wasn’t even her usual type. Way too big and broad and dark and foreign and sexy. For God’s sake, what woman in her right mind would fancy that? She suppressed a giggle, and started to wonder if the concussion angle might be real. She couldn’t ever remember having this kind of physical response to a strange man before. In fact, to any man at all. It was completely out of character, but nobody seemed to have told her body that. Her body was convinced that he was its very best friend, and was getting all warm and squishy to prove it.
Even though he was now practically scowling at her, she still had the urge to reach out and touch his jawline, run her fingernails over the stubble and see if it prickled; to trace the bold outline of those lips with her tongue…MARRIED, she shouted at herself. Silently. Even if her body had lost all moral fibre, she wasn’t going to start ravishing married men. He could still be a serial killer anyway, even if he did have the looks of a slightly fallen angel.
The way he was looking at her right now, for example, was unsettling. There was quite a lot of Leah on show, she realised, which didn’t bother her. She had no problems with body image, and could count her inhibitions on one hand. But his eyes were so dark; his pupils large and black and focused so intensely on hers that she started to feel breathless. Neither of them was speaking, but the air between them seemed to sing, to thrum with some kind of energy. Even the expression on his chiselled face was creating a throbbing pulse between her legs. If someone lit a match, the room would go kaboom, there was so much spark.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said finally, his voice clipped and short and tense. For a moment she couldn’t recall what she’d even said. Oh yes. An apology for disturbing him. Swooning on him. Drooling on him. Fantasising about him.
“There are women’s clothes in the wardrobe,” he snapped. “I think you’ll be way too big for them, though. If you are you’ll have to use something of mine.”
Right, Leah thought, nodding and smiling as best she could. Thanks a million, mate. That comment definitely slowed the pulse rate down a beat or two: nothing like being called a heifer by an attractive man to kill the mood. She knew she was more voluptuous than was fashionable these days, but she’d never had hang-ups. Men seemed to like it, too. Doug certainly had, until he’d decided he preferred the bridesmaid. But after those marvellously chosen words from Rob, she felt about as feminine as a prop forward for the England rugby team. Too big for women’s clothes. Wear something of his. Surely the fool realised that his clothes would swamp her, D-cups notwithstanding? Stupid idiot man.
This particular stupid idiot man seemed to realise he’d said something wrong, as he frowned, glowered, and stood up abruptly. He marched out of the room, absently running his hands through his hair and murmuring something about needing to chop down some trees. He was still muttering as the door slammed shut behind him.
Okay, thought Leah, scampering out of bed and darting through the chilly air to the wardrobe. Weird situation, but deal with it. So he’s moody. Probably some eccentric artist type, holed up here in a stone cottage on his own for Christmas. Without his wife…What kind of a wife would let a man like that out of her sight for any length of time anyway?
None of your business, she reminded herself firmly, holding up a pair of jeans that would never in a million years fit her. Surely they were made for a child, not a full-grown woman? No way her hips and bottom would shoehorn themselves into that thimble-full of denim. He must be married to a midget. Okay, that wasn’t fair. Speaking as a woman who only topped five foot on a big hair day, Leah knew there was nothing wrong with being vertically challenged.
But this midget must also be really skinny. The kind who made a single pomegranate seed last all day, with one low-fat raisin for pudding. The bitch.
She had better luck with a pair of stretchy leggings, and a plain long-sleeved white T-shirt. Admittedly it looked like it was sprayed on, and there was no bra anywhere near her size. The wedding dress had some kind of industrial strength cantilever device built in, robust enough to support the Forth Bridge, never mind her boobs.
Now she had nothing, unless she wanted to wander round like Miss Haversham all day, in a dirty, torn bridal gown. Yet another genius move on her part. If only she’d known she’d be doing a runner from her own wedding, she’d have packed an overnight bag. She’d kill for her own knickers right now.
She turned and stared into the mirror, examining her ensemble. Oh well, she thought, I am most definitely a beggar, and therefore can’t afford to be a chooser. And anyway, you can’t really see my nipples. Not unless you look really hard. Or they start to misbehave in the cold. She tugged and pulled at her hair, trying to dislodge some of the dried-on product that had moulded it around her tiara, and decided that was as good as it was going to get.
“Hey, Rob?” she shouted as she emerged back into the living area. “Are you still in here? Are you chopping down trees, and if not, can I use your phone? Mine’s out of juice and I really need to organise getting out of here.”
Getting out of here and getting home as quickly as possible, she decided, was today’s mission impossible. Yesterday’s had been escape, and later survival. Now she had to move on. To London. To their flat. To get whatever she needed and leave, before she had to face Doug again. To disappear to Timbuktu. Take a midnight train to Georgia. Join a commune in Marrakesh. Become a nun – if they took nuns in when they were 25. Whatever it took to save her dignity and spare them both the useless recriminations. Some relationships simply weren’t fixable. Funny how she’d not even admitted to herself it was broken until yesterday. Years of limping along, so used to the problems that they’d become normal. That would hurt at some point, she knew, but not now. Now she needed to be practical.
“There’s no signal here,” Rob said, emerging from the kitchen, holding a tea towel. He’d obviously decided to dry the dishes before he went logging. He stopped dead in front of her, and stared like she’d grown a third eye.
“What?” she said, feeling alarmed. “What’s wrong?”
“That…that top.”
“Oh! That. I know. You were right about the clothes. It doesn’t really fit, does it?”
“No,” he replied, still staring. “You’re more…” he trailed off, making vague body-shape gestures in the air with his hands.
“More what?” she asked. Voice quiet. Hands on hips. Eyes narrowed. Oh-oh, Rob thought, recognising that tone. Danger, danger. Tread carefully, lost soul, or you may never pee straight again.
“More…womanly?” he said, looking at her cautiously, one eyebrow raised in a question. She nodded, seemed happy enough with that, thank God. He came here every year for peace and quiet, and he could do without a cat fight with someone he barely knew to bring in the festive season.
Although, he thought, taking another look at that T-shirt and what jiggled beneath, there were some parts of her he was getting to know quite well already. Maybe he’d become immune with repeated exposure, like with flu or chicken pox. Or maybe, a faint stirring in his nether regions told him, not.
“I can see your nipples through that material,” he said, dragging his eyes away. “I think that’s probably illegal. And if not, it should be.”
“Oh,” she replied, looking down at her own chest, realising that even his glance had made the nipples in question do some quite embarrassing things. She looked back up, blushing. “I didn’t think you could see unless you looked really really hard.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a man,” he said. “And it’s in our nature to always look at these things really
