Jake Sinclair would quickly grasp the message that he really wasn’t welcome.
As a babbling Sophie led him over the lawn towards the gatehouse, with Pip licking every square centimetre of his face, Jake bit back a smile. This was like a comedy sketch – with Annie playing the lead role. He stifled a gurgle of laughter as he recalled how funny she’d looked in that helmet, brandishing the sword. By the colour of her cheeks, she’d obviously been mortified by the incident. And was no doubt desperate to get away from him. But how could he have refused little Sophie? Not only was the child leading him, quite authoritatively, by the elbow, but she was also completely adorable: the image of her mother with her riot of honey-blonde curls and sparkling emerald-green eyes. Still, it really wasn’t fair of him. He risked a look at Annie over his shoulder. She trailed miserably behind, staring at the ground. He felt a niggle of guilt that he’d lied to her about his surname. He hadn’t intended to. It had been a knee-jerk reaction by his self-preservation instinct, ever wary of the transparency of the internet. Oh well, he mused, as he swung his head back around and Pip stuck his tongue in his ear, it didn’t really matter. So long as he wasn’t a burglar, Annie Richards probably didn’t give a monkey’s who he was. And it wasn’t as if he intended launching himself on village society. He would keep himself to himself. Which was exactly what he should be doing now. So, once at the cottage, he’d make some excuse and beat a hasty retreat.
Following Jake and her daughter across the lawn to the cottage, Annie tried desperately to keep her gaze on the ground and not let it wander to Jake’s rear, showcased perfectly in those low-slung blue jeans. What was wrong with her? She’d never been fixated with a man’s behind before. Heavens. Maybe Portia was right. Maybe she had been without a man in her bed for too long. She normally didn’t give sex a second thought these days. She was far too busy. And frankly, what was the point in thinking about it when she had no intention of engaging in it? So why, then, was she focusing on Jake Sinclair’s buttocks? She was tired, that could be the only explanation. She’d run five miles today. No mean feat and the longest she’d run in her entire life. No wonder she felt light-headed. And she was disorientated because her nerves had been on edge. She had, after all, been prepared to confront an armed burglar. Yes – that was it. She knew there must be a logical explanation somewhere for her illogical behaviour. It wasn’t Jake Sinclair who’d set her head spinning, her stomach churning and her nerves aflutter, it was a combination of the aforementioned external factors. So, now that she’d established that fact, why did she desperately hope she had no underwear drying about the place and that she’d tidied up? Because, she quickly reasoned, Jake Sinclair probably lived in some minimalist designer pad with hot and cold running champagne, gleaming stainless steel surfaces, and an army of uniformed cleaners. Well, tough. He would have to take her and Sophie as they came. And if he didn’t like the cottage, he need never visit it again. Come to think of it, it would be better if the place was a complete tip and he ran a mile. Because she really didn’t want the man in her house. Or any man in her house.
By the time Annie reached the cottage, she found Jake leaning against the kitchen bench, looking, just as she’d predicted, completely out of place. His presence seemed to fill the room, sucking out all the oxygen. Sophie was nowhere to be seen.
At a loss as to what to do, Annie hovered in the doorway. ‘Would, you, er, like a glass of wine? Or something?’ she asked, her attempt at a light-hearted tone failing miserably.
‘Um, no, I’m fine thanks.’
Annie stared at him for a few seconds. All his previous humour seemed to have evaporated and he sounded a little … subdued. There was a strange expression on his handsome face. One she couldn’t decipher. ‘I think I’ll have a cup of tea,’ she blurted out. ‘Would you like one?’
Jake gave a hesitant smile. ‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘And please can we have more melted chocolate for the strawberries,’ chipped in Sophie, breezing in from the living room, clutching another of her colouring-in books. ‘Mr Sinclair, you can sit here beside me.’ She climbed onto one of the kitchen chairs and patted the one alongside her.
Jake raised an apologetic eyebrow at Annie, before doing as Sophie bid. No sooner had he sat down, than Pip jumped onto his lap.
‘Are you a good colourer-innerer?’ asked Sophie, flicking through the book.
‘I don’t really know,’ confessed Jake. ‘It’s a long time since I did any colouring-in.’
‘Mum’s rubbish. Oh, look. You can do this one if you like.’ She pushed the book over to him. ‘And then I can give you a mark out of ten like my teacher does.’
Jake choked back a surge of laughter. ‘Okay then,’ he said, doing exactly as he was told.
Rooting through the tin of crayons, looking for just the right shade of blue, Jake decided he must be losing it. He had to be. Why else was he allowing himself to be bossed about by a five year old child? Albeit a delightful one. Five years ago he’d been renowned for his persuasion tactics, his implacability, his intransigence. When Jake had made a decision everyone had known it was final. So why was he now sitting in the kitchen of a woman who obviously didn’t want him there, with a dog that wouldn’t stop licking his face, having his colouring-in ability assessed? It was madness. He should go. He really should. He had writing to do. Lots of writing. And he was wasting precious time.
The trouble was, the moment he walked into this tiny, bright, sunny kitchen, an overwhelming surge of emotion had assaulted him. So overwhelming, it almost knocked him off his feet. Because this was exactly the sort of kitchen he’d grown up in; exactly the sort of kitchen he’d imagined sharing with Nina and their child. During the few seconds he’d been alone in the room, he’d drank in every detail: the smell – a delicious mix of currant buns, orange peel, strawberries and chocolate; the glass vase on the window sill crammed with freesias; the little pots of fresh herbs; the buttercup-yellow walls peppered with postcards, photographs and Sophie’s paintings; and the small round spice cake with the words Happy Birthday George expertly iced on top. Jake didn’t know why, but his mood had dipped slightly when he’d read those words. Which was ludicrous. Why should it matter that Annie Richards had a man in her life? She might be gorgeous, have an adorable daughter, and be a very conscientious caretaker. But that didn’t mean he was interested in her. His interest in the fairer sex had died with Nina. His life – and his heart – were now, thanks to the impenetrable barriers he had spent the last five years constructing around them, definite no-go areas. No, he was only taking a neighbourly interest, he assured himself. And once he finished colouring in this picture, he would go back to the manor and carry on with his writing. Assuming, of course, Sophie allowed him to.
Annie set down the mug of tea on the table in front of Jake and slid the milk jug over to him. He looked up and smiled, causing her stomach to somersault and the colour in her cheeks to intensify. Honestly. Never, in all her thirty-five years, had she felt so awkward and embarrassed. Jake Sinclair was a friend of Jasper’s and, like Jasper, probably spent his life jetting around the world mingling with supermodels and starlets, and dining in Michelin starred restaurants. The last place he would want to be would be her tiny kitchen colouring in a picture of a donkey in a straw hat, and drinking a cup of tea. And, more importantly, she didn’t want a man like Jake Sinclair in her kitchen drinking tea. Or drinking anything. She really must have a word with her daughter about inviting strange men back to the house.
Leaning against the kitchen bench, cradling her mug, it occurred to Annie how few men had actually sat at her kitchen table. Lance certainly never had. She and Sophie always travelled to London to meet him during his fleeting visits to the UK. He was, so he claimed, far too busy to make the journey to Yorkshire. Which suited Annie. She didn’t want him here. This was her space, hers and Sophie’s, and she intended to keep it that way. She sucked in a deep calming breath, attempting to banish the panic that rose at the mere notion of male intrusion into their lives. But she was being absurd. Jake Sinclair was only colouring in a picture. And when he finished, he would return to the manor and that would be that.
‘Look, Mum,’ said Sophie, holding up Jake’s finished article. ‘Mr Sinclair is a very good colourer-innerer.