Before the Rain

by JoAnne Kenrick

  Slumped in relief, she let out a gasp. Then doubt trickled in. Was she going the right way? She double-checked her mapping device. To be sure, she reprogrammed her destination into the darn thing.

  She watched for the turn off for Ffermydd Cododd, which her sister had translated for her when they were back in Georgia planning this trip. Rose Farm.

  Her destination should be less than half a mile away.

  She drove on with her sight glued straight ahead, praying no more vehicles came along.

  “You have arrived at your destination,” the GPS announced.

  She was smack in the middle of the countryside with nothing for miles except grass and more grass. The stupid thing had lied.

  Maybe the asshat was right and she had driven miles in the wrong direction on a one-way road. Oh, my goodness.

  She peered out at the scenery; nothing there except fields and a dirt road leading to nowhere.

  “Recalculating route. Turn around when possible. U-turn ahead,” the robotic voice chimed.

  Zoe hit the reset button, but the device was totally non-responsive. Zigzags shot across the screen, and it powered down.

  “Darn it.”

  Zoe pulled into one of the parking spaces off the road and searched for a map in the glove compartment.

  A horn sounded behind her.

  She twisted and glanced out her back mirror, praying it wasn’t the pickup truck Welshman.

  It was him. Of course, because that was her luck all over.

  “Ugh, hoped I’d never see him again,” she grated, her shoulders tightening even more. The asshat with the muddy truck not worth a shit thrummed down the road and pulled up next to her.

  She sank in her seat and hoped he’d go away.

  There were two options: Ignore him, hope he goes away and that she magically finds Rose Farm. Or suck it up and ask for help.

  Before she decided on asking for directions, he had swung open his door and climbed down.

  “You lost, love?” He tapped on her window. “Hey, Miss America, I asked if you were lost.”

  “Nuh-uh.” She shook her head, keeping her focus straight ahead and not daring to glance his way.

  “Love, open your window. Perhaps I can help.”

  She paused before winding her window down a little, but not enough for him to stick his hand in. Slowly turning to face him, she said, “Sir, I’m looking for….” She paused before even trying to announce the name of the farm. Instead, she decided to go with the English option. “Rose Farm.”

  He leaned against her car and smirked, his intense dark eyes gleaming. He peered from behind his mop of dark hair, his stare fierce. “What business do you have at Rose?”

  It must have been the fresh country air sparking her long-neglected desires back to life, because his rawness turned her on. Or perhaps it was the growl in his accent. A fleeting idea to invite him to her backseat hit like a bolt of lightening. But would they fit? Maybe if she straddled him. Darn it, not even a full day in Wales and she had already broken her sabbatical rule of no swooning over men. Okay, so she wasn’t exactly swooning, but she was thinking up positions to make sex in a public place in a tiny car doable. Kind of counted as the same thing, didn’t it?

  “Your business at Rose Farm, love?”

  Zoe pressed the power switch on the GPS over and over, determined not to stare at him. Though no matter how hard she tried, her gaze drifted to meet his. She stuttered, “Erm, never mind. I’m sure I can get this thing working again.”

  “I told you that ‘thing’ won’t help you out here.” He huffed and checked his watch.

  “Am I keeping you?” People still wear watches?

  “Yes, so let’s get you on your way. You best take Bramble Road.” He pointed down the dirt road.

  “That leads nowhere. Do I look dumb to you?”

  “Well, you’re stupid enough to drive the wrong way down a one-way road.”

  How rude. And how completely and utterly sex on legs. What the heck was it with this stranger who had her panties in a knot?

  “Yeah.” She dipped her gaze but realized she’d settled her sight line on his package straining his faded jeans, and she snapped her attention back to his face. “I’m totally lost. Could you be a little more helpful?”

  He snickered and shifted his weight, his eyes narrowing on her. “I can do helpful when I want to.”

  “And do you want to be?”

  He raised a shoulder in a sort of half-shrug. “Not particularly inspired right now. How about you ask me nicely?”

  Really? Ugh. All she had found attractive about him just dived out the window. “Fine. Would you please direct me to Rose Farm?” she asked with a forced smile.

