Page 79 of The Great British Bachelor Chase

“I know,” I say mournfully. “I hate it. I’m stuck waiting around for him to make his move. Again!”

“Not waiting,” Hazel insists. “You’re doing a kick-ass job, on a great movie, living your life. And if Fraser is too dumb to see you’re worth fighting for, that’s his loss.”

She raises her can of soda in a toast, and I match it, but deep down, I know, Fraser wouldn’t be the only one losing out in all of this.

I love him. He wants us to be together. So why does it feel like my heart is breaking all over again?

22

FRASER

THWACK.

I shift my grip and raise the axe over my head again, bringing it down hard on the log with every pent-up ounce of misery and frustration that’s coursing through my veins.

“I don’t trust you.”

THWACK.

“You broke my heart.”

THWACK.

“I need some time to think.”

THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.

My last blow goes wide, and the axe blade ricochets off the side of the log, sending it careering off the stump and barely missing Max as he emerges from the back door.

“What in God’s green earth are you doing?” he scowls, a mug of coffee in his hands.

“Chopping wood,” I retort, and set another log on the stump.

It’s bright and early on Thursday morning, but of course, my head is pounding and I haven’t slept a wink. I started drinking after Jolene left, and spent the night in Max’s guest room in a miserable, whiskey-soaked stupor. As soon as dawn broke outside the windows, I decided to go make myself useful—and work off some of that steam.

My plan isn’t exactly working out. On either of those counts.

“You’re asking for trouble, that’s what you’re doing.” Max grumbles, watching me set up another log on the stump. “Come in before you hurt yourself.”

I shake my head stubbornly and raise the axe again.

THWACK.

This time, the blade embeds deeply in the log… And I can’t yank it out.

“Bloody hell,” Max mutters, scowling. “I can’t leave you unsupervised like this, and I need to go open the restaurant for breakfast. We’ve got hordes of hungry tourists on the island for the festival, and I mean to overcharge them for eggs and blood sausage. Come on,” he jerks his head. “Earn your keep helping out in the kitchen, and I’ll make you a fry-up and a Bloody Mary.”

Since Jolene isn’t about to come waltzing back, pledging her undying devotion, it’s about as good an offer as I’m going to get.

Reluctantly, I set the axe down, and follow Max across the back garden, and down a winding country path to where his restaurant sits on the edge of the cliffs, located in an old, converted pub. “Convenient,” I mutter.

“More like a gaping money pit,” Max replies. He opens up, and leads me to the kitchen in back, giving my rumpled shirt and jeans a side-eye. “Take this,” he says, thrusting a chef’s jacket into my hands. “And go wash up. You look a wreck.”

“Gee, thanks,” I mutter, going to splash cold water on my face over the industrial sink. “You’re not doing any better yourself. I heard you playing mopey Joni Mitchell records until five a.m.”

Max scowls. “Less talk, more prep,” he says, putting the expensive coffee machine to work, and pulling an armful of egg cartons from the walk-in fridge. “Crack these and try not to sweat whiskey into the batter.”

“Yes, chef,” I glare back. But I do as he says. What else have I got on my schedule for the day: Wallow in misery, and put a dent in Max’s collection of fine scotch?

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