Page 35 of Summer At Willow Tree Farm

If Art had caught me watching, he would DEFINITELY have killed me. But that only made it more exciting.

Tomorrow I’m going back to the millpond and see if I can catch him doing it again. It totally took my mind off Mum and Pam – and the thought of having to be here for ever.

Even though Art’s not Leonardo DiCaprio (because Leonardo DiCaprio would never be so mean to me), he’s still almost as good-looking as him. And, let’s face it, I’m never going to get to see Leo naked or jacking off, especially if I get stuck in Wiltshire for the rest of my life.

But here’s the really cool thing: this evening when Art called me Princess Drama, I just thought about that big scar on his tummy and how he has a white bum and how he moans when he’s jacking off, and it totally didn’t bother me. In fact, I couldn’t help smiling. He looked really surprised, and then he shut up.

And, you know what, I don’t even care if he calls me Princess Drama again. Because Art just isn’t that scary any more.

NOW

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I still can’t believe they said yes.

Ellie stacked the pages that had finished spewing out of the co-op’s ageing printer, then stapled them into batches. She paused, aware her fingers were trembling, the memory of Tess, Annie and Dee’s enthusiastic support four days ago for her farm shop and café suggestion still a bit unnerving.

Of course, it had been a qualified yes. A yes that the four of them at the Lemon Drizzle Summit had decided to keep secret from the rest of the co-op, even Annie and Tess’s husbands, until Ellie could work out a coherent business plan.

The business plan that she was supposed to be presenting to everyone in approximately two minutes. No wonder her fingers were trembling.

Over the past week, she’d got stuck into her role as the new admin manager while also spending the last four days creating that business plan, which had meant contacting the Council Planning Department, looking at the financial projections in more detail, checking out investment possibilities and doing about a billion and one spreadsheets.

On top of that she had also taken it upon herself to finish correlating, alphabetising and reorganising all the paperwork, and worked out a system for filing the VAT and tax returns online.

The work had exhausted her, requiring ten-hour work days which had included some important field trips with Tess, a couple of meetings with their gang of four to hash out tonight’s presentation, a trip to the local bank to schmooze the manager and hours spent bent over the new laptop she’d bought to replace the ageing computer Art had inherited from Pam. She’d even taken it to bed with her last night so that she would be fully prepared for tonight’s meeting.

But now it was show time, and the storm of anxiety in the pit of her stomach from four days ago, when she had first suggested this idea to Dee, Tess and Annie, had become a Force Ten gale.

It shouldn’t be this important to her, that she – or rather they – got the vote of confidence they needed to go ahead with the shop. She stuck the printouts under her arm and headed out of the office.

It wasn’t that important. She was blowing this out of proportion. She had nothing to prove to her mother, or anyone else. This was just an idea. And it wasn’t even her idea, it had been Pam’s idea originally. If everyone else decided it was rubbish, it would be absolutely fine. And if they went for it, she could hardly take the credit.

The smell of freshly made coffee wafted around her as she walked down the corridor and through the kitchen door. Everyone sat round the table, chatting amiably, and she was struck anew by how much the place had changed from nineteen years ago. But then she’d changed too. The thought strengthened her resolve, as her mother and Tess and Annie threw her reassuring smiles from the head of the table.

Everyone gave her warm greetings, even the sleepy Melody sitting in her father’s lap with her thumb tucked in her mouth.

Everyone accept Art, who stood apart, propping up the sink, his hands wrapped round a mug of her mother’s coffee.

She shook off the trickle of apprehension. This wasn’t personal. And she needed to stop making it so. But, even so, her gaze lingered on him.

In a V-neck T-shirt that offered a tantalising glimpse of dark springy curls, and faded jeans that moulded to his long legs, his freshly showered hair slicked back from his forehead, he looked clean and probably smelled delicious. The memory of his scent, infused with hints of man musk and motor oil and the industrial cleaner he used to wash it off, spiced the air even though she was too far away to smell it.

Their eyes connected, and awareness skittered over her skin.

She ran her tongue over dry lips, recalling their meeting in the corridor outside her room the previous evening, while he was padding back from the bathroom, a towel hooked round his hips, his legs and feet and chest bare. Moisture had collected on the dark curls to drip through his six-pack. He had grunted a greeting and carried on walking, giving her the opportunity to follow his retreating arse down the corridor. His flexing glutes barely concealed by the towel.

She hadn’t slept very well last night.

He blew over the steaming coffee, never losing eye contact, and she felt the phantom gush of breath whisper over the skin of her cleavage.

Her mother bustled past, cutting off her line of vision. Ellie straightened, jerked out of her trance.

Get a clue, Princess Drama.

She had a meeting to chair. An important meeting. And entering into a fugue state over the memory of Art’s V was inappropriate. Not to mention distracting.

‘Everyone’s here.’ Her mother handed her a cup of coffee.

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