  “Beyond those trees, you’ll find Rose Cottage and Rose Farm. Just half a mile down there.”

  To thank the man grated on her nerves, but as her mom had brought her up to be polite she did as required. “Thank you, sir.”

  “Sir?” He shook his head. “Get on your way now. Hate to see you get on Betty’s bad side, and you will if you mess with her allotted time for baking. She has a set schedule and hates anyone who throws it off. You need the first two-story house as you pull in. Red door. Black Jeep in the driveway. Can’t miss it, Miss America.”

  “Betty?”

  “You’re renting out Rose Cottage for the summer, right? If so, you’ll need to see Betty Mostyn to get the keys. And as it goes, she doesn’t take kindly to being called dumb or an ass so be nice.”

  “Ms. Mostyn? Yes, that’s who I need. I need Betty.”

  “You need Betty?” He shot her a studious glance then diverted his line of sight to the trash on the floor and raised a brow. “She’s a clean freak. Besides, I believe she’s already dating someone.”

  Heat raced to Zoe’s cheeks. She wasn’t sure what embarrassed her more, the double entendre or the mess in her car.

  “I’m just messing with you.” He patted the roof. “Ask Betty for a road map when you catch up with her. I can’t be wasting time dancing on the roads with you again.”

  He climbed back in his truck. She admired his tight, fitted jeans, faded where the material hugged his rounded ass and thick thighs, and she couldn’t help but crane her neck to get a better view.

  Welcome to Wales, Zoe.

  Chapter Three

  Stones crunched beneath the wheels as Zoe eased the Mini over the gravel toward a cluster of red brick buildings sitting isolated amid rolling hills. A few metal-roofed barns stood to the side. Rose Farm, she hoped. Well, she dared not to think about the other possibilities since she was now miles from civilization. She’d seen the horror movies—house in the middle of nowhere, lost tourist, and crazy people out to…she shuddered.

  “Best not let the imagination runaway with you, Zoe,” she murmured, thinking up ways to defend herself just in case.

  Normally, she kept a pistol in her purse, but customs didn’t allow such a thing. She didn’t even have pepper spray.

  Maybe spritzing travel-sized perfume in a villain’s eyes would sting enough to allow for a speedy escape? Perfume was her only available defense, that and her ability to kick darn high. She’d make do.

  She parked at the gate of the large house, got out, stretched, and sucked in a long breath. The dewy air fragrant with cut grass and floral hints refreshed her after the long journey and eased her tensed muscles a little. She took another breath, and something else in the air caught her senses and made her choke. Something sweet but not so pleasant—cow poop.

  She waved a hand across her face to rid the smell from her nostrils.

  That reminded her. Perfume.

  She dragged the tiny spray bottle of eau de toilette out of her purse and doused herself in the floral hues to refresh from the eau-de-day-of-travel stink. She then tucked the bottle into the pocket of her light hoodie so she’d be able to grab her secret weapon if the Welshman had led her down the path to a lunatic.

  A
sign hung above the main entrance to the building, but the glare from the sun reflected across the black plaque and obscured the words. She hoped it said Rose Farm.

  The hinges of the metal gates creaked as she pushed her way into the garden of the farmhouse, which boasted a red door. Pink roses climbed the corners and twisted around sash windows where cream net curtains hung. And a black Jeep was parked in front of the detached two-car garage.

  She made her way up the drive.

  A-ha. The sign above the door confirmed the address. Ffermydd Cododd. Rose Farm.

  The grounds were immaculate down to the perfectly paved pathway lined with a bright purple and yellow border of pansies and lavender.

  A dog whizzed by her feet, tail wagging, and splattered mud over her coffee-stained designer yoga pants before racing behind the house.

  She rubbed at the mess but her efforts made it worse and ground the mud deeper into the material. Yes, she’d littered. Yes, she’d spilled stuff. And, yes, she wore casual clothes. But they were expensive and the “not trying to look good” style wasn’t cheap to keep up with. Jobless, she might not be able to afford to splurge on outfits for a long while. Oops.

  “Okay, breathe, Zoe. Coffee and mud washes out. It isn’t the end of the world.”

