The figure I saw in the garden was slim and slight, by comparison.
He turns and catches me studying him. ‘By the way, I tend not to lurk in people’s back gardens. In case you were worried about that.’
‘Oh, no, I wasn’t.’ Now I feel a proper idiot! ‘I was just…well…I wasn’t thinking clearly when I said that.’
He nods. ‘Not surprising. I apologise again for barging in.’
‘It wasn’t your fault.’
‘Mug?’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’m just wondering where the mugs are?’
‘Oh, right…in that cupboard.’ I point, then fetch the milk from the fridge.
I slide into a seat at the table and rest my chin on my hand, watching Ronan Mackay pour boiling water onto my tea bag. He’s fairly handsome, really, for your average intruder. He turns and finds me staring again, and embarrassed, I clear my throat and quickly flick my eyes to a painting on the wall nearby.
He brings the mugs over. ‘Sugar?’
‘Um…yes, please.’ I’m suddenly feeling weirdly overwhelmed, sitting in this small kitchen in the middle of the night with this tall, dark stranger. I risk a quick glance at him as he pushes the sugar bowl towards me, and my attention is caught by the unusual colour of his eyes. Green with flecks of hazel.
What the hell’s wrong with me? I don’t even take sugar!
I stir some in anyway, to prove I’m not a complete idiot, but manage to scatter sugar crystals over the table. Get a grip, girl! We’ve already established that Ronan Mackay is not some weirdo who peers in through people’s windows late at night, so why am I feeling this nervous?
To give myself some breathing space, I spring up and move away from him, pretending to be examining the painting on the wall.
‘Are you into art, then?’ he asks interestedly, pulling out a chair.
‘Oh, yes. Very much. Yes. Love it.’ Total lie. I know nothing about art. I just like what I like.
‘I’m afraid I’m no expert,’ he admits. ‘I just know what I like, that’s all.’
Suddenly he’s right there beside me, and I’m breathing in the scent of his musky cologne. ‘So what about this one?’ he murmurs.
‘This one? Oh, well, it’s…um…well, it’s a great example of post-modern impressionism. The shapes and the colours…’ I trail off, my cheeks ablaze.
‘Is it really?’ I’m aware of him stepping back a little to study it. ‘It just looks like some sheep on a hillside to me. But then I wouldn’t know a Hockney from a Salvador Dali.’
With a nervous laugh, I turn to sit back down, but somehow we collide.
‘Look, if you don’t mind, I’m quite tired so I’ll take my tea upstairs,’ I say, all in a rush. ‘There’s towels in the bathroom, and the other bedroom is…well, it’s next-door to the one I’m in. If you need me, just shout.’ I gulp. ‘I mean, if you need anything, just shout.’
He sits down, long legs sprawled out, and smiles up at me. ‘Thanks. I’m sure I’ll be fine. I don’t think I’ll be long after you.’
I nod and turn to go.
‘Actually, there is something.’
I turn back. His eyes are amazing. They’re the shade of glossy chunks of jade.
He shrugs. ‘If we’re going to be sharing a roof tonight, it would be nice knowing your name.’
‘Oh. Sorry…yes, it’s Carrie Cartwright. Well, it’s Carrington, actually. After Krystle Carrington in Dynasty.’ I feel my blush deepen. ‘Stupid, really. My twin’s called Krystle. But everyone calls me Carrie.’
He folds his arms and grins. ‘You mean there’s another one just like you?’
I snort. ‘’Fraid so.’
‘Well, goodnight, Carrie Cartwright. Sleep well.’
‘Thanks,’ I mutter and rush out.
In my bedroom, I pull back one of the curtains and open the window, with a hand that’s still trembling after my confrontation with the ‘intruder’. The icy blast cools my flushed cheeks as I lean on the sill and stare out over the snow-covered village green, wondering if life could possibly get any more frustrating. I fled here to get some time to myself, to sort my life out, but that plan seems to have gone the same way as all the other hopes and dreams I’ve entertained lately.
Far from being alone, I now have a tall, dark stranger sleeping in the bedroom next door. Although I suppose, having discussed paintings with him in my nightwear, he’s no longer a complete stranger. But why the hell did I have to pretend I actually know something about art? I groan at the memory, drawing in a sharp breath of icy air that makes my eyes start