The High Price of Secrets(43)

                So where did that leave her with Finn? She sank into a worn easy chair in the sitting room of the cottage and stared out the bay window. Lucy, as usual, sat in pride of place, her eyes drifting closed in the sun now her toilette was complete.

                Finn hadn’t made her any promises. He’d just been here. Available—except for the past two days. He hadn’t pushed her when they’d kissed on Tuesday night, a kiss she still relived in all its sensation-soaked glory each night when she went to bed, leaving her sleep fractured and her body unrested and aching with unresolved tension. She’d tried physical exertion around the cottage to wear herself out each afternoon and into the early evening, but it had only served to add more aches upon the pains. Even a soak in the large tub each evening hadn’t been enough to ease them away.

                Tamsyn let her eyes drift closed, let her senses relax, her body sag into the chair. Outside she could hear the birds and the drone of the bumblebees that favored the flowering plants she’d revealed among the weeds. It wasn’t long before she’d drifted off to sleep.

                She woke with a start about an hour later. Her phone was ringing. Where the heck had she left it? She staggered to where she’d left her handbag.

                “Hello?” she answered groggily.

                “Did I wake you?”

                Finn’s voice filled her ear, warming her from the inside out.

                “Caught me napping, guilty as charged,” she answered, trying to keep her voice light, especially considering the awkwardness that had developed between them the last time they spoke.

                “I’m jealous.”

                It sounded as if a faint smile played around his lips. Tamsyn hugged one arm around herself and leaned against the wall, imagining his face as he spoke.

                “Don’t be, I’ve given myself a crick in the neck.”

                “Maybe I can help you out with that later on,” he said smoothly. “I’m told I have good hands.”

                A flush suffused her body. She just bet he did. Broad palms, long capable fingers. Her legs weakened just at the thought.

                “I got your message,” he continued, “and yes, I’d love to come for dinner tonight. What can I bring?”

                “How about a nice bottle of wine from that impressive collection of yours,” she suggested. “Something white. I’m doing chicken. Nothing fancy.”

                It was one of the few things she could cook successfully. Growing up at The Masters they’d had staff for just about everything, something she’d learned to appreciate when she’d gone to university and had had to fend for herself in the kitchen of the small flat she’d shared.

                “Anything I don’t have to cook and prepare myself sounds great. What time do you want me?”

                Want him? Oh, about 24/7, to be totally honest. She gathered the raveled strands of her mind together and gave them a swift tug into submission.

                “Sixish suit you?”

                “Perfect. See you then.”

                He ended the call, leaving her standing there like a lovesick teenager still holding the phone to her ear. The disconnect signal beeping in her ear galvanized her into action. It was four o’clock, and she still had so much to do. She swept into the kitchen and grabbed the two chicken breasts she’d put into the fridge last night to defrost. Still a bit on the icy side, she realized, and put their plate on the countertop to finish defrosting, covering them carefully so Lucy wouldn’t be tempted to check them out.