A dog came to sit either side of her as she stooped to slip an espadrille on each foot. ‘If you’re trying to deter me, save your breath. I was brought up on the aroma of fertiliser and grip of secateurs.’
He shrugged. ‘Then you’ll be able to show me a thing or two.’
‘I didn’t want to say it, but that’s kind of my point.’
She strolled away, her derrière swaying a little too freely to be entirely unconscious. Ice, be damned. If her head was saying to concentrate on business, her body hadn’t got the message yet.
She cast a look over one delicate shoulder. ‘Are you sure you want to do this? You could always tell my father you needed more time to decide. I’ll work around him and the situation, and when you check back in two months—’
‘Six weeks.’
‘Six weeks,’ she conceded as he caught up, ‘you’ll see everything is going forward nicely and you can, in all good conscience, step away from the buy.’
‘You mean do the honourable thing.’
She flashed him a toothpaste-ad smile. ‘Precisely.’
He had his own ideas on how to approach Rodney with the subject of this ‘trial’. But Celeste was right about one thing: she didn’t give in easily. Pity for her, but he didn’t give in at all. He wouldn’t be fobbed off.
‘Having me right alongside you was part of the deal, remember? Of course, if you’d like me to remind you again…’
Knowing full well what he alluded to—the kiss—she looked away, dropped her chin and quickened her pace.
He slipped his hands in his pockets. Interesting response. Was Celeste Prince a pussycat masquerading in vixen’s clothing? Although that would make her easier to handle, he almost preferred it the other way. She’d been dead on when she’d said he liked a challenge—particularly one who kissed like she did.
She stopped before a large metal shed, then, putting her weight behind its sliding door, pushed until a row of lawnmowers was revealed. She waved a theatrical hand. ‘Choose your poison.’
He let out a whistle. ‘That’s quite a selection.’
‘Before my father started the franchise, he fixed mowers for a living. Now he collects them.’
‘Like stamps, only bigger.’
She laughed. ‘Something like that.’
Sauntering into the enclosure, which smelled of rags and dry lawn clippings, he fought the urge to kick a few tyres. ‘This one should do the trick.’
Red and clearly well maintained, it reminded him of a model he’d used when he was a kid. He’d received a dollar whenever he’d tended the yard, but his foster dad’s smile had been the best reward. He had only ever given praise, and had never raised his voice as some of the other ‘dads’ had. Six months into Ben’s stay with his new family, that man had died of a heart attack. In his foster mother’s red-rimmed eyes—in her overly kind voice—Ben had guessed his fate. Next house. Next family. Hell, by that time, he should’ve been used to it.
Celeste ran her hand over the metal handle. ‘This one must be over twenty years old. Wouldn’t you like a newer model?’
He wheeled it outside. ‘This’ll do fine.’
He stooped and ripped the cord. The engine whirred, but didn’t kick over. Putting some back into it, he pulled again. Splutter, whir, then nothing. Seeing her dainty foot pegged out, but avoiding her eyes, he set his hat on the ground and yanked the cord almost out of its connection.
He smothered a wince and stood back. He would not rub his shoulder.
‘It must be broken.’
Celeste sauntered forward and, with one perfectly manicured tip, flicked a small lever. Frowning, he looked closer.
The lever said ‘Fuel’. How’d he miss that?
‘Try it now,’ she said.
He shifted his jaw, bent to rip the cord again and the motor roared to life.
With a solemn face, he nodded deeply. ‘Good work,’ he said over the noise.
Her eyes were laughing. ‘Does that mean I pass the first test?’
He flexed a brow. ‘I believe that was the second test.’
Her emerald eyes darkened but this time she didn’t look away.
Pleased to have his vixen back, he settled his hands on the metal bar and remembered a vibration that shook all the way up to rattle his teeth. ‘In your professional opinion, how long do you think this will take?’
‘This model’s not self-propelled, so the best part of the morning,’ she called back.
He stepped away and indicated the mower. ‘There you go.’ Distaste dragging on her face, she stepped back too. ‘What’s wrong? You grew up with fertiliser and secateurs. You’ve mown a lawn before, surely.’
If he worked her hard enough, she’d be running off to her handbag shop by midweek. One day, she might even thank him.
She turned off the fuel. ‘It’s a large block. If you insist I do this, I’ll use a ride-on.’
A few moments later, another engine was growling, a monster this time. A ride-on? This model was more like a tractor.
She found some gardening gloves and wriggled her French tips into each slot while he plonked his Akubra on her head. ‘You’ll need this. It’s getting hot.’
Her chin tilted and she peered at him from beneath the overly large brim. ‘Thanks.’ Her tone said she wasn’t sure she meant it.
After she’d pulled herself up behind the wheel, he hauled up behind her.
She rotated around, then ducked as his leg swung over her head. ‘What the hell are you doing?
He squeezed down behind her on the adequate seat, tandem style. Nice fit. Nice perfume too. Light and flowery with a hint of a bite. Suited Miz Prince to a sassy tee.
‘I told you last night. If we’re doing this, I’ll need to be your shadow.’
As if he had rabies, she shunted closer to the steering wheel. ‘Perhaps you need a drink first. How’s ice tea?’
‘I prefer something hot in the morning.’
She turned fully around and sent him a warning glare from way beneath that Akubra brim. ‘You won’t scare me off.’
Well, hopefully not too soon.
He waved his hand at the steering wheel. ‘Then I suggest you drive.’
Determination filled her eyes. She released the handbrake and planted her
