He hadn’t needed Orla to tell him he was inept at handling relationships, though she happily did so on a regular basis, because he’d seen it in the pain etched on her face when she didn’t realise he was watching her.
He still didn’t know what had gone wrong. Where he had gone wrong. They had once been so close. After his mum had died he had been so scared and lonely he had thought his heart would break. But the smiling, gurgling Orla had saved him.
And then his father had died when Orla was sixteen, and almost overnight she had changed. She had gone from being happy-go-lucky to sullen and non-communicative, and their once unbreakable bond had been broken.
The scrape of a tree branch against the kitchen window pane brought him back to the present with a jolt.
He put the tea canister next to the already boiled kettle. Then he wrote his house guest a quick note, telling her to help herself to anything she needed. All the while he was hearing his father’s incredulous voice in his head, scolding him for his inhospitality. And once again he was reminded of how different he was from his father.
Note finished, he knew he should walk away before she came down. But the image of her standing in his entrance hall, a raindrop running down over the deep crevice of her full lips, held him. Lips he had had an insane urge to taste...
His instant attraction to her had to be down to the fact that he had been without a steady bedmate for quite some time. A lifetime for a guy who had once never been able to resist the lure of a beautiful woman. But two years ago his appetite for his usual short, frivolous affairs had disappeared. And a serious relationship was off the cards. Permanently.
And, anyway, she was his neighbour. If—and it was a big if—he ever was to start casually dating again, it certainly wouldn’t be on his own doorstep.
He turned at a soft knock on the door.
Standing at the entrance to the vast kitchen, she gave him a wary smile.
He should have gone when he could. Now he would be forced to make small talk.
She had rolled up the cuffs of his pyjama bottoms and shirt and her feet were bare. He got the briefest glimpse of a delicate shin bone, which caused a tightening in his belly in a way it never should. Her hair, though still wet, was now tamed and fell like a heavy dark curtain down her back. For a moment his eyes caught on how she had left the top two buttons of the shirt undone, and although he could only see a small triangle of flesh his pulse quickened.
He didn’t want to be feeling any of this. He crumpled the note he had left her into the palm of his hand. ‘The kettle is boiled. Please help yourself to anything you need.’
‘Thank you.’ As he went to walk to the door she added, ‘I didn’t say it earlier, but thank you for giving me shelter for the night—and I’m sorry if I woke you up.’
She blushed when she’d finished, and wound her arms about her waist, eyeing him cautiously. There was something about her standing there in his clothes, waiting for his response, that got to him.
He felt compelled to hold out an olive branch. ‘In the morning I will arrange for my estate manager to drive you home.’
She shook her head firmly. ‘I’ll walk. It’s not far to the bridge.’
‘Fine.’
It was time for him to go and get some sleep. But something was holding him back. Perhaps it was his thoughts of Orla, and how he would like someone to treat her if she was in a similar predicament.
With a heavy sigh he said, ‘How about we start again?’
Her head tilted to the side and she bit her lip, unsure.
He walked over to her and held out his hand and said words that, in truth, he didn’t entirely mean. ‘Welcome to Ashbrooke.’
Her hand was ice-cold. Instinctively he coiled his own around the soft, delicate skin as gently as he could.
‘You’re cold.’
Her head popped up from where she had been staring at their enclosed hands and when she spoke there was a tremble in her voice that matched the one in her hand. ‘I know. The shower helped a little, but I was wet to the bone. I’ve never seen a storm like it before.’
He crossed over to the cloakroom, situated just off the kitchen, and grabbed one of the heavy fleeces he used for horse riding.
Back in the kitchen, he handed her the fleece.
‘Thank you. I...’ Her voice trailed off and her gaze wandered behind him before her mouth broke into a wide glorious smile. ‘Oh—hello, you two.’
He twisted around to find the source of her affection. His two golden Labs had left their beds in the cloakroom and now ambled towards her, tails wagging at the prospect of having someone else to love them.
Both immediately went to her and bumped their heads against her leg. She leant over and rubbed them vigorously. In the process of her doing so her shirt fell forward and he got a brief glimpse of the smooth swell of her breasts. She was not wearing a bra.
Blood pounded in his ears. It was definitely time for bed.
‘They’re gorgeous. What are their names?’
‘Mustard and Mayo.’
Raising an eyebrow, she gave him a quick grin. ‘Interesting choice of names.’
A sputter of pleasure fired through him at the teasing in her voice. And he experienced a crazy urge to keep this brief moment of ease between them going. But that didn’t make sense, so instead he said curtly, ‘Remind me of your name again?’
Her eyes grew wide and her cheeks reddened. With a low groan she threw her hands up in the air. ‘I knew it. I woke you up, didn’t I?’
He folded his arms. ‘Maybe I’m just terrible at remembering people’s names?’
Her eyes narrowed shrewdly. ‘I doubt that very much.’ And then she added, ‘So, do you always go to bed so early?’
The moment she had the words out an even deeper blush bloomed on her cheeks and her lips twisted into a small wince.
Something fired in his blood. ‘Only when I have good cause to.’
Her mouth fell open.
For a moment they just stared at one another, and the atmosphere immediately grew thick with awareness. Two strangers, alone in a house. She was wearing his clothes. The spark of something happening between them had his pulse firing for the first time in years. And warning bells rang in his ears. She was his neighbour. He was not into relationships. Period. He was no good at them. He had a long day ahead of him. He needed to walk away.
* * *
A coil of heat grew in Aideen’s belly.
Propped against an antique wing-backed chair, in the low light of the kitchen, Patrick looked at her with an edgy darkness. She stood close by, her back to the island unit. She dropped her gaze to the small sprigs of flowers on the material covering the chair, instantly recognising the signature motif of a luxurious French textile manufacturer. Everything in this house was expensive, out of her league. Including its owner.
She should talk, but her pulse was beating way too quickly for her to formulate a sensible sentence. He went to stand up, and his movement prompted her to blurt out, ‘Aideen Ryan... My name is Aideen Ryan.’
Rather reluctantly he held out his hand. ‘And I’m Patrick Fitzsimon.’
Thrown by the way her heart fluttered once again at the touch of his hand, she said without thinking, ‘Oh, I know that.’
‘Really?’