Page 13 of Strawberry Moon
“You grew uphere?” I say in awe.
He turns to me. “We did. It belonged to my mum’s family and was a farm at one time. We were all born here.”
I pluck my jeans nervously. “I knew I should have kept on the banker outfit,” I mutter. I jump as his hand comes down on mine.
“Don’teverthink that,” he says fiercely, an intense look on his face. “It might be a big place, but your house is just as nice. I promise you will feel at home here. I wouldn’t have agreed to this otherwise. But even if it was Buckingham Palace, you would still fit in because you are wonderful.”
I gape at him. “I am?” I whisper.
He cups my chin with his hand. There’s something absentminded about the gesture—as if he’s done it many times before and his palm knows the curve of my face. This close I cansmell his spicy cologne and a faint trace of sweat. It makes my mouth water.
“You are.” He licks his lips.
My gaze follows the gesture, and I want so badly to kiss him. I’m leaning towards him when there’s a knock on his window that saves me from making a fool of myself.
We both jump, and I put my hand to my chest. “Jesus Christ, where did she come from?”
A lady is standing grinning at us. She’s tall and thin with a massive swathe of brown hair that’s pulled back haphazardly in a bun with strands falling out everywhere. She’s wearing jeans and a painting smock over which she’s layered numerous scarves, and on her feet are bright pink wellies. Her face is angular with a snub nose and very pale green eyes. When I see them, I know instantly that this is Harry’s mum.
Harry throws open the door and jumps out. “Ma,” he says, and she engulfs him in a hug, her scarves floating around him.
“How are you, darling? Dad’s on the phone. He won’t be a sec.” Her voice is light and posh. She pulls back and cups his face. “It’s been far too long,” she says firmly.
“I know. It’s just been so busy getting the shop running properly.” He pulls back. “Come and meet Clem.”
“Clem?” Her face clouds in confusion. “I thought his name was James.”
Harry clears his throat, looking slightly panicked. “Erm no. It’s Clemo. James is his…James is hismiddlename.”
“Oh.”
I wink at him and then step out of the car. His mum studies me, and her pale green eyes somehow make me relax, even though her scrutiny probably should make me tense. Maybe it’s because her eyes are so much like Harry’s, and so I associate them with all good things.
“Hello,” I offer, grinning at her.
For a few seconds she carries on staring and then she suddenly offers me an impish grin. “Clemo, is it? What a gorgeous old Cornish name.”
“I’m just Clem, actually. There’s only my grandad who calls me Clemo.”
“Well, Clem, welcome to Ivy House. You’re very welcome.” She heads back towards the house, calling over her shoulder that she’ll open the wine.
Harry opens the boot and pulls out the luggage. I grab my own suitcase which looks very battered next to his leather holdall. It’s a case my family all use, and the last one to have it was my brother on a college trip. I had to air it outside all day yesterday to get rid of the weed smell. Thank god, Harry’s parents don’t live in Spain. We’d never have got through customs, as the sniffer dogs would all have been stoned within seconds.
“Your mum is lovely,” I say.
His smile is his big wide grin that pulls out his dimple and makes his eyes crease attractively. “I’m glad you like her. She seems to have taken to you.”
“She only met me for two seconds. It’s probably best we stick at that. I have a personality better suited to speed dating.”
“She makes quick judgements, and for how vague she can be, she’s irritatingly right most of the time.”
We walk up the stone steps and come into a big airy hall with a carved wooden staircase. There’s a huge bowl of roses on a table that offer a sweet scent. Loud barking makes me jump, and a door opens to my right revealing a tall man with broad shoulders. There are three Jack Russell dogs at his heels. They instantly bound over to Harry. He crouches, laughing as they climb over him, licking him and whining happily as their bodies contort in welcome poses.
I look at him affectionally. His wavy hair is messy and there’s a trail of dog slobber over one cheek, but he’s never looked more beautiful to me.
A throat clears and I realise the man is watching me. “Hello,” I offer.
Dressed in old cord trousers and a jumper, he has greying hair, a grey-speckled, bushy beard, and blue eyes. I’m sure this is Harry’s dad.
