by Coleen Kwan
“Where should we meet?” She thought of her parents’ bungalow and her mother, and quickly rejected that option. “How about I open up The Tuckerbox just for you?”
“No. Come to my place. Noon. You know where it is.”
“Your place?” She crinkled her brow. “You don’t mean…”
“Blackstone Hall. Of course. Where else would I live?”
“But I thought…”
“The bank repossessed it, yes, but I managed to buy it back a couple of years ago.”
A cloud of questions buzzed round her, but she had no time to ask any as Adam revved up the truck. He slammed the door shut then wound down the window to lean out.
“I’m not in the main house,” he said. “I’m round the back. Just drive round till you see my truck.”
He drove off, leaving Harriet to wonder what she’d let herself in for.
Harriet had passed the wrought-iron gates of Blackstone Hall countless times, but had never actually entered the grounds. As she nosed her hatchback down a gravel driveway overgrown with weeds, her curiosity grew, overtaking the nervousness which had been brewing in her stomach all morning. She’d heard that Blackstone Hall was a magnificent colonial country home, and as she rounded a bend and caught her first glimpse of it, she wasn’t disappointed.
The Georgian-style mansion stood on a slight rise, surrounded by mature Moreton Bay fig trees. Built of sandstock brick and slate, it had an air of refinement and historic mellowness. But as she neared, she began to notice the signs of neglect—the missing roof tiles, the cracked stained-glass windows, the broken wooden fretwork on the front veranda. A pile of rotting timber and building rubble mouldered on a patchy front lawn infested with dandelions and oxalis.
As Adam had instructed, she followed the driveway as it wound past the main homestead and curved down the hill. Here was a cluster of old barns and dilapidated workshops, and on the rising slope of the next hill she spied Adam’s truck parked outside a modest brick cottage with a red corrugated-iron roof. She brought her car to a halt next to his just as he strolled out of the cottage.
Her pulse rate kicked up as she greeted him. Adam in casual weekend mode looked dangerously attractive. He wore clean, faded denim jeans and a Mambo T-shirt. His feet were bare and his jaw unshaven, the short dark stubble highlighting his rugged good looks. He could have stepped out of the pages of an advertisement for men’s cologne, and here she was about to cook lunch for him.
She lifted a box out the back of her car.
“Here, let me get that for you.”
His deep voice came from behind her, and her chest tightened when his fingers brushed against hers for a brief second as he took the box from her and carried it into the cottage. She inhaled deeply. What a schoolgirl she was. She picked up a second box and followed him.
“Why are you living in this cottage and not in the main house?” she asked.
“You saw the house when you drove past.” He dumped the box on a scrubbed kitchen table. “It’s not exactly habitable, so I’m staying here in the meantime.”
She pushed her box onto the table. “What is this place? The visitors’ cottage?”
“No. It used to be the caretaker’s cottage.”
Harriet glanced about, taking in the plain surroundings. The cottage appeared to consist of one large room with a bathroom and a main bedroom leading off. A spiral staircase wound upstairs, probably to a couple more attic bedrooms. The place was neat and freshly painted, but rather spartan. A couch, a television, a wooden kitchen table and a rustic dresser were scattered around the room. One corner was taken up by a small, functional kitchen. Another corner held a desk with a computer and files. There was a plain carpet, a few paintings and books, but no cushions or plants or framed photographs. It looked like a place where Adam slept, ate and did his paperwork, but little else. It didn’t look like a home at all.
“What do you think?” Adam’s voice cut in on her musings. “A big come-down from the mansion on the hill, isn’t it?”
She couldn’t stop the flush mounting her neck, because that was exactly what she’d been thinking. But she’d rather die than admit that.
“Not at all.” She strolled around the room. “It’s a nice place. I like the wooden floors and the big picture windows and that old stone fireplace. It just needs a little…accessorising.”
She looked around her again. With a few cushions and pots of geraniums on the windowsills and maybe a marmalade cat it would be a really cosy place. She’d be perfectly happy in this cottage. But then again, for her it was no big come-down.
