental boulder crushed that treacherous image. Heavens! She’d never felt so out of control. She had to put some distance between her and this man. Quickly. Willing her hands not to shake, she replaced the helmet on the suit of armour, then re-hung the sword and shield, aware of Jake’s eyes on her. Honestly, did he have to stand there watching her? Couldn’t he just go away? Like, back to wherever he’d come from. All the items in their rightful places, Annie turned around and had taken one step towards the door when it burst open. In marched Sophie wearing pink spotted pyjamas and carrying Pip.

  ‘Mum, are you okay? You’ve been ages.’

  Annie couldn’t resist a smile at her daughter’s concerned face. ‘I’m fine, sweetheart. I’m coming back over now.’

  ‘Why is your face all red?’

  Annie pleaded with the ground to swallow her up. It didn’t. ‘I’m just a bit … hot. I’ve been talking to this gentleman.’

  Sophie turned to Jake. ‘Hello, I’m Sophie Richards. Who are you?’

  ‘Sophie!’ exclaimed Annie. ‘Don’t be so rude. This is Mr Sinclair. He’s going to be staying at the manor for a few … weeks,’ she said, attempting to banish all signs of panic from her voice. ‘He’s writing a book.’

  Sophie’s eyes grew wide. ‘Ooo. Is it about dragons?’

  Jake chuckled. ‘I’m afraid not. Although, come to think of it, a couple of dragons might liven it up a bit. At the moment it’s just about a boring old castle.’

  Sophie wrinkled her little nose. ‘Oh well, someone might like it. We’ve been dipping strawberries in chocolate. Do you like strawberries and chocolate?’

  ‘They are amongst my two favourite things in the whole
world.’

  ‘We’ve loads left, haven’t we, Mum?’

  Annie’s heart plummeted. She had a strong feeling of what was to follow. She opened her mouth to forestall her daughter, but was too late.

  ‘Would you like to come over to our house and have some? And I can stay up and chat to you because I’m allowed to stay up until eight o’clock on a Friday.’

  Annie held her breath. Surely he wouldn’t. At the very thought her stomach twisted itself into impressive knots.

  ‘I’d love to,’ replied Jake, raking a hand through his wet hair in a way that, given her fantasising just a few seconds ago, made Annie bite back a gasp. ‘But I’m afraid I have lots of work to do.’

  ‘But it’s Friday,’ pointed out Sophie. ‘And Mum always says Friday evenings are for relaxing. So Mr Sinclair should relax too, shouldn’t he, Mum?’

  ‘I don’t think Mr Sinclair-’ began Annie. But before she could finish, Sophie strode over to Jake, thrust a wriggling Pip into his arms, and began tugging him by the elbow towards the door.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rooted to the spot, Annie watched the unlikely trio make their way down the steps of the manor and wondered what on earth she should do now. Should she invent some mythical appointment? Say she’d just remembered she and Sophie were supposed to be at the dentist? At this precise time. On a Friday night? But no – unlike Lance, Annie was no good at lying. Sophie would see right through her and think nothing of exposing her for the fraud that she was. No, the only thing she could do was follow them to the cottage and hope Jake Sinclair would quickly grasp the message that he really wasn’t welcome.

  As a babbling Sophie led him over the lawn towards the gatehouse, with Pip licking every square centimetre of his face, Jake bit back a smile. This was like a comedy sketch – with Annie playing the lead role. He stifled a gurgle of laughter as he recalled how funny she’d looked in that helmet, brandishing the sword. By the colour of her cheeks, she’d obviously been mortified by the incident. And was no doubt desperate to get away from him. But how could he have refused little Sophie? Not only was the child leading him, quite authoritatively, by the elbow, but she was also completely adorable: the image of her mother with her riot of honey-blonde curls and sparkling emerald-green eyes. Still, it really wasn’t fair of him. He risked a look at Annie over his shoulder. She trailed miserably behind, staring at the ground. He felt a niggle of guilt that he’d lied to her about his surname. He hadn’t intended to. It had been a knee-jerk reaction by his self-preservation instinct, ever wary of the transparency of the internet. Oh well, he mused, as he swung his head back around and Pip stuck his tongue in his ear, it didn’t really matter. So long as he wasn’t a burglar, Annie Richards probably didn’t give a monkey’s who he was. And it wasn’t as if he intended launching himself on village society. He would keep himself to himself. Which was exactly what he should be doing now. So, once at the cottage, he’d make some excuse and beat a hasty retreat.

  Following Jake and her daughter across the lawn to the cottage, Annie tried desperately to keep her gaze on the ground and not let it wander to Jake’s rear, showcased perfectly in those low-slung blue jeans. What was wrong with her? She’d never been fixated with a man’s behind before. Heavens. Maybe Portia was right. Maybe she had been without a man in her bed for too long. She normally didn’t give sex a second thought these days. She was far too busy. And frankly, what was the point in thinking about it when she had no intention of engaging in it? So why, then, was she focusing on Jake Sinclair’s buttocks? She was tired, that could be the only explanation. She’d run five miles today. No mean feat and the longest she’d run in her entire life. No wonder she felt light-headed. And she was disorientated because her nerves had been on edge. She had, after all, been prepared to confront an armed burglar. Yes – that was it. She knew there must be a logical explanation somewhere for her illogical behaviour. It wasn’t Jake Sinclair who’d set her head spinning, her stomach churning and her nerves aflutter, it was a combination of the aforementioned external factors. So, now that she’d established that fact, why did she desperately hope she had no underwear drying about the place and that she’d tidied up? Because, she quickly reasoned, Jake Sinclair probably lived in some minimalist designer pad with hot and cold running champagne, gleaming stainless steel surfaces, and an army of uniformed cleaners. Well, tough. He would have to take her and Sophie as they came. And if he didn’t like the cottage, he need never visit it again. Come to think of it, it would be better if the place was a complete tip and he ran a mile. Because she really didn’t want the man in her house. Or any man in her house.

