“Are you OK?” I hurry toward the barn. “You probably shouldn’t go in there….”
“This place is insane!” As I enter the barn, Alex turns, a massive grin on his face. He has a scattering of dust and a cobweb on his face, and I instinctively lift a hand to brush it away—then stop dead, in embarrassment. What was I planning to do, stroke his face?
Alex darts the briefest of glances at my raised hand, and I can see the same thought process flashing through his eyes. Then he regards me again, square-on. Dust motes are floating between us, and I tell myself that’s why I feel breathless. Not because I’m slightly falling in…
In what? Lust sounds wrong, but it’s the truth. There’s a prickly, tantalizing vibe between us. It was there in London and here it is again. I know I’m not imagining it. Slowly, Alex wipes the cobweb off his own face, and his dark eyes glint at me as though he’s acknowledging it too.
“This place is a treasure trove,” he says. “Look at this!” He strokes the massive barrel that Dad bought to produce Ansters Farm Original Ale. What a waste of money that was.
I shrug. “My dad used to brew beer.”
“And that?” He points to the contraption behind the brewing kit. “Is that a loom?”
“We were going to weave alpaca wool and make our fortune. My dad’s what you might call…”
“An entrepreneur?” supplies Alex.
“I was going to say ‘deluded.’?” I laugh. “We’ve never made any money out of any of this stuff.”
“What about that?” He points to the 1950s jukebox.
“Oh, we were going to host rock ’n’ roll parties.” I can’t help giggling at the memory. “Dad styled his hair into a quiff and everything.”
“Does it work?”
“I’ll see if there’s a plug.” I edge past him, trying to glimpse the end of the electrical cord, and feel my rib cage brush against Alex’s. Because it’s a cramped space, here in the barn. (OK, full disclosure: I may have arched my back deliberately toward him as I passed.)
“Sorry,” I say.
“No problem,” he says, in a voice I can’t quite read. “D’you need a hand?”
As he takes my hand, I can’t help feeling a frisson. After all those fantasies I had, here I am with my hand firmly clasped in his warm one. Although it’s not like we’re holding hands, I tell myself. We’re only holding hands. Temporarily. In very much a practical, necessary movement.
On the other hand, he hasn’t let go yet, and neither have I. Which is…odd? I glance at him through the dim, dusty air, and his eyes are as unreadable as his voice. Or maybe they are readable and I just don’t dare believe their message. Because what I’m picking up from his dark gaze is pretty explicit.
“Katie?” Dad’s voice penetrates the gloom, and I jump, dropping Alex’s hand. “What are you doing in here?” He’s peering in from the yard, holding his Farmer Mick hat in his hand.
“Just showing Alex some stuff,” I say, reflexively moving away from Alex.
“Oh yes?” Dad’s eyes run suspiciously over Alex again. “And what stuff would that be, then?”
His tone is instantly recognizable, as is his expression. It’s his I’ve caught you up to no good in the barn, haven’t I? expression. Honestly. Just because I’m alone in here with a man?
I mean, to be fair, Dad has caught me up to no good in the barn a few times in my life. (The post-exams party; that time after the cider festival; once when I was with Steve—God, that was embarrassing.) But, now, hello, I’m a grown woman?
“Mr. Astalis was interested in the brewing kit,” I tell him firmly.
“I’m going to pick your brains, Mick,” says Alex. “I’ve always wanted to brew my own beer. In fact…” A thought seems to hit him. “Can I buy your brewery off you? I’ll put it in my garage.”
“Buy it?” Dad’s face lights up for a nanosecond; then he instantly adopts what I call his “business” face—i.e., an expression of curmudgeonly suspicion. “Well, now. Thing is, I was planning to go back into brewing. That’s valuable kit, that is. I’d have to hear your offer first.”
My face is burning with mortification. Dad was not planning to go back into brewing, and Alex must surely guess that. But his composure doesn’t flicker.
“Quite right,” he says seriously. “Well, we’ll find a fair price. Do you remember what you paid for it?”
“I’ll find out.” Dad’s eyes gleam. “Give me a few minutes to check my records.” He turns with alacrity and practically runs out of the shed.
“Do you really want to go into brewing?” I ask suspiciously.
“Of course I do!” says Alex. “Your dad can set me on the way.” And he gives me a smile so blithe that I can’t help suspecting he’s done this at least partly out of some other motive. Except I can’t think what that motive could be, except simple generosity.
(Unless he’s spotted that the brewing kit is worth a fortune. Unlikely.)
“Oh, another thing,” he suddenly adds. “I should tell you. Your charity.”
“My charity?” I echo, not following.
“Your community center in Catford? We’ve just decided it’s going to be one of next year’s official company charities.”
“What?” I gape at him.
“I was going to try to let you know somehow. Anyway, here you are.” He spreads his hands. “It’s official. Next year we’ll be raising money for the Church Street Community Center in Catford and for Cancer Research.”
I’m almost speechless. He listened. He remembered.
“I went to visit them, in fact,” Alex continues, his eyes glowing. “I spoke to the kids. Met the leaders. And you’re right. They’re awesome.”
“You went to Catford?” This is so staggering, I can’t quite take it in. “You went to Catford?”
For a moment Alex doesn’t answer. He’s fiddling with the jukebox buttons, his jaw set.
“Like I say, it got to me,” he says at last, a little gruffly. “What you said in the office. I don’t want to be some entitled bastard who can’t see out of his own privileged bubble. I felt pretty chastened, if you must know. There you were, doing something for your local community, forging links, making a difference—”
Oh God. Is that what he thinks? My head feels hot with guilt. Me? Forging links with my community?
“Alex.” I cut him off. “Listen. I…I didn’t forge any links. The truth is…I never actually went to visit the community center.”
“What?” His head jerks up in shock.
“A girl gave me a leaflet and told me about it.” I bite my lip in embarrassment. “That’s all.”
“A leaflet?” He stares at me. “I thought you were heavily involved! No wonder they hadn’t heard of you. I couldn’t understand it.”
“Well, I would have been!” I say hastily. “If I hadn’t moved away. I mean, I’m sure it’s a great project and everything—”
“It is! It’s a bloody marvelous project.” He stares at me disbelievingly. “Why am I telling you about your community project?”
“Because…er…you’re a really good person?” I venture, and risk a little smile.
To my relief, Alex’s mouth is twitching. I think he can see the funny side.
“Well, do let me give you a tour of your own charity project sometime,” he says sardonically.
“Er…thanks!” I meet his eye. “I mean it. Thanks.”
I’ve found the plug of the jukebox, and I’m about to ask Alex if he wants to hear it work, when he glances at his watch.
“Shit.” He frowns. “I’ve got distracted. Do you have any idea where Demeter might be?”
My stomach flips apprehensively as I glance at my own watch. She’s been gone twenty-five minutes now. That’s a head start, isn’t it?
“Look,” I say. “Alex. I have to tell you something.” I rub my nose, avoiding his eye. “Demeter’s…She’s…”
“What?”
“Well, in actual fact…she’s…”
“What?” demands Alex.
OK, full disclosure: I’m really quite nervous. In the heat of the moment it seemed obvious I should help Demeter. It seemed the right thing to do. But now that I actually have to fess up…
“She’s…gone to London.”
“London?” Alex’s gaze darkens. “When?”
“Twenty minutes ago or so.”