He grunted, seeming a little surprised. “I don’t exactly have the time for ‘accessorising.’ I have my hands full with that.” He nodded his head in the direction of the main house, which was visible through the windows above the kitchen sink.
Harriet stepped over for a closer look. From here she could see the back of the house and the signs of decay were even more apparent. “I don’t understand. Why is it so dilapidated?”
The chill that descended over him was palpable. “It’s a long story.” He turned away from her, his shoulders rigid. “Do you have anything else to bring in?”
“Just one more box,” she replied, regretting his change of mood.
“I’ll get it.”
She frowned after him. Not exactly an auspicious start. With a sigh she pulled out her apron from one of the boxes and tied it on before she started unpacking her supplies. Focus, she told herself. Focus on the task at hand and stop dwelling on Adam living in this utilitarian cottage within view of his crumbling family home. But it was hard to do that when she was so hyper-conscious of his every movement. When he returned with the last box, she had her back turned to him, but she knew without looking where he was and sensed him studying her from across the room.
What was he thinking? What did he make of her? Was he comparing her to her sister? Or his cousin? Her skin crawled at the thought. She busied herself grabbing containers and ingredients out of the boxes and flicking on the oven.
Last night she’d agonised for hours over what to serve him for lunch. Adam might be a down-to-earth builder these days, but once upon a time he’d been accustomed to the finest food and wine, and a discerning palate didn’t disappear just because wealth did. She would have to work hard if she wanted to impress him. This made her even more anxious, so much that she could barely keep still, and she found herself hopping from one foot to the other as she went about her preparations.
She took out her chef’s knife and began chopping some hazelnuts. The sound of the blade whacking the board echoed through the room. She heard Adam shift his weight, and instantly her fingers tightened on the knife. This wouldn’t do. If she didn’t relax soon she’d slice off her thumb, and that wouldn’t help matters at all.
“Um, guess who I ran into at the shops this morning?” she said, babbling just a little. “Sister Joseph. You remember, from Brescia High? She looks just the same—the most terrifying nun I ever had to face.”
“Sister Joseph? Yeah, I remember her. Was she that terrifying though? I always thought she was pretty easygoing.”
Harriet couldn’t help snorting. “For you, maybe. You were the golden boy of the school. You walked on water as far as Sister Joseph was concerned, but it was a bit different for some of us.”
“I never really thought about it, but I suppose you’re right.”
“No supposing. School was no picnic for me.”
He moved to the table, a chair scraping along the floor as he sat down. “You had a hard time at school?”
His question floored her. Slowly she put down her knife and turned to face him. “Why do you ask now? After all this time?”
He picked up a pot lid, examined its shiny surface and laid it back down. His eyes, grey and frank, fixed on her. “Because I’d like to know.”
Did he really want to know the truth about her school days? And why? So that he could feel better about himself? No, that wasn’t it. Whatever Adam was
, she couldn’t accuse him of schadenfreude.
“My schooldays were the same as for any other overweight, shy teenager without any special talents,” she replied, disliking the defensive tone in her voice but unable to stem it. “I read a lot, hung out with the other social outcasts and told myself that one day it would all be over.” She moved away and began to spread an oven tray with diced pumpkin and beetroot. “And one day it was!”
She slid the tray into the oven before turning back to Adam. “You and I grew up in the same town and attended the same school, but we might as well have been living in parallel universes.”
He didn’t say anything. All the while his gaze had never left her, and she found herself doing her nervous hopping again as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“Parallel universes?” He lifted his brows. “That’s going a bit far.”
Without warning an eleven-year-old memory flared up in her mind. She wrinkled her brow at him. “You don’t believe me? Do you remember the time my shirt split open right in front of you?”
“You’re making this up, right?”
