Page 29 of The Allotment on Willow Tree Lane

‘Buggeration?’ Ceri bit her lip. ‘Is that a technical term?’

‘It was one of my grandmother’s favourite swear words.’

She laughed. ‘I think I’ll adopt that for myself.’ Then she became more serious. ‘I agree the brambles are a problem, but if I were you I’d leave them for now. Look at all the flowers. You’ll have a bumper crop of blackberries in a couple of months. Think of all the delicious things you could make with it.’

‘The only thing I can think of is apple and blackberry tart.’

‘Nice… but what about blackberry sorbet, blackberry ice cream, smoothies, muffins, crumble? You could add them to pavlovas, pancakes, cheesecakes…’ She trailed off when she saw his expression. ‘Or maybe not.’ She thought some more. ‘You could always sell them. I bet Sero would take them off your hands.’

His jaw clenched, and she guessed the idea didn’t appeal to him. ‘I might pick a punnet or two,’ he conceded, but Ceri got the impression he was just saying that to shut her up. ‘You’re welcome to help yourself,’ he added. ‘And to the apples and pears. I believe there is a plum tree or two, and a cherry. There may even be a quince, if it hasn’t died.’

‘That’s very kind of you. I might take you up on your offer.’

‘Please do. I’d hate for all this fruit to go to waste.’

But not enough to pick it yourself,she thought, and her eyes dropped to his hands.

They were well-manicured with long fingers – what some might call a pianist’s hands – and she imagined them cut and scratched after an encounter with a bramble, and decided he was probably wise. Brambles were vicious enough for Ceri to wonder if they were being deliberately spiteful. She’d had her fair share of shredded hands (arms and legs, too) and she would hate to think of his in such a state.

But it wasn’t the state of his hands that flashed into her mind, it was what he might do with them, how he might caress her with them, how they might feel on her skin and— She pulled herself up. Best not to think of that, right now. Actually, it would be a good idea not to think about that at all. Nothing was going to happen, so there was little point in tormenting herself with such fanciful notions.

Ceri worried at her bottom lip as the silence stretched between them. Her awareness of him was so acute that every nerve ending fizzed, sending bolts of desire through her.

She should leave before she did or said something silly.

‘Let me know if you need any advice,’ she said. ‘I live in Church Lane – Rosehip Cottage. Thanks for showing me the garden. It’s lovely.’

‘Thanks for taking a look. I appreciate it.’

Did he really? She narrowed her eyes at him.

‘Honestly, I do appreciate it. And sorry for the…’ He pulled a face.

‘No problem.’ She hovered for a moment. ‘Is it OK to leave through the gate just there?’ She pointed at the wooden gate leading to Willow Tree Field.

‘Of course. I don’t keep it locked,’ he said, but a flicker in his eyes gave her the impression that he thought he should.

Maybe his offer to help herself to fruit had been made out of politeness and not because he meant it?

‘Right, I’ll, er, see you around,’ she said. ‘Good luck with the garden.’ And with that, she dashed off, hurrying through the gate and across the field as fast as she could without actually breaking into a run.

She’d had enough of Damon for one day – her libido needed time to calm down!

Damon followed Ceri’s progress as she skipped across the field, conflicting emotions tumbling through his mind. When he had first seen her on his doorstep, he had felt a flash of such acute pleasure that it had taken his breath away, swiftly followed by the suspicion that she knew who he was and had flushed him out. God, he had even been crass enough to accuse her of stalking him, and he cringed, remembering the look on her face. He cringed again when he recalled that he had then gone on to accuse her of trying to sell him her gardening services.

How to make a total prat of yourself 101. What must she think of him? That he was a weirdo, probably. First, he kisses her under the stars, then she discovers him lurking in a graveyard, and when she rings his doorbell to enquire about the orchard, he insults her, then invites her to look around his garden, before offering her all the fruit she can pick.

Could he have been any more strange? No wonder she’d made a run for it. And he was none the wiser as to why she wanted to know who the orchard belonged to. He would ask her next time he saw her – if therewasa next time. He wouldn’t blame her if she went out of her way to avoid him. Damon could picture her now, telling her friends all about the weird man who lived in Willow Tree House…

The one consolation was that at least his cover wasn’t blown. She’d clearly not recognised him, even though this time she had seen him in daylight, and he hoped it would stay that way. Apart from Ceri, it had been a long time since he’d had any meaningful interaction with someone who didn’t know who he was or what he did for a living. Black Hyacinth had a while to go before it reached the success of bands such as Thin Lizzy or Alter Bridge, but it was up there with the likes of Elbow or Wolf Alice, and the band had even played on the Pyramid Stage at Glastonbury, so they were getting there.

Had beengetting there.

Damon had tried not to let the band’s snowballing fame go to his head, but it had been hard not to be affected when everyone wanted a piece of you. At the risk of sounding conceited, it was a refreshing change to be thought of as a regular Joe Bloggs. Although, after his less-than-stellar performance just now, Ceri couldn’t be blamed if she thought him a very surly and rather odd Mr Bloggs. And… he was back to watching her run away across the field, whilst she tried to pretend that she wasn’t running at all.

Damon didn’t make a move until she had clambered over the metal gate at the far end and disappeared from sight, painfully aware that she hadn’t given him as much as a backward glance.

Dazed, feeling as though he’d just had an encounter with a force of nature, Damon dragged his attention back to the garden: the overgrown, bursting-with-life garden that seemed strangely empty without her. She had filled his senses so completely whilst she had been in it, that everything had faded into the background. There was a song in that, he thought, smiling ruefully – oh, yeah, some guy by the name of Denver had already sung it.

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