Helen glanced down at her feet, now encased in a pair of sturdy boots. ‘They’re great. Surprisingly stylish.’
Oliver grinned. ‘Believe it or not, even Bryony refuses to totally sacrifice style for practicality. Those are her everyday boots. When I take you walking you’ll need something more sturdy. And you’ll need to borrow some extra layers.’
‘I’m already wearing hundreds of layers.’ Helen fingered the waterproof jacket, still feeling vaguely uncomfortable at having borrowed her friend’s clothes.
‘I hope Bryony doesn’t mind about this.’
‘Well, she’s not wearing them,’ Oliver said logically, glancing over his shoulder as he turned the vehicle in the drive, ‘and you’re about the same size, fortunately.’
‘I could have managed with my own clothes.’
‘Helen—’ his tone was patient ‘—your case was full of London clothes. Great for parties and lunches but we don’t do a lot of that up here. Here you’re more likely to be rescuing a stray sheep from the side of the road and that’s easier if you’re not in stilettos.’
She couldn’t resist teasing him. ‘And you’ve tried it in stilettos, of course.’
His glance was solemn. ‘I ruined my favourite pair doing just that.’
She laughed, amazed by how comfortable she felt with him considering she’d known him for less than twenty-four hours.
He pulled out onto the road and switched on some music, his hands firm and confident on the wheel. ‘So did you do a lot of that in London? Parties and lunches?’
‘My fiancé—ex-fiancé,’ she corrected herself swiftly, ‘is a lawyer and he expected me to do lots of entertaining.’
He glanced at her curiously before returning his attention to the road. ‘I can’t imagine you enjoying all that. Did you?’
Suddenly realising that she’d never even asked herself that question before, Helen was silent for a moment. ‘No,’ she said finally, ‘I don’t think I did particularly. It was a lot of pressure and they were nearly always strangers and I was expected to behave in a certain way…’ She glanced down at herself again and gave a small smile. ‘If David could see me now, he’d throw a fit.’
Oliver winked at her. ‘Then maybe we should send him a photo,’ he drawled, and she laughed.
‘He’d hate me dressed like this, that’s for sure. His idea of casual dress is something tartan with a label.’
‘Oh, trust me, you’re wearing serious labels.’ Oliver smiled. ‘But they’re mountain labels. That gear will gain you instant credibility up here. Everyone will immediately assume that you know how to fasten your crampons.’
Helen looked at him in alarm. ‘Then perhaps you’d better tell me what they are.’
Oliver laughed. ‘Metal teeth that you fasten to the bottom of your boots when you want to walk on snow or ice.’
Helen looked at him doubtfully. ‘Why would I want to walk on snow or ice? It sounds dangerous.’
‘It’s fun.’ Oliver flicked the indicator and turned down a side road, pulling up outside a row of cottages. Then he turned to face her, something glittering in his blue eyes as he looked at her. ‘If David would hate you dressed like that then the man is obviously a fool.’
Taken aback by the compliment and the look in his eyes, Helen caught her breath. ‘I know you’re just trying to make me feel better,’ she muttered, ‘but thank you anyway.’
‘I’m not trying to make you feel better,’ Oliver said calmly, undoing his seat-belt and reaching into the back for his coat. ‘I think you’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, apart from the black circles under your eyes—but we’ll get rid of those soon.’
The most beautiful woman he’d ever seen?
Helen glanced at him, startled, and then looked away quickly, thoroughly flustered by the warm appraisal in those wicked blue eyes.
‘So who are we seeing here?’
‘My Hilda,’ he said evenly. ‘I don’t know what to do with her. I’m waiting for inspiration so any suggestions will be gratefully received.’
‘What’s her problem?’
‘She lost her husband last summer and “lost” is the operative word.’ He reached into the back of the vehicle for his bag. ‘She no longer has a reason to live.’
‘That’s awful.’ Helen felt her heart twist with sympathy. ‘It makes me feel very selfish and self-indulgent, stewing in my own worries.’