“I’m deadly serious. I was seventeen and school had just started. I’d piled on a lot of weight over the summer holidays, and my uniform was too tight for me.” She grimaced at the memory. She could almost feel those rolls of fat jiggling around her again. “When I walked out of school, I tried to hitch my bag over my shoulder, but my shirt ripped open under my arm.” She paused as she relived that excruciating afternoon. “You were hanging out nearby with Portia and her best friend, Erin Grayson. When they saw what had happened, Portia and Erin laughed at me.”
He leaned forward, frowning. “Did they? I don’t remember that, sorry.” A shadow crossed his face. “And…what did I do? I didn’t laugh at you too, did I?”
She shook her head. “You didn’t. You said, ‘Lay off her, will you? She can’t help it if she’s chunky.’”
His frown deepened. “Did I really say that?”
“Yes. I just ran off, too humiliated to say a word.”
He picked at a groove in the kitchen table. “Kids—teenagers can be cruel and thoughtless sometimes. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
She breathed out a silent sigh. Adam just didn’t get it. He didn’t realise it hadn’t been Portia and Erin’s snickering that had made her run off, but his pity. She’d grown used to being ignored or ridiculed by the school’s queen bees, but up until then she hadn’t realised that Adam saw her that way. As that poor girl who couldn’t help it if she was “chunky.” Parallel universes indeed.
“It’s all in the past now,” she said briskly. She swung back to her chopping board and snatched up a bunch of chervil. Chop, chop, chop! Her knife was a blur of steel. She swept the shredded herbs into a small bowl.
“I remember when you fell off your dirt bike.”
Her knife froze in midair. “You remember that?”
“Yeah. I was on my way back from soccer, cutting through the meadow, and you were on your bike. You took a corner too fast and came a cropper. Your arm was bleeding, and you were trying not to cry.”
Her heart did a quick flip. He remembered! Sure, he remembered her bleeding and snivelling, but he did remember. “I was terrified I’d damaged my dad’s bike. That’s why I was crying.”
“Oh, of course. Didn’t I help you bandage up your arm?”
She nodded. “You used one of your football socks.”
“That’s right.” Adam drummed his fingertips on the table. “I don’t remember you giving me back my sock.”
She’d laundered the sock by hand and kept it folded up at the bottom of her drawer. It was still there now. She turned to rinse her knife so he wouldn’t be able to see her face.
“Oh, didn’t I? I’m sure I did.”
She picked up a tea towel and dried the knife carefully, aware of him watching her.
She shot him a wary glance. His eyes held a strange curiosity, a curiosity about her, she suddenly realised, and her pulse thumped a little harder.
“It’s funny how life turns out,” he said. “I used to be so full of myself when I was at school. Thank God that’s been drummed out of me. And as for you, well, you don’t need me to tell you how much you’ve changed.”
He shifted on his chair as he contemplated her, his eyes lingering on her bare legs below her dress and making her even more cautious.
“You look really nice these days since you—”
He broke off, his face tensing, and she knew he hadn’t meant to speak his mind.
Hot embarrassment rippled through her, starting in her toes and rising all the way to the roots of her hair. As her cheeks throbbed, she saw his face start to flush, as well. His big hands gripped the edge of the table.
“You mean,” she said, “since I’ve lost weight?”
“Obviously I’m being insensitive again,” he muttered. “Please just ignore me.”
The discomfort in his voice surprised her even more. He pushed to his feet, the chair screeching back in his haste. “Maybe I’ll just wait outside and stay out of your way.”
“No, don’t do that.” The words left her almost before she’d thought them. “I don’t want you to think I’m still hung up about my weight.”
His shoulders relaxed. “That’s a relief.”
The trouble was, she suspected she was still hung up about her weight. Especially around Adam. What did he see when he looked at her? The woman she was now? Or the hulking shadow of her adolescent self?
“All through school I battled with my weight, but as soon as I left home I lost it without really noticing. I was so busy studying at hotel school I didn’t have time or energy to binge eat, and when I started working…well, I’m on my feet a lot of the time, moving around, doing things. I guess it all burns up calories. And being around food constantly is actually a bonus. Yes, I’m tasting stuff all the time, but it’s little mouthfuls, and by the time I’ve spent a whole day smelling food, making food and decorating food, I find I don’t want to eat that much of it.”
