Matilda Next Door - Kelly Hunter Page 0,10

brew. He headed for the fridge.

‘Thought you didn’t take milk?’ his grandmother said.

‘Sometimes I do.’ He would get no praise from this woman. Sometimes he wondered why he’d ever tried. ‘Feel free to put me to work around the farm.’ He was speaking to his grandfather, not her. ‘Got a month to harden me up again, old man.’

His grandfather’s gaze was still plenty sharp. ‘Wasn’t sure how long you planned on staying.’

‘I have a month.’

‘Doesn’t mean you intend to spend all of it here. First time you’ve had a break in years, isn’t it?’

And that much was true. ‘I’m between jobs. Thinking about going out on my own and freelancing.’

His grandmother smiled, malicious and mean. ‘So you’re out of work and think you can come crawling back here with your tail between your legs. Typical no good son of a—’

‘Beth! We’ve talked about you trying to think positive, so try again,’ barked his grandfather. He turned towards Henry, his expression apologetic. ‘We don’t think that. I don’t think that.’

And holy shit, that was new—his grandfather outright telling his wife not to speak for him.

Henry could retire tomorrow on the money he’d made these past few years. Nor did he need their roof over his head. He could have told them that and maybe it would have made a difference to how his grandmother perceived him. Henry the success.

Or maybe it would simply give her a new metaphorical stick to beat him with. Stuck-up Henry, too good for them now after all they’d done for him.

‘I’m here for a month,’ he reiterated instead. ‘I can help out with anything that needs doing.’ Couldn’t be any clearer than that.

‘Happy to have you,’ his grandfather said gruffly. ‘Right, Beth?’

And his grandmother blinked and smiled and there was a childlike sweetness to that smile he’d never seen before. ‘Look, Joe. It’s Henry. Henry’s here!’

His grandfather sighed and raised his bitter coffee to his lips. ‘So he is, Beth. So he is.’

*

‘Henry, Henry, Henry. Your pantry is an abomination and your fridge is, for all functional purposes, empty. Shame on you.’

If Tilly had taken to talking to an absent Henry in the two days she’d been here, so be it. And if she’d barely ventured out the door for the first twenty-four hours on account of her luggage still being missing and her travel clothes not going anywhere near her person before undergoing a thorough washing, that was just the way she chose to do things.

She’d ventured out last night to the corner store for a few essentials. This morning she was making a list of foodstuffs required and then she would set forth, armed with shopping bags and the map on her phone. Tilly Moore, off on her London adventure. Before that though, came breakfast. Sighing, she opened the fridge door and reached for the martini olives.

And then a ringtone sounded from somewhere over near the wine wall, because of course Henry would have a wall full of wine to go with his martini fixings and olives, and then the ringtone sounded again and this time she tracked it to what looked like a wall-mounted tablet, and had buttons like one too, and all of a sudden she was staring at Henry’s face on the screen. ‘Henry?’ He looked deliciously tousled. Old farm shirt with a frayed collar, dishevelled hair and a scrape of dirt around his neck as if he’d rubbed it there with dirty hands. ‘Hey, it’s you.’ Mistress of inanities, that was her.

‘Morning, Matilda.’ He seemed to stare a little harder. ‘Is that my dressing gown?’

Oh! Dammit. Tilly crouched low, although where she thought she was going …

Hopefully out of sight.

‘I can still see you.’ He sounded ever so slightly baffled.

‘Ah. Yes. Well.’ May as well make a stand. And pop the lid off the jar of olives while she was at it. ‘I can explain.’

She was never not going to adore this man’s quizzical brow that simultaneously implied that he couldn’t wait to hear it and also that he found something about the situation humorous. Possibly her.

‘I had to raid your closet because the airline lost my luggage and they haven’t found it yet. Or they have, but they haven’t delivered it yet. The promises are getting vaguer by the day. So, er, yes, this is your shirt. And your boxers. And your socks. And your dressing gown. And, er, your olives, because I haven’t been out to the supermarket yet, but today’s the day.’

He looked pained.

‘It truly was an