Chapter 15- Daisy. Seeing Clearly
Chapter 16 – Flo. Poetry and Wine
Chapter 17 – Daisy. Handbags and Hippy Cats
Chapter 18 – Flo. Living the Other Dream
Chapter 19 – Daisy. Finding Mr Right
Chapter 20 – Flo. Past Mistakes
Chapter 21- Daisy. Heading Home
Chapter 22 – Daisy. Sandcastles
Chapter 23 – Flo. Fanning the Flames
Chapter 24 – Flo. Christmas Eve
Chapter 25 – Daisy. Turkey and Sprouts
Chapter 26 – Flo. Promises to Keep
Chapter 27 – Daisy. New Year’s Eve in Cheshire
Chapter 28 – Flo. New Year, New Start?
Enjoy a Winter Break in Barcelona…
Or Capture a Warm and Fuzzy Feeling in Cheshire!
Daisy Fischer wound the baling twine round her finger twice, effectively attaching herself to the gate, before she realised what she was doing, and stopped.
She had to be losing her mind.
Jimmy, her long-term, on-off boyfriend, could not have asked her what she thought he just had. Could he?
She sneaked a sideways glance at him under her fringe, hoping he wouldn’t spot her peeking.
Jimmy was swinging the spade he was holding effortlessly from side to side, showing off his best rugged-man-in-the-country look. Over the years she’d known him he had relaxed into his role a bit; there was the first hint of middle-aged spread spilling over the waistband of his jeans (quite noticeable from this angle), but the forearm on display was still muscular. He was grinning, showing off the dimple she loved.
And he was staring at her bum. Which simplified matters. He didn’t look like he’d just asked her marry him. He looked, well, like Jimmy always looked.
Daisy straightened up, pushing her dark hair behind her ears. She really had to say something, because it was getting to the point of rude if she didn’t. And her back was starting to ache.
He winked. The cheeky wink that had every girl in Tippermere fluttering her eyelashes, even though Jimmy really was more than a little bit too old for most of them. Her mum thought he was too old (and too much of a flirt) for her, but what was eight years between friends?
So what the hell did she say now? If she spoke before thinking this through, one or both of them was going to look pretty silly, and more than a little bit embarrassed. Experience told her it was more likely to be her.
He just could not have said it.
‘Sorry, what was that? I was just trying to…’ The scorch of heat on her cheeks had to give her away, but he didn’t let on. But how the hell had he shifted from asking if she fancied a pint to the question?
‘I think you need to lighten up a bit, Dais.’
Maybe he hadn’t meant it. Or hadn’t said it. It had been a bit of an embarrassed mumble anyway.
‘I only said I needed to sort this out before I could go to the pub.’ Which she had, immediately after he’d said ‘fancy a pint?’, and before he’d said the other bit.
She fished in her pocket for a second piece of baling twine, just to be on the safe side. Safe side as in securing the gate, but also as in buying some more time.
‘But there’s always something with you, isn’t there? People our age should be out getting pissed, not spending the night tying up gates then watching a sloppy film.’
‘I like sloppy films,’ this was better, much safer ground. And she liked tying up gates and messing with horses. She gave the gate a gentle tug. It opened a few inches. Bugger. ‘You know I’ve got to fix this. If Barney goes wandering into Hugo’s food store again he’ll throw a real wobbler. You know what he was like last time.’ The last time that Barney, her very naughty (his previous owner had referred to it as ‘character’) Welsh Cob had escaped from his field he’d managed to break the feed-room door open. Hugo’s feed room door. After eating the entire contents of a bag of very nice carrots, he’d tipped a tub of half-soaked sugar beet all over the floor and trampled it in. Well, the bits he hadn’t eaten.
He’d then wiped his messy nose across the row of pristine stable rugs.
A strange puce-coloured Hugo, with his normally immaculate blond hair stuck up in a very There’s Something About Mary way, had arrived at her door, Barney in tow.
Even though she’d spent a good two hours clearing up the mess, Hugo still hadn’t forgiven her and was gently simmering; she preferred his frosty look, or his macho sneer, to his anger.
‘Your food store.’ Jimmy frowned. He was even less keen on Hugo than Daisy was. ‘Hugo’s a pompous git.’
‘Well