his nights with her, but he’d never once thought about where they were going, or wondered what she thought their relationship was about. He’d been too busy flailing around in his own crap after his father’s diagnosis—winding down his own company, stepping up to take over the reins of the business, trying to support his mother, trying to do anything and everything to ease his father’s distress.
“You didn’t create expectations. I did.” Her voice was heavy with tears but she was doing her best to hold them in.
“God, Hales, I’m so sorry.” He pulled her into his arms, guilt a physical burn in his chest.
She might be prepared to let him off the hook, but he wasn’t. He’d been selfish, taking comfort where he could find it. Not thinking about the consequences. Not thinking about tomorrow at all.
She rested her head on his shoulder but didn’t try to return his embrace. After a moment he let her go. Her eyes were filled with tears and she brushed them away with her fingertips.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not quite meeting his gaze. Then she stood and rushed from the room.
Flynn heard the bedroom door click shut. He mouthed a four-letter word, angry with himself, angry with the situation. He fell back against the cushions and raked his fingers through his hair.
He had no doubt that right now, Hayley was howling her eyes out on the bed they were supposed to share tonight. He swore again. He was a bastard. A stupid, selfish, thoughtless bastard.
The urge to get up and go gripped him, to walk away from the cottage and the scene that had played out, but he didn’t move. The least he could do was be here if Hayley needed him. The very least.
MEL SPENT THE first half of the afternoon repairing the rotten windowsill. Her thoughts drifted from topic to topic as she chipped away the damaged wood with a hammer and chisel, but she kept coming back to Flynn and his girlfriend.
They were an attractive couple, with his dark good looks and her pale skin and fiery hair. They were socially well-matched, too, both bringing equal clout to the table. No one would look down their noses when they arrived at functions or events. No one would whisper behind their backs or laugh and speculate about how long their relationship would last and what, exactly, Hayley had done to land her man.
The chisel slipped and Mel’s breath hissed out as the sharp metal sliced into the fleshy part of her thumb. She sucked on it for a second before inspecting the wound. Blood welled, but it was a shallow cut. She’d live.
She went inside for a bandage and returned to finish the repair, replacing the excised wood with builder’s filler. Afterward, she made the ten-minute drive to her parents’ place to help her mother finalize the invitations for their upcoming thirty-fifth wedding anniversary. She stayed for an early dinner, then drove home.
She was in the bedroom, ready to pull on her pajamas for a cozy night in front of the TV, when a knock echoed through the house. It came from the back door, and she quickly pulled her cargo pants on. She fastened the stud as she made her way to the kitchen and the door.
It was Flynn, his face shuttered, his body half turned away. “Sorry to disturb you. I need to give you this.” He handed over the key to the cottage.
Mel stared at it for a second before lifting her gaze to his. “You’re leaving?”
“Yes.”
“Is something wrong with the accommodation? If there’s a problem, I can offer you one of the other cottages.”
“It’s nothing to do with the cottage. Everything’s been great. Something has come up.”
She tried to gather her thoughts. She’d had last-minute cancellations, and she’d had no-shows, but she’d never had guests walk out halfway through their stay.
“Okay. Well. I hope you enjoyed your time here. What there was of it, anyway.”
“We did, thanks.” He gave her a small, tight smile before turning and walking down the steps.
She watched him for a minute, frowning. Maybe it was her imagination, but he looked tired. Defeated.
She caught her own thoughts and made a rude noise. Flynn Randall was filthy rich, better-looking than any man had a right to be and in the prime of his life. He probably didn’t know how to spell defeat, let alone how to experience it.
She, on the other hand, was an expert.
On that cheery note, she went to get ready for bed.
CHAPTER THREE
THREE WEEKS LATER, Mel stooped to wrap her arms around the hessian-covered root ball of the orange tree she’d excavated from her front yard. She’d pruned the branches and dug the roots out in stages, giving the tree time to adjust to the brutal surgery she was practicing. But now it was time to haul it to its new home. She felt a little like the horticultural equivalent of Atilla the Hun in uprooting the tree from its old home, but this was a necessary evil—it had been badly sited by the previous owners and would never thrive or even bear fruit in its current position.
Once she was confident she had a reliable grip, Mel flexed her legs and attempted to lift the tree onto the waiting wheelbarrow. As she’d half expected, the tree barely budged, despite giving it her all. Between the weight of the tree and the amount of dirt and clay contained in the root ball, it was bloody heavy. She might have rugby league shoulders, but she wasn’t a miracle worker.
She sat back on her heels and looked up at the shiny green foliage towering over her. She was tempted to call her father or brother to ask them to lend a hand, but she didn’t want them to feel as though she only called when she needed something.
Which meant it was time to move on to Plan B. Not that she was a hundred-percent certain it would work, either. But what the hey.
She headed to the house—the canvas drop sheet she was looking for was in the spare room. After she’d grabbed it and was on her way outside, she glanced into the living room. The clock on the mantel told her it was ten, which meant she had an hour until Flynn Randall was due to check in. Plenty of time to do what needed to be done.
She still couldn’t quite believe he was coming to stay with her again. He’d called on Wednesday and she’d been so surprised to hear his voice it had taken her an embarrassingly long time to respond to his greeting. After his last stay—or, more accurately, his nonstay—she’d thought she would never hear from him again. Even though he’d said the accommodation had been fine and she’d been inclined to believe him, his visit couldn’t exactly have been called successful.
Yet he’d made another booking, and she’d been feeling nervous and on edge ever since she’d marked the reservation in her diary. Which was genuinely pathetic given that she’d long since sifted through her reaction to his last visit and come to the depressing conclusion the reason he put her on edge was because of who he was—a Randall.
Old habits died hard, apparently.
She was determined to get over the anxiety this time around. He was a man, he put his pants on one leg at a time, and she would respond to him as she would any other man. If it killed her. The same went for his girlfriend. They were people, and they were guests, and that was it. They weren’t any more special than anyone else she played host to.
The
