Page 5 of His Best Mistake

Gathering her wits and taking a deep, steadying breath, Stella straightened and turned. Jack slammed the heavy oak door shut and as she warily watched him stomp his feet to dislodge the snow, it began to dawn on her how very claustrophobic the hall was. Such a thing had never occurred to her before. Oh, it had always been small, low-ceilinged and cluttered, but now it seemed devoid of oxygen as well because he was shrugging out of his beautiful navy cashmere coat and oddly enough she appeared to be having very slight trouble breathing.

He was so tall and broad-shouldered, there was just too much of him – that was the trouble. He was too, well, male. And then there was that something she could sense simmering away beneath his surface. What was it? She couldn’t tell, but it seemed dark and edgy and sent a shiver racing down her spine nonetheless.

Swallowing hard and giving herself a mental shake, Stella pulled off her hat and unwound her scarf. Cool, calm and collected. That was what she was aiming for. Although it was kind of hard to channel her inner Zen when he was looking at her with an ice-cold intensity that perversely seemed to make her uncomfortably warm. But still. Life had toughened her up recently. Even more than it had done when she’d realised at the age of ten that despite having two parents she was basically on her own. Jack should present no problem. He might have been surly earlier but then he had just totalled his car.

“You can hang your coat here,” she said briskly, stowing her hat and her scarf on the hooks that hung just inside the door.

Having done so, Jack thrust his hands into the pockets of his jeans and looked round the immediate vicinity as if in search of something. Stella watched as the sweep of his dark gaze encompassed the small space and she thought she couldn’t imagine what he was looking for. He’d hardly be interested in the red umbrella that stood in the wrought-iron stand, or the half a dozen pairs of footwear lined up on the stone floor. Or the padded, fur-lined outdoor jackets that were hanging on the hooks for that matter.

“Is he here?” he said abruptly and she started, her gaze snapping to his.

“Is who here?” She hadn’t had any visitors and that was exactly the way she’d wanted it.

“Who the hell do you think?”

“I have absolutely no idea.”

“Brad Turner.”

What? “Why on earth would he be here?” she said, blinking in astonishment as a shudder rippled through her at the thought of her despicable, shitty ex.

“You’re having an affair.”

Stella inwardly cringed. “Were having an affair,” she corrected. “Note the past tense. I haven’t spoken to him since Christmas Eve, let alone seen him, and that’s absolutely fine with me.” The cowardly jerk hadn’t answered any of her phone calls or responded to the many voice mails she’d left and messages she’d sent either. Looking back on it she couldn’t believe she’d wasted so much time on him.

“Then where is he?”

“I have no idea,” she said. “Nor do I care. Why? Have you lost him?”

“He’s vanished into thin air.”

“Excellent.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed, the hostility beginning to radiate off him in great waves and Stella automatically took a step back, her stomach churning. Hmm. Perhaps her hopes of a civilised exchange might have been a bit misplaced. Perhaps the surliness wasn’t just because of

his car.

One thing was certain though: however things were going to proceed, the hall was way too small for this kind of conversation. Not that the rest of her cottage was much bigger, but at least there was alcohol in the kitchen. She hoped. And air.

Turning on her heel and feeling the tension inside her ease a fraction now that she wasn’t being subjected to that dark glare, Stella strode through the sitting room, into the cosy kitchen diner that extended across the entire back of the house. She headed for the dresser that stood at the dining end of the room. She was pretty sure she’d seen a bottle of whisky in there only yesterday, so she bent down to open a cupboard, rummaged around and yup, there it was. A little dusty perhaps, but did forty per cent proof alcohol ever go off? She didn’t think so.

Straightening, she turned to see that Jack had taken up position against the ancient cream Aga that was sandwiched in the middle of a bank of units at the other end of the room. Would its heat thaw his icy demeanour? It didn’t seem likely. Perhaps whisky would.

“Drink?” she asked, holding the bottle aloft and waving it in his direction.

He folded his arms across his broad chest, and arched one dark eyebrow at her. “It’s two o’clock in the afternoon.”

“So? Neither of us is going anywhere at the moment and I, for one, need the fortification.”

“I’ll pass.”

“There’s no need to sound all superior about it.” She reached up for a glass and poured an inch of alcohol into it.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he said, his voice discouragingly flat. “You’re shameless and unscrupulous, and quite possibly not just a thief but a drinker to boot. What’s not to be superior about?”

Oooh, ouch, thought Stella, his assessment of her character piercing her like an arrow to the chest. Even though it was wholly inaccurate, and even though she knew that, somehow it still stung.

“I see,” she said, taking a sip and trying not to wince as it burned its way down her throat. “So that’s the way this is going to go.”

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