Move Over Darling by Christine Stovell Page A

comparing it to the stream-lined minimalism of his New York apartment, somewhat necessitated by its compact size admittedly, and wondering how any man could put up with all the girlie clutter. ‘But standing there won’t stop you shivering.’
    When Rock jumped out of her arms and strutted over to the wood burner, Gethin helped her shrug off her coat. Her feminine, floral scent and her hair in its forties’ style rolls put him in mind of old-fashioned glamour and movie stars like Rita Hayworth and made him curious about whether or not she had a leading man. Then a glance at her pinched face reminded him that rather than worrying about who was or wasn’t sweeping her off her feet, he ought, at least, get her to sit down.
    ‘Shouldn’t you try to catch up with your builder?’ she reminded him, before perching on the edge of the oversized red sofa.
    ‘Another time.’ He shrugged. The least he could do after bawling her out was to make sure she wasn’t in a state of shock before abandoning her. ‘Let’s get you sorted out first. This is my fault for forcing you off the road. I’m sorry if I was hard on you.’
    ‘No.’ She shook her head and hunched over her folded arms. ‘You were right. I should have made sure my windscreen was completely clear before setting off. It’s just that it’s such a short drive from the garden centre to here. I often walk it, especially when I’m not carrying stock. I thought I could get away with it. But if anyone had been walking along the lane, I probably wouldn’t have seen them. I could have killed someone.’ Her face looked even more pallid against the blaze of colourful cushions behind her.
    ‘But you didn’t,’ he said firmly. ‘We both made mistakes, but there’s no harm done. You’re just shaken, that’s all.’ Mainly by his brutish behaviour, he thought, with another wave of self-disgust. ‘Got any brandy here?’
    ‘There might be a bottle at the back of the cabinet.’ She waved in the direction of a dark oak thirties’ sideboard. ‘Help yourself.’
    ‘I meant for you,’ he said, smiling in spite of everything. ‘But now that you’ve mentioned it …’
    The embers in the wood burner were turning silvery. He added another log from the basket beside it, patting Rock, who he’d had to disturb in the process, by way of an apology, then turned his attention to the cupboard.
    ‘Babycham?’ He threw her a look of disbelief over the Deco-patterned door.
    ‘What?’ She frowned. ‘I like the Bambi glasses.’
    ‘Well, I don’t.’ He shuddered. Glasses with faces? That was definitely a girlie touch too far. Tia Maria it was then, although the last time he’d drunk the syrupy liqueur was probably for a bet. He poured a couple of measures and accidentally took the seat next to her on the sofa, instead of the armchair as he’d intended.
    ‘You really do like everything to be pre-loved,’ he teased, handing her one of the Schooner sherry glasses just like the ones his gran used to own.
    ‘Not everything,’ she said, eyeing him warily as he sat back next to her. ‘Some things have gone through too many hands even for me.’
    Man, thought Gethin, scratching his head. The grapevine had been busy, even if the phones didn’t work. Kiss the wrong girl in Penmorfa and you were branded as a philandering Lothario for the rest of your days. The gossips would try to carve him up whatever he said. Instead of aftershave, maybe he ought to sprinkle himself with a little salt and pepper before venturing out in future?
    He thought of his last visit, the previous March; a bright spring day at the modern crematorium twelve miles away. Daffodils nodding and the few villagers who had made the funeral service shaking their heads that Gwyn Lewis’s only son had buggered off immediately after the ceremony. Even though they’d been more than happy to drink themselves sober again at his expense on the money he’d left behind the bar in The Foundered Ship, for the wake.