Consciousness beckoned through the magical twinkle of stars and the comforting scent of lavender. Ellie’s eyelids fluttered open and she found herself cocooned on an iron-framed double bed, the cluster of fairy lights draped over the mantelpiece opposite dotting a hand-sewn coverlet with sparkles of light.
A dark figure appeared from a door to her right, holding a towel, and looking muscular and intimidating in oil-stained overalls. The magical twinkles surrounded him like dancing fairies until he stepped into the light.
Art.
The dull ache in her ribs throbbed as the events before she’d blacked out came back. Her stomach cramped. And she scooted across the bed, ready to heave over the side. ‘I need a bucket.’
And after that please leave me alone to die in peace.
The polished wooden boards creaked. And the mattress dipped as Art sat on the bed.
‘Here.’ He slapped a cold wet cloth on her nape, then lifted her wrist to position her hand over it and hold it in place. ‘You don’t need a bucket. You’re not going to puke.’
She rolled over and propped herself up to glare at him – somewhat miffed the nausea had passed. ‘How would you know?’
‘Because you haven’t eaten anything for twenty-four hours.’
She tried to hold on to her indignation, but she didn’t have the strength. Had he carried her all the way up here? And where was here?
The room looked vaguely familiar, but her brain was still too fuzzy to figure out why. ‘Where am I?’
‘Your old bedroom. Dee redecorated it when she got the email saying you were coming over.’
The room was exquisite. No wonder she hadn’t recognised it.
The space was fresh and clean, decorated with bold colours and inspired prints. A couple of huge overstuffed armchairs in one corner sat next to a sturdy wooden dresser, its vibrant yellow paint making a statement against the white walls even in the dappled glow of the fairy lights. New curtains in retro gingham were draped stylishly over long sash windows that looked out into the reddening sky as dusk fell over the woods. The Victorian grandeur of the room looked inviting now instead of forbidding. Under the scent of lavender, Ellie detected the turpentine aroma of new paint.
‘It’s beautiful,’ she murmured.
‘She put a lot of hours in fixing it up.’
The pang of guilt hit under her left ventricle, not dull this time, but sharp as a blade. What was she supposed to do with the knowledge that Dee had decided to welcome her back with home-made curtains and newly painted walls and fairy lights, like a treasured, long-lost child?
‘I wish she hadn’t gone to this much trouble,’ she said, knowing the effort her mother had put into redecorating the room would force her to reconsider her plans to leave tomorrow.
Art shrugged. ‘She wanted to do it.’ Standing up, he thrust his hands into the pockets of his overalls. ‘How are the ribs?’
‘I’ll survive.’ She placed a hand on her side. Her embarrassment at the way she’d swung at him and missed more painful right now than the bruises.
She noticed the sunburned column of his throat. Her gaze darted away, the glimpse of chest revealed by the open neck of his overalls making her aware of how much more body hair he had now than he’d had at fifteen. Not something she needed to be noticing.
‘Did you carry me all the way up here?’ she asked, the thought of those muscular arms holding her aloft not good for her equilibrium.
He nodded.
‘Thanks,’ she said, grudgingly. ‘But you didn’t have to do that.’
‘You’re not heavy. And Dee would have had my hide if I’d left you out there all night.’
The lack of sentiment was strangely comforting. At least she knew exactly where she was with Art.
But, as he put his hand on the doorknob, she felt compelled to add, ‘Thanks for getting Josh down from the treehouse. I’ll apologise to your daughter next time I see her. I shouldn’t have shouted at her.’
She’d been exhausted, and the child had definitely taken them well out of their way to get to the Clubhouse, but still she regretted the outburst – remembering the reputation she’d had at the commune once before.
Princess Drama.
How she’d loathed that nickname and all it implied – that she was a high-maintenance drama queen who was far too prissy and privileged to be included in Art’s gang.
‘Toto took you that way because I asked her to,’ he said at last.
‘What?’ she said, her shock doing nothing to cauterise the stab of hurt. ‘Why would you ask her to do that?’
‘What did Toto tell you when she came to get you?’ he asked, instead of answering her question.
‘That Josh was up a tree and he was about to fall off and break his neck,’ she replied.
He swore softly.
‘I can’t believe you would tell her to take me miles out of our way when you knew my son was in danger and that I would be worried about his safety,’ she said, finally finding her voice. ‘I know we’re not friends.’ She was ranting, but at least it disguised the tremor in her voice. ‘But I–’
‘It wasn’t like that,’ he interrupted her. ‘I only asked her to take her time so I could have Josh down before you got there. I underestimated Toto’s flare for the dramatic though, and I’m sorry about that.’
‘But…’ The simple apology cut her rant off at the knees.
‘If it’s any consolation, your son was never in danger,’ he said. ‘He’s a brave kid, who handled himself just fine.’
‘A brave fat kid you mean,’ she said, unable to let go of her resentment completely. And unsettled at the realisation that Art’s compliment meant something. Why should she care what he thought of her son?
‘I never said he was fat. I said he thinks he’s fat.’ His head dipped to one side, the patient perusal sending heat into her face. ‘There’s a difference.’
The husky tone wrong-footed her, because it made the frank assessment sound like a compliment, too. Almost.
‘No need to apologise to Toto,’ he added. ‘Your freak out might teach her to dial down on the drama.’
His gaze skimmed back over her, and her misguided belly dissolved into a warm fuzzy puddle of need. Annoyingly.
Clearly being starved of male attention – because she’d had little enough from Dan in recent years – had the potential to make her delusional.
Then her belly added insult to insanity by rumbling loudly enough to be heard in Dorset.
Art’s lips kicked up on one side. The tiny suggestion of a smile on his hard, taciturn face made her lungs seize – which only served to remind her she had several bruised ribs.
She hauled in a painful breath as he left the room and captured a lungful of his scent – soap, sweat and motor oil. The warm fuzzy delusion in the pit of her empty stomach returned.
She dragged herself out of the bed and headed to the door Art had come out of, to find a newly painted en suite bathroom, complete with light blue enamelled tiling and a pile of brand-new extra-fluffy towels.
Staring at her smudged face in the mirror above the sink, she splashed cold water on her cheeks.
Step away from the edge, Princess Drama. One almost compliment