had both worked on the plane over yesterday afternoon, but he had found his gaze repeatedly wandering towards her, intrigued by how absorbed she had been in her work. With her hair swept up into a messy bun she had stared at her laptop screen, her long fingers tapping the delicate column of her neck in thought. And he had wondered what it would be like to have those fingers run against his skin.
After that, the thought of sharing dinner alone with her had set alarm bells off in his brain. He had to keep his distance.
Taking the steps of the garden two at a time, he ran across the stone terrace that traversed the entire length of the back of the sixteenth-century chateau. He entered the house and walked towards the kitchen. Was that baking he smelt?
An explosion of household goods were scattered across the surface of the island. The shells of juiced oranges, an upturned egg carton, an open milk bottle teetering precariously on the edge of the unit. Behind them, a trail of baking tins and bowls was scattered along the kitchen counter.
He turned to the sound of footsteps out in the corridor. Aideen walked towards him, a huge bunch of multi-coloured tulips in her arms, a carton of eggs in her hand, rosy-cheeked and bright-eyed, a wide smile on her face. Her hair, thick glossy waves of soft chestnut curls, fell down her back.
‘Oh, you’re back.’ She flashed him a quick smile before her gaze darted guiltily to the chaos behind him. ‘I thought you would be out for a while yet.’
‘What’s happened to the kitchen?’
‘I’m making breakfast. I hope you don’t mind.’
Actually, he did. He wanted his kitchen clean and tidy, as it usually was. Not this mess.
She sidestepped him and began to search through the kitchen cupboards.
He gritted his teeth and tried to resist the urge to start clearing up the mess himself. His stomach, however, had very different thoughts as it rumbled at the delicious sweet smells of baking.
She plopped the tulips in a vase she had found in a cupboard and placed it on the kitchen table. ‘I met your gardener earlier, and he gave me the use of his bike to cycle down to the village so that I could go to the boulangerie. But then I ran out of eggs, so I had to go again. The cycle down is easy but, boy, the hill back up is tricky. The countryside here is beautiful, and the village is so pretty. When I came back he gave me these flowers from the garden—aren’t they stunning?’
The tulips did look good, but something about their cheery presence in the kitchen niggled him...they were just too homely.
For a few seconds she looked at him expectantly. When he didn’t respond she smiled at him uncertainly, before rolling up the sleeves of her pink and white striped shirt.
‘I’ll tidy up here and then put some breakfast on. In honour of being in France, I’m going to make us oeufs en cocotte.’
He looked at her, bewildered. And slowly it dawned on him that she was expecting them to have breakfast together.
For a few brief seconds he was tempted to give in to the tantalising aroma of fresh baking filling the room. But a glimpse of her white lace bra as she bent over to swoop up the errant milk cap from the floor had him coming back to reality with a bang.
This wasn’t what her stay was supposed to be about. A bed and an office... Not seeing too much of her. That was what he had signed up for. Not this cosy domesticity. Not some breakfast routine that could quickly become a habit. Not feeling desire for a woman first thing in the morning.
‘I don’t eat breakfast.’
It was almost the truth. He usually just grabbed some toast and coffee and took it to his office, eager to start work.
She was going about gathering up all the empty packaging on the island unit and paused briefly to give him a quick look. ‘But that’s crazy. After exercising you should eat.’
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