‘Sometimes,’ Polly admitted, breathing a sigh of relief as the stubborn cork finally began to give way. She eased it out carefully, wrinkling her nose as the aroma hit her. She held the bottle out to Raff. ‘Is this corked?’
He took it and inhaled. ‘I don’t think so.’
She shrugged, and poured a small amount into a glass. She didn’t sip it though; just the sight of the straw-coloured liquid caused her stomach to roll ominously. She put the glass down. ‘But I did my fair share of rucksacks and walking boots too, along the Inca trail and other places.’ She grinned across at him. ‘You wouldn’t have recognised me, braids in my hair, a sarong, all my worldly goods in one bag.’
‘I had no idea where you were.’ He didn’t sound accusatory; he didn’t need to. She had read his emails, listened to his voicemails. She knew how much worry she’d caused him.
‘I didn’t want you to. I didn’t want pity or advice or anything but time to figure out who I was, who I wanted to be if I wasn’t going to run Rafferty’s.’
‘And?’
‘I was still figuring it out when Clara emailed me telling me to come home. So, don’t think I’m not glad to see you but why are you here? Did you miss Mr Simpkins?’
‘My shirts don’t look the same without a covering of ginger fur,’ he agreed. ‘Polly, there’s something I need to tell you.’ He turned his beer bottle round and round, his gaze fixed on it. ‘I’m not going to be working in the field any more. I’ve accepted a job at the headquarters of Doctors Everywhere instead and I’m moving here, to Hopeford.’
Polly stared. ‘But you love your job. Why on earth would you change it? And you’re moving here? Hang on!’ She looked at him suspiciously. ‘Do you want to move back in? I’m not running a doss centre for young executive males who are quite capable of finding their own places, you know.’
‘For who?’ His face cleared. ‘Oh, Gabe? He’s still here? How are you getting on with him?’
‘No.’ She shook her head, unwilling to discuss her absent houseguest. ‘No changing the subject. What’s going on?’
Raff took a deep breath. ‘You’re not the only one who’s been working things out recently. I have to admit I was pissed when you left with no word—I hotfooted it straight here, convinced that Clara knew where you were. I was determined to get it out of her, drag you back and get on with my life.’
‘She didn’t. I didn’t even really know what my plans were.’
His mouth twisted into a smile. ‘I know that now but things were a bit hostile for a while.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it’s only been a few months since I met her, that there was a time I didn’t know her. Thing is, Pol, meeting Clara changed everything. I’m engaged. That’s why I’m staying in the UK, that’s why I’m moving to Hopeford. I’m marrying Clara.’
* * *
‘Bonsoir?’
Polly should get off the sofa, should open her laptop, look as if she were working.
But she couldn’t. Her appetite for the game, the competition had gone.
‘Hi.’ She looked up wearily as Gabe walked into the room. He was so tall his head nearly brushed the beams on the low ceiling.
‘Nice run?’ she continued. Small talk was good; it was easy. It stopped her having to think.
‘Oui.’ He stretched, seemingly unaware that his T-shirt was riding up and exposing an inch of flat, toned abdomen. ‘A quick ten kilometres. It ruins the buzz though, getting the train after. I might try biking back to Hopeford one evening. What is it? Just fifty kilometres?’
‘Just,’ she echoed.
Gabe looked at her curiously. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, no.’ She gave a wry laugh. ‘I don’t really know. Raff’s engaged.’
‘Your brother? That’s amazing. We should celebrate.’
‘We should,’ she agreed.
The dark eyes turned to her, their expression keen. ‘You’re not happy?’
‘Of course I am,’ Polly defended herself and then sighed. ‘I am,’ she repeated. ‘It’s just he’s moving here, to Hopeford. He’s marrying my closest friend and joining the board at Rafferty’s.’
She shook her head. ‘I feel like I am being a total cow,’ she admitted. ‘It’s just, I have spent my whole life competing against him—and he wins without even taking part.
‘And now...’ she looked down at her hands ‘...now he’s moving to my town, will be on the board of my company and is marrying the one person I can confide in. It feels like there’s nowhere I am just me, not Raff’s twin sister.’
The silence stretched out between them.
‘I have three sisters,’ he said after a while. ‘I’m the youngest. It can be hard to find your place.’
Polly looked over at him. ‘Is that why you’re here? Not working at the vineyard?’
‘Partly. And because I needed to prove some things to myself.’ He walked over to Mr Simpkins, who was lying on the cushion-covered window seat set into the wall on the far side of the chimney breast.
Gabe should have been an incongruous presence in the white-walled, book-lined sitting room, the soft furnishings and details were so feminine, so English country cottage. He was too young, too indisputably French, too tall, too male for the low-beamed, cosy room. And yet he looked utterly at home reaching over to run one hand down Mr Simpkins’ spine.
He was wearing jeans, his dark hair falling over his forehead, his pallor emphasised by the deep shadows under his dark eyes and the black stubble covering his jaw. He worked so late each night, rising at dawn to fit in yet another session in the gym—and the lack of sleep showed.
Polly watched the long, lean fingers’ firm caress as her cat flattened himself in suppliant pleasure and felt a jolt in the pit of her stomach, a sudden insistent ache of desire as her nerve endings remembered the way his hand had settled in the curve of her waist, those same fingers moving up along her body, making her purr almost as loudly as Mr Simpkins.
‘Is that why you went away?’ he asked, all his attention seemingly on the writhing cat. ‘Because of your brother?’
Polly flushed, partly in shame at having to admit her own second-class status to a relative stranger—and half in embarrassment at her reaction to the slow, sure strokes from Gabe’s capable-looking hands.
‘Partly,’ she admitted. ‘I had to get away, learn who I was without Rafferty’s.’
‘And did you?’ He looked directly at her then, his eyes almost black and impossibly dark. ‘Learn who you are?’
Polly thought back. To blisters and high altitudes. To the simple joy of a shower after a five-day trek. To long twilight walks on the beach. To lying back and watching the stars, the balmy breeze warm on her bare skin. To the lack of responsibility. To taking risks.
It had been fun but ultimately meaningless.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I saw some amazing things, did amazing things and I had fun. But there was nothing to find out. Without Rafferty’s I don’t have anything...I’m no one.’
‘That’s not true.’ His voice was low, intimate.
‘It is,’ she argued. ‘But Raff? He is utterly and completely himself. I think I’ve always envied that. And now he has Clara—which is great, she’s lovely and I’m sure they’ll be very happy. But my brother and best friend getting married?