She straightened the corners of her apron and gave him a faint smile. “But I guess the biggest reason I’ve lost weight is because I’m doing something I love and I’m good at it. I don’t have a reason to compensate by overeating anymore.”
Adam nodded. “And the glasses? What happened to them?”
“Laser surgery. I had my eyes done as soon as I could afford it. Having glasses steam up and slide off isn’t very safe or practical in a hectic kitchen.”
He continued to study her, his expression concentrated, as though she were a mystery he was determined to solve. She couldn’t understand this new interest in her, and she didn’t like the way her body fizzed with hope. Hope? No. Never had she hoped for Adam’s attention; she’d always known she was out of his league. In a different universe. So why now? Why this coltish excitement bubbling up in her? It was stupid and crazy. She didn’t want to get involved with Adam Blackstone, and he surely wasn’t interested in her. Circumstances forced him to tolerate her, but deep down he still despised her.
But right now, right this minute, it didn’t feel that way to her, and she didn’t know how to handle the situation.
The oven timer rang. With a sigh of relief she reached for her oven mitt.
Chapter Four
The entrée Harriet served surprised Adam. While she was cooking, his mind hadn’t been on food, and when she laid the plate before him, it took him a few moments to remember why she was here.
“Autumn vegetable salad with crab and hazelnuts,” Harriet announced as she sat down at the table opposite him. “Hope you like it.”
He liked the bright colours of the roasted pumpkin and beetroot and the green chervil. He glanced at her plate. “You’ve given me twice as much.”
“You’re twice my size.” She picked up her fork and dug in.
He was glad she’d given him such a generous serving; the warm salad was delicious, and he was hungry even though he hadn’t had a very strenuous mornin
g. Before he knew it, he’d cleaned his plate.
“What’s next?”
She ran a considering eye over him. “I thought a good main for your Harvest Ball would be a pan-roasted eye fillet. I’ve already prepared it, so it won’t take long to cook.”
She rose from the table, and he found himself watching her again. There was something about Harriet that compelled him to follow her every step. She moved around his small kitchen like a dancer, nudging a drawer shut with her hips, flexing her arms as she lifted a heavy pan, tensing her calf muscles as she reached up to flick on the extractor fan.
The white apron tied firmly around her blue dress accentuated her curves. She’d tied back her shiny brown hair into a ponytail, but little tendrils had escaped and curled around her nape and ears. She stood at the stove with her back to him, and his gaze lingered on the rounded curve of her bottom before sliding down her smooth legs. Abruptly he shook his head and forced his eyes away. What the hell was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he stop ogling her? This was Harriet Brown, for chrissakes.
It must be the food, he thought, massaging the worn edge of the table. It had been so long since he’d had an attractive woman in his kitchen cooking him a fantastic meal that his senses were confused. Not that he had any trouble pulling women, but none of them, as far as he could remember, had ever had any culinary inclinations.
His eyes slid back to Harriet. She flitted between the hissing pans and her chopping board, never missing a step, as if she’d been here forever. She looked so right here in his kitchen.
He turned away, and when he caught sight of the main house sitting on the opposite hill, he almost welcomed the sharp stab of pain in his abdomen. Yes, he fumed against himself, stop goggling at Harriet and concentrate on that ramshackle mansion over there. He should be sitting up there proud in the Blackstone home, surrounded by reminders of his family, not down here in the caretaker’s cottage. He focused grimly on the house until all the pleasure he’d found in studying Harriet shrivelled up and disappeared.
He didn’t want to feel good in her company. And he shouldn’t have talked about their school days and her appearance. He didn’t want to feel sympathy for her. More than that, he didn’t want to be reminded he’d been a bit of a jerk when he was growing up. He didn’t need all that baggage clouding his judgement when it came to Harriet.
