‘Except a job, presumably?’ She froze.
‘You’re not going the right way about it, are you?’ Heath pointed out. ‘You broke into my house. You brought your friends along too.’
‘This has nothing to do with Maisie or Colleen,’ Bronte interrupted, rushing to her friends’ defence. ‘This is all my fault, Heath. Blame me, if you must. I was just trying to help. I thought that if we.’
‘You didn’t think,’ Heath interrupted her sharply. ‘You went straight into an old building without a safety review—just as you swam solo in the lake. I could forgive that, but you got your friends involved and that was irresponsible. Or had you conveniently forgotten that breaking and entering is a criminal offence? Go home, Bronte,’ he rapped when she tried to defend her decision. ‘I can’t believe you’re serious about applying for a job here. If that’s still the case, you’ve made one hell of a start. I can’t imagine how you’re going to climb back from this.’
And neither could she. Heath’s tone of voice made it clear that playtime was well and truly over.
She had alienated Heath. She had forfeited her chance of getting the job. She had lost the girls their promised pay-off—the Christmas party—which meant that all their hard work was wasted.
Things couldn’t be worse, Bronte mused back at the cottage, where she was sitting on the sofa with her head buried in her hands.
So she’d just have to make it right, she determined, springing to her feet.
Heath couldn’t possibly have appeared less thrilled when she turned up at the hall with Colleen and Maisie in tow.
‘What do you want, Bronte?’ he rapped, while she stood and stared. Heath in hard hat, steel-capped boots, and a high-vis’ jacket, was a fantasy yet to be explored.
‘We’re here to help,’ she said, conscious of Maisie and Colleen skulking behind her. The girls hadn’t been exactly enthusiastic when she had sold them this idea over a drink at the pub.
‘Help?’ Heath demanded, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. ‘We’re on the roof, Bronte. How can you help?’
‘Has the fresh air given you an appetite, possibly?’ she enquired pleasantly.
‘Why? Did you bring pizza?’ Heath looked behind her to see if the girls were carrying anything.
‘No.’ Bronte shook her head. ‘I’d only serve pizza if I’d made it myself. I was merely suggesting I could cook supper for you—but if you’d rather we left—’
‘You cook?’ Heath interrupted.
‘Of course I cook. My mother was the housekeeper here,’ she reminded him with a frown. ‘And as you pointed out,’ she added innocently, ‘I have a great line in jam tarts. But don’t stereotype me. I mend engines too.’
Heath hummed. ‘I suppose the men will need feeding when they knock off, so if you’re offering to cook supper for nine—’
‘Twelve,’ Bronte said, turning to look at the girls. ‘I’ll get started, shall I?’
With some reluctance, it seemed to Bronte, Heath stepped aside. The way to a man’s heart would always be by the same route—something women knew and had used shamelessly across the ages. She was hardly a trailblazer in that regard, Bronte reflected as she led her troops towards the kitchen.
SUPPER was nearly ready. They just needed some fresh herbs for the soup, which Colleen and Maisie had offered to go and pick for her while Bronte kept an eye on things on the cooker. It was Colleen who drew Bronte’s attention to the tableau being played out in the yard outside the kitchen window.
There was no harm in looking, was there? She joined her friends on the pretext of opening the window to let the steam out from her soup.
Heath, dressed just in jeans, was sluicing down in the yard.
Oh, yes, he was …
And very nice he looked too …
As he slowly tipped a bucket of water from the well over his head drops of water glittered in the last rays of the sun and flew from his hair as he raked it back with big, rough hands. She felt rather than heard him sigh with pleasure. And then those hands continued on as Heath slid the last of the water from his hard-muscled chest …
‘Oh, my God—you could have an orgasm just watching him,’ Colleen breathed, leaning over Bronte’s shoulder.
‘Shh! He’ll hear us.’ Bronte held her breath.
‘I didn’t even know men came built like that,’ Maisie confided.
‘They don’t,’ Colleen assured her. ‘You want to get stuck in there, Bronte.’
‘Me?’ Bronte pretended innocence as she pressed a hand against her chest. ‘Heath isn’t interested in me.’
‘Not much,’ Colleen murmured, still avidly watching.
‘Well, even if he was—’
‘He is,’ Colleen assured her with the resulting impact on Bronte’s pulse.
‘Well, let’s get on,’ she said, sounding rather like her mother, Bronte thought.
Inwardly, she was anything but. Her mother was calm and logical, while Bronte was a dreamer on a roller-coaster ride out of control. Her heart refused to stop thumping as Colleen and Maisie, having put Heath out of their minds, started laying up the long, scrubbed table. Then another horrible thought occurred—if her fantasies were an open book to her friends, they must be clear to Heath as well!
‘Why wouldn’t you be interested in a man like that?’ Colleen demanded, doggedly returning to the subject as she came back for the spoons. ‘You haven’t been putting bromide in your tea, have you, Bronte?’
‘Just sugar,’ Bronte murmured distractedly, jumping back from the window too late to stop Heath seeing her.
Holding onto Bronte’s shoulders so she could stare over them, Colleen observed, ‘Licking that chunky-hunk is all the sugar I’d ever need.’
‘Supper’s in ten,’ Bronte pointed out briskly, ‘and I need those herbs before I serve up.’
‘On it,’ Colleen promised. Grabbing Maisie by the wrist, she left Bronte to her own devices in the kitchen.
Heath came into the room moments later. He grunted. She grunted. She didn’t trust herself to turn around. She could hear him moving around behind her—hanging up his jacket, putting his hard hat on the side, taking off his boots and leaving them on the mat by the door.
Had her senses ever been this keen before? Warm man … a little ruffled, a little windswept, his hair a little damp—his jeans definitely wet, and clinging lovingly—
‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’ she said, jumping with alarm as Heath brushed past her.
‘Stealing soup,’ he said. ‘It smelled so good—’
‘Hands off,’ she said, smacking his hand away. ‘And there’s no need to sound so surprised.’
Heath’s expression was deceptively sleepy, Bronte thought, with his face so close, and his eyes… ‘Must you creep up on me?’ Must you look so sexy? she thought, taking in the damply dangerous man who looked exactly like the answer to her every sex-starved dream.
‘I didn’t creep.’ The sexy mouth tugged up in a grin. ‘I think you’ll find on closer acquaintance that I never creep.’
No,