  Several sheep gathered at the property fence separating the farm’s garden from the neighboring field. They bleated and shuffled toward her, and mashed up against the chicken-wire fence. Lucy had told her about these sheep. How they appeared at the oddest moments, as if following her at all times. “Stalked” was the word her sister had used. At the time Zoe had thought the tale an exaggeration. Now she believed it.

  They watched her every step, their beady eyes glued on her as she inched toward the property. Gave her the creeps. But then so did the prospect of knocking on a stranger’s door in the middle of nowhere.

  Before she rang the doorbell, a short, stocky woman wearing curlers and a flour-dusted apron stepped out in brown slippers. “Can I help you?”

  “Ms. Mostyn, I presume?”

  The woman’s brow went up and she cocked an arm to her hip. “Ia, what can I do you for?”

  “I’m Zoe Chantilly, Lucy’s sister. I’m sure she told you I was coming. I’m using the time she had left on her one-year lease.”

  She shook her head. “I dunno. No one mentioned anything of the sort, so it goes.”

  “I’m certain all this was arranged, and I have the printed-out email a Mr. Dylan Mostyn sent to confirm.” Zoe produced the paper from her purse and presented it to the woman. “See.”

  Ms. Mostyn waved the paper away. “I’m sure you’re right. But Dylan will be home shortly, we’ll wait for him.”

  “Wait? How long will he be?”

  “He won’t be long.”

  “I’ve been in Dolgellau for several hours now, and y’all are giving me the runaround. All I want is a hot bath and a hot meal.”

  The woman sniggered. “Dol-gel-laa? I think you mean Doch-ell-aye, lass. The locals will tear you to bits if they hear you call the village Dol-gel-laa.”

  The plump, scowling woman poked her chubby index finger through a curl dangling over her eyebrow and pulled on it. The tendril bounced right back then bobbed with every syllable she spoke.

  “Is that so?”

  “Yes. Now, use your tongue when you’re pronouncing Welsh. Stick it on the roof of your mouth and round out those vowels. Try it. Go on.”

  Zoe twiddled the perfume bottle between her fingers, patience sliced thin. Not that she planned to spray the woman. Not yet, anyway. “Do you have the keys for me, or did I travel all day for nothing?”

  “Calm down. I meant no harm.” Her smirk told a different story.

  “Ma’am, I’m real tired, and I’m pretty darn close to losing my cool.”

  Ms. Mostyn tsked. “Your sister was rude, too.”

  And Lucy said you were cagey.

  Zoe rolled her shoulders to release muscle knots that had been tightening ever since arriving in Wales. So much for a relaxing break. But she realized she’d been less than patient with the woman. “I’m sorry for my bad manners. It’s been a super long day and I really am exhausted.”

  “Of course, I wish I could give you the keys. Only Dylan knows where they are.” Ms. Mostyn gazed toward the front gate of the property and beamed. “Perfect timing, here he is now.”

  Zoe clenched the little bottle in her pocket and craned her neck to see who approached.

  The pickup not worth a shit pulled up around the side and out jumped the Welshman.

  Dylan Mostyn, she presumed. Great.

  What had Lucy gotten her into?

  “Right on time. Dylan will get you sorted out.”

  Mr. Mostyn strode to the door, all catalogue model-esque with his height and muscular body.

  The muddy black-and-white dog skidded from the side of the house, and the man’s face softened. A smile crept over his face.

  The scruffy animal raced to Mr. Mostyn’s feet, then matched his stride while barking out his greeting.

  “Helo. Dylan. What’s occurring with the cottage? This young girl here says she’s Lucy’s sister and that she’s here for a few months and what have you.”

  “That’s right, Aunty.” He patted the dog on the head, and the animal bounced up his step. “So you found the place, Chantilly. Brilliant.”

  “You didn’t tell me we had a tenant for the cottage, Dylan.” Betty shook her head. “I’d have been more welcoming. Where are the keys?”

  “Hanging by the coat rack in the kitchen. Where we always keep them.”

  Ms. Mostyn smirked. “Oh yeah, I forgot so I did. I’ll go get them. Just a tick.” Betty scurried off.

