in his mid twenties, with floppy dark hair, sculpted cheekbones and piercing blue eyes.
‘Morning!’ he said, through – she couldn’t help but notice – a rather delectable mouth, which then stretched into an adorable grin. ‘Just out of the shower, are we?’ He flicked a look at her chest.
Glancing down and realising she had a bit of a wet T-shirt thing going on, Connie hastily folded her arms over the offending area, while simultaneously flushing the same colour as the Decadent Décor cherry-red van outside. ‘Um, yes,’ she uttered, completely wrong-footed. ‘I was expecting… That is, I wasn’t expecting anyone so, um…’ Gorgeous, sexy, young? ‘Early. I wasn’t expecting anyone so early.’
‘It’s half past eight. We always start at half past eight.’
‘Oh. Yes. Right,’ she blustered. ‘Well, er, you’d better come in.’
‘Might be useful,’ he said, the accompanying wink causing her stomach to flip. ‘I’m Liam by the way.’
‘Connie,’ said Connie, hoping, in her disorientated state, that she’d got that right. Evidently she must have.
‘Nice. Short for Constance?’
‘Yes. But only my mother ever calls me that. Thank God.’
He chuckled, two cute dimples appearing in his cheeks.
‘Bedrooms up here, I take it,’ he said, turning to the staircase.
‘Y-yes,’ stammered Connie, the thought of him in the bedrooms just a little too much to cope with at that precise moment. In an attempt to quash the inappropriate images suddenly trampolining into her mind, she scrabbled together several words which came out as, ‘Would you like a coffee or something before you start?’
Twinkling blue eyes turned back to her. ‘Thanks. I wouldn’t mind a juice. Or water. Anything cool. It’s supposed to be belting hot today.’
‘Yes,’ she whimpered, gaze fixed on impressively firm buttocks as he started up the stairs. ‘I believe it will be.’
A few minutes later – despite the rising temperature both inside and outside the house – Connie had not only pulled on a cardigan, and buttoned it up to her neck, but also pulled herself together and managed to hand over a cold glass of orange juice to Liam the Adonis, without allowing him to see so much as a hint of the effect he was having on her. Or at least she hoped she hadn’t – praying the traitorous clinking of ice cubes as her shaking hand passed the drink to him hadn’t given her away.
Back in the kitchen, she attempted to do some work but, again because of the decorator, couldn’t concentrate. She didn’t know who was the greater distraction – Milk and Two Sugars, or the Adonis. About whom she was experiencing quite lust-ridden thoughts. When was the last time she’d had lust-ridden thoughts, she wondered. Evidently it was so far back, she couldn’t remember. In fact, she didn’t know if she’d ever had any. A fact which, contemplating the matter further, she could only attribute to a lack of lusty-thought-provoking men in her life. Somewhat embarrassingly, Connie could count on one hand the number of romantic liaisons in which she’d partaken during her thirty-four years – and still have a finger left over. There’d been a couple of “relationships” at university, the longest lasting six months, and then an eighteen-month on-off thing with a computer geek just after she’d graduated. And then Charles for the last five years. Five completely wasted years, as it now turned out. Rather unoriginally, she’d met him in a bar on a Friday night. It hadn’t been love at first sight – in fact, now she wondered if it had ever been love at all – but they’d trundled along okay together at the start. Even then, though – in the early days when lovers are supposed to be consumed by passion – she couldn’t recall ever experiencing a burning desire to rip off every shred of his clothing, smother him in panna cotta and lick off every remaining drop. Like she did with Liam every time he came within a two-metre radius. Which wasn’t only worryingly kinky, but also completely ridiculous given she was old enough to have been his school prefect.
Admitting defeat with the Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing, and with Liam still occupied upstairs, Connie slipped into the downstairs loo and studied her reflection in the mirror. While in a league as far from Melody’s as Sydney was from Sidcup, she supposed she didn’t look too bad for a woman in her mid thirties. An average size twelve, she’d benefit from some toning up, but who – apart from just about every female she’d encountered in the Cotswolds – wouldn’t? Her thick chestnut hair – in the same “style” she’d worn it since she was twelve – fell halfway down her back, but still showed no sign of grey. And her skin remained line-free – well, apart from the couple of faint ones fanning out from the corners of her eyes. But discounting those – which she frequently did – she concluded she didn’t look too bad for someone approaching those scary middle years.
Fifteen minutes before leaving for Melody’s house, Connie smoothed down her hair, ran her tongue over her lips, and mounted the stairs to inform Liam of her departure.
‘Going anywhere nice?’ he asked, grinning at her from up his ladder.
‘To a friend’s. For lunch,’ she replied, hoping that made her sound ultra-cool, popular and… young.
‘Sweet. Enjoy. I’ll be knocking off for a bite myself soon.’
Connie attempted to ignore the wave of lust that crashed over her at this proclamation, the thought of Liam biting anything conjuring up all sorts of weird and wonderful images. ‘Right. Well, I’ll, er, see you later then,’ she stammered.
‘You most certainly will,’ he replied, the ensuing wink causing her knees to weaken and her pulse to quicken.
Having given pulse and knees a strict talking to, and managed to coax Eric out from behind the sofa, Connie left the house and – somewhat reluctantly – Liam, and wound her way through the village to Melody’s abode. Her route took her past pilot – and reckless car driver – Max Templeton’s cottage. This time, though, rather than lurking behind the rhododendrons, she marched directly past, head high. Or at least she would have – had Eric not stopped to pee on the gatepost. Thankfully, though, there was no sign of the Porsche – or the matching one Mrs Templeton no doubt drove. Which most likely had pink wheels. What had Eleanor said about her again? Oh yes – that she worked for a cosmetics company. Which probably meant she was one of those women who shovelled on six inches of make-up before venturing out the door. Hopefully she’d never find out, as she had absolutely no desire to make Mrs T’s acquaintance. Eric’s piddling completed, Connie carried on her way, following Melody’s directions and turning left at the end of the street.
Five minutes later, Connie screeched to a halt outside an enormous house, which, with its undulating roof, cluster of chimney pots and ivy-covered façade, wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Sunday-night period drama. This couldn’t be it. Surely. She checked the text again – which clearly said the house name was Foxgloves. And this house’s name was… Foxgloves, she discovered upon reaching the wrought-iron gates.
Blimey. Connie had no idea what line of business Melody’s husband worked in, but it was obviously a very lucrative one.
Slipping through the gates, she continued up the drive – flanked on either side by pristine lawns and rhododendron bushes – in stupefied awe, reaching the door what felt like three hours later. There, she pressed the old-fashioned brass bell, while experiencing the unnerving sensation that she really should be using the servants’ entrance.
What felt like another three hours later, Melody opened the door, looking lovely in cream leggings and a chiffon floral shirt.
‘Hi. Thanks so much for coming,’ she said, beaming at Connie and bending down to stroke Eric.
‘Thanks for asking us. Your house is awesome.’
Melody shrugged, her smile dipping slightly. ‘It’s okay. Far too big for the two of us. Between you and me, I would have been quite happy living in Malcolm’s bachelor pad – a lovely little house on the outskirts of Cirencester.