She looked down and gasped. ‘What on earth...?’
Set beneath them were the woods, which opened almost immediately into a large glade, easily seen from the top of the bank on which they were standing. Inside the glade were eight round white cotton objects that looked a little like mini circus tents.
‘Glamping’ he said, his voice serious. His eyes, however, had warmed up and were sparkling with amusement at her expression. ‘Oh, come on—you’re a city girl. Isn’t this how the London middle classes enjoy the great outdoors?’
She found her voice. ‘You’ve put tents into the woods? Do your parents know? Your dad will have a third heart attack if he sees this.’
‘Ah, but these are luxurious, fully catered tents,’ he assured her. ‘Perfectly respectable. People can enjoy all the hotel facilities, including their own bathrooms and food in the hotel—although there are barbecues if they want to be pioneer types. They arrive to fully made-up camp beds, there’s space to hang clothes, armchairs, rugs, heating. Not what I call camping, but it’s hugely popular. The traditional bring-your-own-tent-type campers are on what used to be the golf course, and there are lots of shower and toilet blocks for their use there. According to one review site they are the best camping loos in Cornwall.’
‘Well, there’s an accolade.’
‘I’m hoping for a certificate.’
‘Anything else?’ she asked. ‘Tree houses? Yurts? A cave with hot and cold water laid on?’
He chuckled softly, and the sound went straight to the pit of her stomach.
‘Just a few stationary camper vans dotted around here and there.’
‘Of course there are.’ She nodded.
He looked at her, his blue eyes darkening, suddenly intense. ‘They’re very popular with honeymooners—complete privacy.’
She felt her breath catch as she looked at him, and a shiver goosed its way down her spine. ‘A bit cramped,’ she said, hearing the husky tone in her voice and hating herself for it.
‘They’re customised cosy getaways for two—big beds, good sheets and baskets of food delivered.’
‘You’ve thought of everything.’
So different from the two of them, with a sleeping bag and a couple of blankets, a bottle of champagne, the moon, the stars, the sound of the surf. And each other—always each other. Bodies coiled together, lips, hands, caresses... She swallowed. How did these memories, buried so deep, resurface every time this man spoke?
‘I had long enough to plan it, watching my parents cater for rich idiots who didn’t give a damn where they were,’ he said, his mood changing instantly from dangerously reminiscent to businesslike again. ‘This place is so beautiful, and yet only a handful of people ever had the opportunity to enjoy it—and once they were here they had no idea what was outside the estate walls. Opening it up to campers and glampers means anyone can come here, whatever their budget. We make sure they have all the information they need to go out and explore, hire them bikes, provide transport. All our food is sourced locally, and we recruit and promote locally whenever possible.’
Lawrie laughed, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘It’s inspired,’ she said honestly. ‘Utterly inspired, Jonas.’
Without thinking, without even realising what she was doing, she put a hand on his arm, squeezed softly.
‘Amazing.’
The feel of his arm was warm and firm under her hand, and the fine cotton of his shirt bunched up under her fingers. How many times had she slid her hand up this arm, admired the strength inherent in the toned muscles as he emerged, sleek and shiny, from the sea? Felt their gentleness as he pulled her in close, encircling her in the safety of his embrace?
‘I’m glad you like it.’
Jonas stepped back. Stepped away from her hand, her touch.
‘The hotel isn’t just the base for the festival—it sets the tone. It’s important you understand that. Shall we?’
He gestured back towards the hotel. She shivered, suddenly cold despite the balmy warmth of the day and the wool of her suit jacket. If only she was still with Hugo. If only she were secure in her job. Then seeing Jonas, speaking to him, would have meant nothing apart from a certain nostalgic curiosity. She was feeling vulnerable, that was all.
‘You’re right—this is the perfect setting for the festival. I see how it works now.’ She could do businesslike as well. She’d practically invented it.
He registered the change, a querying eyebrow shooting up as she adjusted her jacket again, smoothing her hair back away from her face, plastering a determinedly polite smile onto her face.
‘So, what other changes have you made?’ Lawrie kept up a flow of light conversation as Jonas led the way back to the hotel, barely knowing what she was saying, what his answers were.
Thoughts tumbled around her brain. Coming back wasn’t easy, starting again was hard, but she had expected that. What she hadn’t expected, she admitted honestly to herself, was that anything would have changed.
Walking back into Gran’s cottage had been like entering a time warp, and for the first couple of days as she’d holed herself up and licked her wounds it had looked as if Trengarth had stayed the same as well.
She had walked down to the harbour on her birthday looking for the safety and comfort of her past. She had truly expected to see the Boat House in its original incarnation—Jonas behind the bar, a little older, a little more thick-set, his mind firmly fixed on waves, on guitar chords, on fun.
She had wanted to validate her choices. To know that even if her present was looking a little shaky at least her past choices had been right. She had been so convinced, once, that Jonas was holding her back, but what if she had been the one holding him back?
He was obviously better off without her. Which was good, she told herself defiantly, because despite everything she was definitely better off without him.
Or she would be once she had decided exactly what she was going to do.
The familiar niggle of worry gnawed away at her. She had just a few weeks left of her gardening leave—just a few weeks to get a job so much better than her old one that to the outsider it would look like a planned move. Just a few weeks to show Hugo and the senior partners that she was better than their firm. Just a few weeks to get her plan back on track.
They had reached the front of the hotel again and she turned to face Jonas, her features deliberately smooth, matching his. ‘This has been fascinating, Jonas, and I can’t wait to get started. If you show me where I am to work I’ll get set up.’
And then Jonas smiled. A slow, intimate, knowing smile. A smile that said he knew exactly what she was doing. A smile that saw right through her mask. It crinkled the corners of his eyes, drew her gaze to firm lips, to the faint shadow on the sculpted jawline.
It was the kind of smile that offered comfort, acceptance. The kind of smile that invited a girl to lean in, to allow those broad shoulders to take the strain.
It
