Page 24 of The Black Trilogy

I hadn’t seen my own mother since I was ten years old, so I didn’t really understand the whole family obligation thing, but hey, whatever.

“Well, if you’re set on staying, do you want a cup of tea or coffee? It’s freezing, and I was just about to make myself one.”

“I’d love a coffee. Shall I come with you?”

“Your choice. I can bring it out here if you like.”

I headed back to my trailer, and he followed. Thankfully, we didn’t have to pass the barn on the way. I could only imagine the uproar if any of the girls saw him disappear into my tumbledown palace.

I made the coffee, managing to find two mugs that had only minor chips out of them. Portia’s brother took his black like me, which was just as well seeing as I didn’t have any milk. As he sipped, he looked round with obvious disdain, taking in the delights of the shabby sofa in my tiny lounge and the kitchen with its wonky table complemented by two mismatched chairs.

“You live here?” he asked.

“No, I have a mansion to go home to.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound condescending.”

“Don’t worry about it.” My feelings about the place were the same as his. “Yes, I live here. If you want to sit down, I’d suggest the left-hand side of the sofa or the chair with the orange seat. The brown one’s wobbly and the other end of the sofa has a broken spring.” In fact, the only thing the sofa was good for was blocking the door so I couldn’t get out and wreak havoc at night.

He lowered himself gingerly onto the unbroken end, leaving the chair for me. “You haven’t been here long, have you?”

“About two weeks now. Just getting used to the joys of the British winter.”

“You’re not from around here, then?” His eyes widened “Wait, you’re not that girl who torched her boyfriend’s house, are you? No, no, you can’t be. She’s from America. Forget I said that.”

“Gossip sure travels fast round here. Yes, I came from America, so it’s probably me they’re talking about, but I sure didn’t torch anyone’s house. Did you hear that from Carol?”

“No, my mother heard the story from someone at her bridge club.”

“Wonderful. You probably know a warped version of my life history, and I don’t even know your name.”

He stuck his hand out, a little reluctantly it seemed. “Luke Halston-Cain.”

“Ashlyn Hale.” I shook his hand, hoping mine wasn’t too grubby. “Ash’ll do, though.”

“If it’s any consolation, I don’t think it’s your entire life history. Just that you split up with your fiancé, who cheated on you with a team of high school cheerleaders plus your maid of honour the week before your wedding. You got revenge by running his car into one of the cheerleaders and driving it into a lake. Then you set fire to his house before you did a runner to England. Don’t think I missed anything.”

He eyed up the door, and I knew what he was thinking—can I escape from this madwoman?

“Good grief. Almost none of that happened, I swear. If it had, I’d be in jail, not working here, although this place probably isn’t much better than a prison cell.”

Certainly, most of the prisons I’d seen had fewer spiders.

“Too bad,” Luke said, finally breaking into a grin. “I always wondered if a cheerleader would bounce.”

“Half the village must think I’m a raving lunatic. No wonder the guy in the grocery store kept giving me funny looks.”

“Don’t worry. The gossip-mongers do this to everybody. When I split up with my last girlfriend, my mother heard at the country club that I’d dumped her by text message after finding out she was pregnant with my child. Oh, and I’d started dating a lingerie model with an eating disorder. Mother had a meltdown. I nearly lost my hearing when she yelled at me about how rude it was to communicate by text message, and it took me three days to convince her she wasn’t going to be a grandmother.”

“So, just to clarify, no dumping by text message?” I asked, returning his smile.

“If you must know, I got sick of being treated like a walking wallet, and I told my ex that over dinner at my house. I take it you’re not a closet arsonist, then?”

“The only part that’s true is that I caught my fiancé cheating and I left. I keyed his car, but that was all. He bl—” Nearly. I’d been so good about not swearing, but one of my bad words almost slipped out. “He blooming well deserved it.”

“Sounds like a fair trade to me. Now we’ve established you’re not a psychopath and I’m not a heartless git, we can have a normal conversation.”

“Okay.” What did he count as a normal conversation? I stuck to a safe topic. “Weather’s not looking good today.”

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