Gigging belonged to a younger, more naive Lawrie. A Lawrie she had said goodbye to many years before. Still, she thought grimly, it would all make an amusing anecdote one day—possibly even at a job interview. An example of how she was prepared to go the extra mile.
The trill of her desk phone made her jump. Good—Alex at last. Walking over to it, she prayed for a reprieve. There were no hotel rooms left in the whole of Cornwall.... She was needed elsewhere...
‘Sorted out your sartorial crisis?’
Not Alex. Warm, comforting tones, as caressing as a hot bath on a cold night. A voice she wanted to confide her fears in—a voice that promised safety. Sanctuary.
‘I’m running late,’ she said, more sharply than she had intended. The last thing she needed was for Jonas to guess how relieved she was to hear his voice, to know how scared she was. ‘Did your guy manage to sort out a place for tonight? I really can’t hold on any longer.’
‘Everything’s organised. Come and meet me in the car park.’
Was that laughter tinting the deep tones? ‘Fine. I’m on my way.’
Laden down, it took Lawrie a few minutes to make her way along the corridors and through the staff door that led to the car park.
The weather had cooled suddenly, and the sky was a mixture of grey and white with occasional glimpses of hopeful blue. It meant nothing. Cornwall was full of micro climates, and she had packed for every eventuality bar blizzards.
Her convertible Beetle was tucked away in the far corner of the car park. Hugo had laughed at it—told her that she was obviously still a hippy surf girl at heart—although she had eschewed all the pretty pastel colours for a sensible metallic grey. She had thought of it as the perfect choice for a city car: small and compact. But its rounded lines and cheerful shape fitted in here. Maybe Hugo had been right about that part of her at least.
She pushed Hugo from her mind. He didn’t belong here, in this world dominated by the sea and the open country. In the new life she was trying to make for herself. She looked around for Jonas but he wasn’t by her car or by the hotel entrance.
‘Lawrie?’
There he was, predictably enough standing by one of the camper vans that were always dotted around the car park, several of them staff vehicles. She was pretty sure ownership of one guaranteed you a job here.
This van was freshly painted a minty green, its contrasting white trim bright. Jonas leant against it, arms folded, one long leg casually crossed over the other, a look of enjoyment on his face. The same feeling of safety she had experienced on the phone rushed over her as she walked towards him.
‘I’m behind schedule, so this had better not take long,’ she said as she stopped in front of him, dropping her bags at her feet.
She wasn’t going to give in to temptation, to allow her eyes to flicker up and down the long, muscled legs, the firm torso that broadened out in exactly the right place. She wasn’t going to pause at the neck—what was it with this man and his unbuttoned shirts? One button lower and it would look sleazy, but as it was he managed to show just enough chest to tantalise. And she wasn’t going to linger on the perfectly defined jawline, on the cheekbones wasted on a mere man—even on this one. She certainly wasn’t going to step closer and allow her hand to brush that lock of dirty blond hair back from his forehead, no matter how much her hand ached to.
‘You have a schedule?’ He shook his head. ‘Of course you do. A timetable, printed maps, telephone numbers all printed out. I bet there’s a clipboard.’
Hot colour crept over her cheeks. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being organised.’
He raised an eyebrow in pretend surprise. ‘I didn’t say there was. It’s an excellent quality in a festival-planner and an equally excellent one in a navigator. Come on—hop in.’
Confusion warred with panic and a tiny, unwanted tendril of hope. ‘What do you mean?’
Jonas gestured to the van. ‘She doesn’t know whether to be pleased or offended that you don’t recognise her, even though she spent a good six months being restored.’
‘They all look the same,’ Lawrie replied automatically, but her eyes were searching the camper van, looking for the tell-tale signs, looking for the rust, the dents. ‘That’s not Bar...? Not your old van?’
‘You nearly said her name.’ A smirk played around the firm mouth. ‘Not looking so old now, is she? A facelift—well, an everything lift, really—new custom interior, new engine. She’s never been in better shape.’
‘Boys and their toys,’ Lawrie scoffed, but secretly she was impressed.
The old van did look amazing—a total change from the ancient rust bucket whose tattered interior might have been original but had definitely seen better days. The same magic wand that had been waved over the Boat House, over the hotel, even over Jonas himself had been hard at work here.
‘She looks good, but I still don’t get what that has to do with me.’
The blue eyes gleamed. ‘You said yourself you needed a second opinion.’
The tiny tendril of hope grew larger, bloomed. Lawrie stamped down on it. Hard. ‘I said Fliss was going to give me a second opinion—not that I needed one.’
‘And I realised that I need to recharge my batteries.’
He carried on as if she hadn’t spoken, pushing himself away from the van and sauntering slowly towards her. Lawrie fought an instinctive urge to take a step back. With his unhurried grace he reminded her of a predator, blue eyes fixed on her, hypnotic.
Lawrie swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. ‘I’m not sure it’s a good idea. Working together is one thing, but spending time alone after everything...’ Her voice trailed off. Lost for words again. It was becoming a habit around him.
Jonas paused in his tracks. ‘But we will be working. Second opinions, remember?’
‘Alone—we’ll be working together alone,’ she snapped.
He quirked an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I totally misread the situation. I thought you were totally over me, what with the divorce and the fiancé and the nine years apart, but if this is awkward for you maybe I had better keep my distance.’
He stood grinning at her. He obviously thought he had the upper hand.
Lawrie could feel her teeth grinding together. With a huge effort she unclenched her jaw, forcing a smile onto her face. ‘I hate to burst your highly inflated opinion of yourself,’ she said, as sweetly as she could, ‘but I was only thinking of you. If this isn’t awkward for you, then great—by all means join me.’
He moved a step closer, so close they were nearly touching. She could see the smattering of freckles that dusted the bridge of his nose, the tops of his cheeks. They gave him a boyish air, emphasised by the hair falling over his forehead, the impish grin.
But he was no boy. Jonas Jones was all grown up.
‘Ready?’ he asked, eyes locked on hers.
She