  By the time Annie reached the cottage, she found Jake leaning against the kitchen bench, looking, just as she’d predicted, completely out of place. His presence seemed to fill the room, sucking out all the oxygen. Sophie was nowhere to be seen.

  At a loss as to what to do, Annie hovered in the doorway. ‘Would, you, er, like a glass of wine? Or something?’ she asked, her attempt at a light-hearted tone failing miserably.

  ‘Um, no, I’m fine thanks.’

  Annie stared at him for a few seconds. All his previous humour seemed to have evaporated and he sounded a little … subdued. There was a strange expression on his handsome face. One she couldn’t decipher. ‘I think I’ll have a cup of tea,’ she blurted out. ‘Would you like one?’

  Jake gave a hesitant smile. ‘Okay. Thanks.’

  ‘And please can we have more melted chocolate for the strawberries,’ chipped in Sophie, breezing in from the living room, clutching another of her colouring-in books. ‘Mr Sinclair, you can sit here beside me.’ She climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs and patted the one alongside her.

  Jake raised an apologetic eyebrow at Annie, before doing as Sophie bid. No sooner had he sat down, than Pip jumped onto his lap.

  ‘Are you a good colourer-innerer?’ asked Sophie, flicking through the book.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ confessed Jake. ‘It’s a long time since I did any colouring-in.’

  ‘Mum’s rubbish. Oh, look. You can do this one if you like.’ She pushed the book over to him. ‘And then I can give you a mark out of ten like my teacher does.’

  Jake choked back a surge of laughter. ‘Okay then,’ he said, doing exactly as he was told.

  Rooting through the tin of crayons, looking for just the right shade of blue, Jake decided he must be losing it. He had to be. Why else was he allowing himself to be bossed about by a five year old child? Albeit a delightful one. Five years ago he’d been renowned for his persuasion tactics, his implacability, his intransigence. When Jake had made a decision everyone had known it was final. So why was he now sitting in the kitchen of a woman who obviously didn’t want him there, with a dog that wouldn’t stop licking his face, having his colouring-in ability assessed? It was madness. He should go. He really should. He had writing to do. Lots of writing. And he was wasting precious time.

  The trouble was, the moment he walked into this tiny, bright, sunny kitchen, an overwhelming surge of emotion had assaulted him. So overwhelming, it almost knocked him off his feet. Because this was exactly the sort of kitchen he’d grown up in; exactly the sort of kitchen he’d imagined sharing with Nina and their child. During the few seconds he’d been alone in the room, he’d drank in every detail: the smell – a delicious mix of currant buns, orange peel, strawberries and chocolate; the glass vase on the window sill crammed with freesias; the little pots of fresh herbs; the buttercup-yellow walls peppered with postcards, photographs and Sophie’s paintings; and the small round spice cake with the words Happy Birthday George expertly iced on top. Jake didn’t know why, but his mood had dipped slightly when he’d read those words. Which was ludicrous. Why should it matter that Annie Richards had a man in her life? She might be gorgeous, have an adorable daughter, and be a very conscientious caretaker. But that didn’t mean he was interested in her. His interest in the fairer sex had died with Nina. His life – and his heart – were now, thanks to the impe
netrable barriers he had spent the last five years constructing around them, definite no-go areas. No, he was only taking a neighbourly interest, he assured himself. And once he finished colouring in this picture, he would go back to the manor and carry on with his writing. Assuming, of course, Sophie allowed him to.

  Annie set down the mug of tea on the table in front of Jake and slid the milk jug over to him. He looked up and smiled, causing her stomach to somersault and the colour in her cheeks to intensify. Honestly. Never, in all her thirty-five years, had she felt so awkward and embarrassed. Jake Sinclair was a friend of Jasper’s and, like Jasper, probably spent his life jetting around the world mingling with supermodels and starlets, and dining in Michelin starred restaurants. The last place he would want to be would be her tiny kitchen colouring in a picture of a donkey in a straw hat, and drinking a cup of tea. And, more importantly, she didn’t want a man like Jake Sinclair in her kitchen drinking tea. Or drinking anything. She really must have a word with her daughter about inviting strange men back to the house.

  Leaning against the kitchen bench, cradling her mug, it occurred to Annie how few men had actually sat at her kitchen table. Lance certainly never had. She and Sophie always travelled to London to meet him during his fleeting visits to the UK. He was, so he claimed, far too busy to make the journey to Yorkshire. Which suited Annie. She didn’t want him here. This was her space, hers and Sophie’s, and she intended to keep it that way. She sucked in a deep calming breath, attempting to banish the panic that rose at the mere notion of male intrusion into their lives. But she was being absurd. Jake Sinclair was only colouring in a picture. And when he finished, he would return to the manor and that would be that.