Okay brain, enough of your imaginings. You are not Lady Chatterley and Cameron is a friend. And friends you need more than you need a roll around a bed. Or shed.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Yep. Totally. I just zoned out for a minute.” Maybe he’ll think my cheeks are flushed because of the weather. I suddenly realise how close Cameron is. He has brown eyes. Why do I find that disappointing? And why is he holding a cut flower in his hand?
“Maybe I dazzled you. You’ve obviously a thing for men in tweed.”
My gaze lifts from the flower, tracing up his arm and solid, broad shoulder. He’s teasing me, I realise, and I should feel charmed. A cute man is showing me some interest. Instead, it feels . . . not wrong exactly. But not right, either.
“I thought there was no such thing as bad weather.” Chrissy’s words tumble out of my mouth. “Just the wrong clothes.”
“Come again?” And now, judging by the grin he’s trying to rein in, he thinks he’s got me all twitterpated.
“It’s wet out.” For a change. “How come you never seem to wear a jacket?”
Argh! And now he’ll think I’ve been perving on him!
“This isn’t rain,” he answers, holding up the flower between us. “It’s just a wee bit o’ smirr.”
“I don’t know what that is.” My words are soft as my gaze rises to his.
“It’s fine,” he murmurs, reaching out to smooth his finger lightly over my brow. “Soft.” He clears his throat, his next words a little more strident. “But I’m no’ in need of a jacket. We’re bred hardy up here. This is for you, by the way. It’s one of the early roses. From the garden, like.”
“It’s beautiful,” I answer, ducking my head. Should it be as awkward as this? Shouldn’t I feel flattered? “Thank you.”
“Well, I better be getting back.” He throws his thumb in the direction he’d come.
“Yeah.” I thread a hunk of my hair behind my ear. “Me, too.”
His upper body twists, though his feet don’t seem to be going anywhere as he swings back to face me again. “Fancy coming to the pub on Friday?”
I should say no. Except I don’t want to. I can’t keep dwelling on the past and what will never be. He deserves more than the brush-off, and I deserve someone who brings me flowers. Or a flower, I silently correct, bringing it to my nose.
“As friends?” I repeat his own words from that first night back to him.
“Aye.” My heart dips a little. “Maybe to start.” He grins, and I find myself joining in.
I’m really overdue for a coffee as I make my way into the basement kitchen. I’d parked at the back of the castle, as I usually do, because coffee. Although Isla had insisted I make use of the family kitchen, given it’s closer to my room, I feel a little weird being there for any other reason than preparing the boys an afternoon snack. Besides, the castle kitchen has the coffee I like, plus I know where the French press is kept. The fancy coffee machine in the family kitchen looks like it needs an engineer to work it.
“Here she is!” Chrissy’s voice precedes my entrance. “I thought we were going to have to send out a search party.”
“Or not,” I’m pretty sure Mari just said. Or whispered. Maybe mouthed the words? Whatever, the sentiment was, as usual, unpleasant.
“Good morning, all. Morning, Mari,” I say, super perky as I swing to face her. “Did you manage to get the glitter cleaned up?” We had a bunch of six-year-old’s in for a recent session, and we made ducal crowns. Sorry, ducal coronets. Who knew there was such a thing? And who knew glitter was the herpes of the craft community?
Me. That’s who. And that shizz was sprinkled everywhere. Including Mari’s hair. But I can’t take credit for that piece of genius.
“I’m finding the stuff everywhere,” she utters, glaring at me.
I resist the urge to cackle. I might’ve patted the glitter perpetrator on the head. After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend. I really don’t know why she wants my job. She doesn’t even seem to like kids.
“I was just—”
“Gabbin’ with Cameron.” Chrissy tilts her head in the vague direction of the window. “We saw.” Her eyes sparkle with mischief and good humour, her mouth wearing a barely contained smile as she glances at the rose in my hand.
“He was just saying hi.” This day just gets better and better!
“We’ll need to put in an order to the butcher before the weekend,” a masculine voice calls, a white blond head jutting from the larder’s open door. The kind of white blond that comes courtesy of an expensive hairstylist. “You must be Holly,” he says, stepping out from the larder and holding out his hand. “Happy to meet you. I’m Dougal, his grace’s chef.”