Pitch Imperfect(46)

“And that’s exactly what you need, a letch from leprechaun land. If I thought Damien was into bulging tummies I’d give him a spin.”

Viking looked up from the table, broad face turning purple. “Give spin?”

Ash glared at him. “Pump the stick, do the nasty, dance the horizontal polka. Don’t they have sex in Krakow either?”

He gave her a long, insulted look and stalked to the kitchen. For a second, Ash looked sad, as though she’d go after him. Then she shook away the expression with a toss of her head.

Anjuli got off the stool. “I’d better get changed or I’ll be late for my shift. My boss is a cow.”





Chapter Ten

Rob threw another log onto the pile of wood at the back of Anjuli’s house and flexed his arms. It had rained earlier in the day and in the twilight a thick mist descended over the moors. His shirt plastered to his skin and he took it off and threw it on a piece of pine near the shed.

He had stayed at Castle Manor later than usual, walking along the scaffolding after the builders had gone and inspecting the new roof. With the days getting longer, rotating teams of five had worked non-stop to fit the sarking, waterproof membrane and new slates. His foreman, Connor, had given him an update on the Planning Officer’s approval of the roof reconstruction and they’d talked about the next step in the building process: knocking through and repairing the kitchen walls. Then they could put in the boiler and central heating system.

Six weeks was record time to sign off on the first stage of the restoration, but he’d wanted the roof finished—and Anjuli back at the manor—by the beginning of May. She’d moved in the previous day, though he hadn’t seen her. They discussed the restoration and building issues over the phone or by email only. A state of affairs he planned to remedy, but between work at his other builds and supervising at Castle Manor he was up at dawn and in bed at the witching hour, seven days a week.

The last time he’d had a chance to relax, albeit briefly, was when Sarah had suddenly appeared a few weeks earlier and interrupted his progress meeting with Connor. She’d driven up as the other men were leaving for the day, camera in hand. A quick tour of Heaverlock Castle for her piece on the semi-ruin, after which she insisted on cooking up a quick pasta. He’d been hungry and she’d wanted advice on remodelling her cottage so he’d followed her to the village. Conversation had been easy, no flirtation and no attempts to seduce him. Her peck on the cheek at the door had been that of a friend, not a woman who harboured romantic hopes.

On her way to a Halton interview the next morning she’d brought deli croissants by the office. Rob grinned, remembering Mrs. P.’s affronted reaction. Wednesdays were “scone day” and he’d found himself eating an extra helping once Sarah had left, to appease her.

Rob looked at the stack of wood he’d chopped, satisfied with his progress. The silver birch sapling from the roof had joined the pile of kindling next to it. Seeing it was what had prompted him to split the logs. That, and Connor’s amused expression when he’d mentioned “the Carver lass” had begun the arduous task, insisting that she would do it all herself.

Rob surveyed her efforts with a crooked smile. The Anjuli he’d known was dismal at DIY, not to mention anything that had to do with power tools or—God forbid—axes. Yet he’d found a shiny new Johnston’s DIY axe next to wood that looked as though it had been hacked to death by a murderer on speed.

Splitting logs would not only tidy up Anjuli’s grounds, it would help him vent the excess energy he couldn’t seem to get rid of. He was angry with her for avoiding him and frustrated by not being able to stop thinking about her.

Mac was always telling him he was too proud for his own good. Maybe she was right. He’d been too angry and proud to follow Anjuli to Juilliard, that much was true. But who wants to be second best in their partner’s life? And who wanted the woman they loved to stay in Heaverlock because of his...Rob’s mouth tightened. As he’d told her in March: she’d made her choice, he’d made his, and that was that.

Rob hacked at the wood, and hacked it again. He didn’t want to remember how it had felt to love Anjuli or how he’d felt when she’d left him at the church. But those memories crept up on him regardless. Like the mist sprawling over the moors, they covered first only the highest points and then descended, shrouding everything in bleakness.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Anjuli cycling across the bridge.

Why did she insist on riding that bike or driving Ash’s beat-up hatch back? A reliable car of her own was what she needed. If she got snowed in come winter she’d be cut off from civilisation. Did she not have common sense?