fresh air helped Lawrie recover some of her equilibrium and she returned to the office feeling a great deal better. Turning her back determinedly on Jonas, she called on all her professional resources and buried herself in the insurance folder, finding a strange calm in returning to the legalese so recently denied her. Pulling a notebook close, she began to scribble notes, looking at expiry dates, costs, and jotting down anything that needed immediate attention, losing herself in the work.
‘Lawrie...? Lawrie?’ Jonas was standing behind her, an amused glint in the blue eyes. ‘Fascinating, are they?’ He gestured at the folders.
‘A little,’ she agreed, pulling herself out of the work reluctantly. ‘I’m sorry—do you need me?’
‘I’m heading off to Coombe End. Do you still want me to show you around?’
Did she? What she really wanted was more time alone—more time to get lost in the work and let the real world carry on without her.
But it would be a lot easier tomorrow if she knew what to expect.
‘Oh, yes, thanks.’ She pushed her chair back and began to pile the folders and her closely covered sheets of paper together. ‘I’ll just...’ She gestured at the files spread all over the table and began to pull them together, bracing herself ready to scoop them up.
‘Here—let me.’
Jonas leant over and picked up the large pile, his arm brushing hers and sending a tingle from her wrist shooting through her body straight down to her toes. She leapt back.
‘If you’re ready?’
‘Absolutely, I’ll just get my bag—give me two minutes.’
‘I’ll meet you at the car; it’s just out front.’
‘Okay.’
The door closed behind him and Lawrie sank back into her seat with a sigh. She had to pull herself together. Stop acting like the gauche schoolgirl she’d outgrown years ago.
* * *
Jonas pulled his car round to the front of the restaurant, idling the engine as he waited for Lawrie. Their first day working together was going well. He’d had a productive two hours’ work just then, not thinking about and not even noticing the exposed nape of her neck, her long, bare legs, not at all aware of every rustle, every slight movement.
Well, maybe just a little aware. But they were just physical things. And Cornwall in summer was full of attractive women—beautiful women, even.
And yet during the last two hours the room he had designed, the room that had evoked light and space, had felt small, claustrophobic, airless. How could someone as slight as Lawrie take up so much space?
Jonas looked over at the Boat House impatiently, just as Lawrie emerged through the front door, a carefully blank, slightly snooty look on her face—the expression that had used to mean she was unsure of the situation. Did it still mean that? He used to be able to read her every shifting emotion, no matter how she tried to hide them.
Then one day he simply couldn’t read her at all.
She stopped at the gate, peering down the road, puzzled.
What was she looking for? He half raised one hand to wave at her, then quickly lowered it, leaning on the horn instead, with a little more emphasis than needed. He allowed himself a fleeting moment of amusement as she jumped at the noise and then, obviously flustered, crossed the harbour road, walking slowly towards the car.
He leant across to open the passenger door, sitting back as she slid in, looking straight ahead, trying not to watch her legs slide down over the seat, her round, firm bottom wriggling down over the padded leather, the sudden definition as the seatbelt tightened against her chest.
‘Nice,’ she said appreciatively, putting a hand out to stroke the walnut dashboard as Jonas pulled the low, sleek car away from the kerb. ‘I have to say I hadn’t pegged you as a sports car man. I was looking for the camper van.’
‘Oh, this is just a runabout. I still have the camper. There’s no way I could get a board in here.’
He laughed as she grimaced.
‘You and your boards,’ she said. ‘If they’re that important you should have gone for a sensible people carrier rather than this midlife crisis on wheels.’
‘Midlife crisis?’ he mock-huffed. There was no way he was going to admit the secret pride he took in the car.
Jonas didn’t care too much what people said, what people thought of him, but he allowed himself a little smirk of satisfaction every time he passed one of his parents’ cronies and saw them clock the car and the driver and, for one grudging moment, admit to themselves that that no-good boy had done well.
‘At least this has a real engine in it. I’ve seen that dainty little convertible you call a car. Do you actually put flowers in that holder?’
She shook her head, smiling. ‘You have to admit it’s convenient for parking. But I can see why you like this—she goes like a dream,’ she said as he turned the corner onto the main road and the car began purring up the steep climb. ‘And at least she isn’t red, so not a total cliché! I’m glad that you kept the camper, though. I was always fond of the old girl. What?’ she asked as he slid her a sly smile.
‘I’m glad you’ve finally acknowledged that she’s a she—you’ll call her by her name next,’ he teased.
‘I will never call a twenty-year-old rusty van by such a ridiculous name—by any name. A car is not a person,’ she said with a haughty flick of her ponytail.
But Jonas could hear the laughter in her voice as he deftly swung the car round the corner and along the narrow lanes that led to the hotel, just two coves away.
‘Go on—say it,’ he coaxed her.
It had been a long time since he had seen Lawrie laugh. Judging by the wounded, defensive look in her eyes it was a long time since she had laughed.
‘I’ll help. Bar... Barb...’
‘No!’ But she was definitely trying not to laugh, and there was a dimple at the corner of her lush, full mouth. ‘What about this one? What have you named her?’
‘Nice escape, Ms Bennett. But I will get you to say her name before you leave.’
‘We’ll see.’
The words were dismissive but she still sounded amused. Jonas sneaked a glance at his passenger and saw her face was more relaxed, her posture less rigid.
‘So go on—surprise me. What’s she called?’
‘Ah,’ he said lightly. ‘This baby doesn’t have a name. It’d be disloyal to the camper.’
This time she did laugh—slightly croaky, as if she were unused to making the sound, but as deep and rich, as infectious as Jonas remembered.
‘We wouldn’t want to hurt the feelings of a rusting old van, would we?’
‘I
