Between Heaven and Rock (The Swallow Barn Cottage Series, Book 3)

Game of Dunes

He was in the kitchen.

"Would you like some food?" he asked without turning to face her. How does he know she's behind him? She hadn't been stomping, the socks were properly soft. "You were supposed to be here three hours ago," he said.

"I've already apologised for being late," she grumbled and sat down at the table.

He looked at her over his shoulder. God, it's like she's being tasered every time their eyes meet!

"You have," he said. "And apology accepted. But you left the city five hours ago, and then walked for twenty minutes through snowfall. You must be famished. Would you like some food?"

"Yes, please," she said in a defeated tone.

He opened the fridge and looked inside.

"There's a curry, aubergine I think. Peanut butter chicken. Thai prawn rice. Beef and sweet potato stew. And salmon quiche."

Ulla's eyes boggled.

"My sisters-in-law have stocked up the fridge," he said with a soft laugh.

Seriously, have they made him in some secret lab, tweaking his DNA to make every person of appropriate sexuality to perv out at every sound and gesture he makes?!

"I'll take the quiche," she said.

He pulled out a container and stuck it into the microwave. He then filled up the kettle and put it on the hob.

"So, what's going on with your book?" she asked in a dischuffed tone.

She properly didn't feel like working right now. Her feet were thawing, and her whole body was knackered and achy. She'd also noticed her hands had started to shake a few minutes ago, so she crossed her arms on her chest to hide the tremors. Damn her hypoglycemia.

"Should we have tea first?" he asked with a small smile. "I'd feel like an endlessly ungracious host, talking shop to a hungry guest."

"I'm not your guest," she said. "I was ordered to help you write your book for three weeks. So, I'm your editor. And your typist, I reckon," she added venomously, throwing his cast a glare.

"I see," he said, studying her. "It was awfully kind of John to offer to help me out, but I have to admit I sort of assumed you volunteered."

"Volunteered?" she repeated.

He turned away and took the container out of the microwave.

"Yes, to help me."

He plated her food.

"Well, I agreed," she said. "No one forced me into it."

"Why did you agree?" he asked, placing the plate and a set of cutlery in front of her.

It felt odd to be served food and be taken care of. Nevermind by the male equivalent of Honor Blackman. What's with this family and the classic Hollywood attractiveness?

"Well, it was a good opportunity to develop my editing skills," she said. "And you're Will Holyoake's brother. If you have at least half his talent, it might be an interesting project."

She stabbed the quiche with the fork and sent a piece into her mouth. She hummed in pleasure.

"Did Clementine Popplewell cook this?"

"It's Fiona's. Some old pub recipe," he said.

Ah, that would be Fiona Holyoake, Will Holyoake's wife. And the most brilliant illustrator of children's books.