  Zoe turned to him. “Yes, you might’ve mentioned something, Mr. Mostyn.”

  “To who? You or Betty?”

  “Me.”

  “Yeah, what should I have said?” He raked his thick fingers through his mop, brushed his bangs to the side, and sighed. “I only agreed to let you stay at the cottage because we couldn’t afford to buy Lucy out. Maybe you’d like to hear directions to a hotel in the village square?”

  Her posture stiffened, and she scrunched her face. “Oh, I’ve upset you?”

  He dragged his teeth over his top lip, then pulled his mouth into a thin line and glanced over her shoulder.

  Throwing her arms out, she sighed.

  “Sorry, I guess all the traveling has really gotten to me. Oh, my stars. All I want is to be in a bed with my feet up and to have a mug of hot coffee.”

  “Yes, yes, of course you want to be on your back in bed. But don’t drag me into that scenario.”

  He drew a long breath. The sheepdog barked and nudged at his owner’s leg then tugged at the jeans with his teeth, trying to pull him into the house.

  “Sammy, no. Down, boy.”

  Her hands tightened. “Is everything I say going to be taken as something else?”

  Red flared across his cheeks. “Just making it clear where we stand.”

  “I can tell you where we stand, Mr. Mostyn.” She loosened her grip on the spray bottle. “Where we stand is that you’re not my type.”

  “Good, and you’re not mine.”

  “Got it. Now, moving on,” she said, narrowing her eyes on him.

  Ms. Mostyn trundled between them. “Here you go, love. The keys to the cottage.” She passed them to Zoe, then jabbed Dylan. “Don’t mind him. He’s annoyed we have to rent out the cottage. It’s nothing personal.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Nothing personal, my ass.

  Chapter Four

  An unsettled night had awarded her time to hatch a plan. And at six a.m. (eleven a.m. back home) on her first morning in Wales, she’d made a call to her ex-boss, editor-in-chief of the Georgia Times.

  This was it, her last chance to prove herself. If she convinced Rachel to give her an actual full-time writing gig, her life would be back on track.

  �
�So, how was your first night in the cottage?” Rachel asked.

  “Don’t get me wrong,” Zoe offered, “the place is comfy enough, cozy in the no-room-to-throw-a-bag sense. But I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Overtired from the journey?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is the place really pretty? I bet it is, like with rolling hills and sheep everywhere.”

  “Pretty is the perfect word to describe Rose Farm. Rose-patterned rugs, rose-patterned curtains and sofas, and everything else is either white or cream. All spotless, and it smells of fresh paint. Very Laura Ashley with a dash of Vera Bradley, but—”

  “And the bed, is it big enough for two?”

  Zoe tsked. “I’m here to write, not to share my bed.”

  She heard Rachel tapping her always well-manicured nails on her desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. “You should make time to play, too.”

  “I’ll be working the whole time. Actually, talking of work….”

  “Yes.”

  “If I send you some pages, will you read them?”

  “You used to be our best weekend girl, Zoe. No one writes a dating column like you. The twist with the astrology signs in your cutesy chick-lit style was adorable. But your advice soured with every ditched-fiancé disaster until, finally, you had no more love in you to give.”

  “But I’m over it now.”

  “Please tell me it’s not a relationship thing you’re going to pitch. If it is, I can’t help you.” Rachel’s tone was light and breezy, and Zoe sensed excitement simmering.

  “No, no. It’s not a column. And it’s not love related. I’m over love. Love done. Loved out. Love—”

  “I get it. No more love. Okay, so tell me more.”

  “Have I got what it takes to be an in-house writer?”

  Silence blanketed the conversation for a second or two, but it felt like ten or twenty.

  “Wait. Don’t say no. Not yet. Let me try. Please?” she pleaded.

  “We have no vacancies for in-house writers right now.”

  “Please, Rachel?”

  The woman hemmed and hawed. “Okay. I know how I can swing this. I want a full-page article with pictures. The whole deal. Do that and I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything, though. And I want it about you and Wales with a Saturday edition in mind. I want edgy. I want fun. I want it to be full of the Zoe zing, got it?”