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She complained if she had to work an extra shift at the bar and missed watching Downton Abbey.
Although there was no point getting carried away. A person had to have her priorities.
“And where the does the vineyard in California come into it?” she asked, remembering his revelations at lunch.
They had come to a stop at the gate barring the private entrance to the grape vines. Jeeves chose that moment to lift his leg against a fence post and Sophy cast a guilty look around for any disapproving vintners. Lavender grew thick along the path, the smell always reminding her of her grandmother’s hand cream, and the drone of bees came thickly from the bushes. The birdsong in the trees was almost painfully loud; apparently they were interrupting some fairly desperate attempts at attracting a mate. She supposed it was the avian equivalent of putting on your shortest skirt and your highest heels and hitting the clubs.
“It probably won’t come into it at all soon.” Mick leaned down to scratch Jeeves behind the ears. “I once served in Afghanistan with an American soldier whose family was in the wine industry in Napa. I’d inherited some money from an uncle years ago that was just sitting in the bank, so I ended up buying in. I’ve taken several working holidays out there, but I’ve been intending to sell my shares for some time now. I’m not comfortable having substantial offshore holdings; I’d rather be able to personally manage my assets.”
That seemed sensible. Sophy thought that she would probably prefer to personally manage her own assets, if they amounted to more than a wardrobe full of vintage dresses and the complete set of Firefly on DVD.
She hoped it was something that kicked in when you turned thirty, that you suddenly had all of your personal and professional ducks lined up in a row, but feared it was more a matter of individual competency.
“Your parents must be so proud of you,” she blurted out, in one of those unfortunate incidences where thoughts were much better left unspoken.
Judging by his reaction, a swift kick to the groin would have been the kinder response.
“Yeah. Probably,” he managed after a lengthy silence, but the look in his eyes was so awful that she instinctively reached for his other hand and brought them together, her knuckles pressing against the hard grooves of his belly.
“Well, they should be proud of you,” she said fiercely, too disturbed to worry for once if her words could make a bad situation worse. “I’m proud of you, and I’ve known you for a week.”
He was staring down at her, his jaw flexing in a repeated tic, looking as if he suddenly had no idea where he was or how he’d got there. He didn’t say a word in reply. It was just becoming hellishly awkward when his fingers pulled free of hers, his palm came up, slid under her hair to grasp the back of her neck, and his mouth came down hard on hers.
Sophy had obviously been kissed in the past. She had received persuasive kisses at the end of dates, perfunctory kisses at the end of bad dates, overly wet kisses at school dances, kisses that tasted of nicotine and booze in nightclubs.
She had never been grabbed into a kiss worthy of scrolling credits and a soundtrack.
Mick angled his lips against hers, coaxed, delved, explored. Countless times, he drew back slightly and then returned, as if he was savouring her, winning her over with tiny little nudges and caresses. Sophy’s arms, trapped beneath their bodies, twisted and scrambled for purchase on his heavy frame. Her palms slid along his chest, stroked his sides and skated beneath his shirt, inciting a deep rumbling sound that made her toes curl in her ballet flats. Mick wrapped one arm low around her back, just above the curve of her backside, lifting her slightly. The mismatch in their heights was robbing the encounter of much grace or finesse, but she was too overwhelmed to care.
It was the bleat of a bloody goat, of all things, that brought her back to the realms of sanity. Jeeves took immediate dislike to the intruder and started yapping in high-pitched squeaks that were not becoming to his masculinity and his substantial girth.
Flustered, Sophy yanked free of Mick’s arms, shoved loose strands of hair out of her face and pulled back on the flailing lead.
“No,” she snapped, in tones more effectively dominant than she had ever before managed. Puppy training had been a disaster; she was pretty sure Jeeves suffered no illusions as to whom was the alpha in their small pack. “No bark. Jeeves!”
Of course the bloody dog would pick this particular time to listen to her. He was suddenly the model of canine saintliness. Useful distraction aborted.
In the interests of not berating herself for cowardice for the next forty-five years, she summoned her last reserves of courage and fair play and turned back to Mick.
He was standing with his fists shoved deep in the pockets of his pants, his chest rising in rapid, jagged breaths.
They stared at one another.
“Sophy – ” he began, and she panicked.
Her fears of confrontation and rejection loomed. Her nicely ordered, safe life threatened to splinter into tiresome chaos. Her emotions were jumbling and whirling like laundry tumbling in a clothes dryer. She had one clear thought in mind and that was to slam her hand firmly on the ‘off’ button.
“It’s okay,” she said rapidly. “It’s fine.”
“Is it?” Mick’s voice was rough.
She hurried on, her fingers compulsively gathering and pleating the fabric of her skirt.
“I know; you don’t want to get involved with anyone right now. I don’t want to get involved with anyone right now. We’re friends. It’s all good.”
Mick was silent.
“Really,” she said. “It’s forgotten.”
