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I close my eyes and give myself an order.
Do not get a semi.
I open them again at his quiet question. “What even are they?” He holds up a tiny burr.
“Probably hedge parsley seeds or cleavers.” At least those are my best guesses. “I didn’t stop to check while I was running.”
Conversation is a good distraction, thank fuck. That coil in my belly loosens, and I focus on thesnip snip snipthat I bet Rowan would tap along with if he were here. I still can’t help saying, “Can you go any faster?” My reason is hurried. “There’s a lot to do, and my friends can’t help until later. All the farmers around here help each other, and they’re already committed to cutting hay elsewhere.” It’s the only reason their headland wedding venue is available. “This time of year is busy, so it’s down to me, Finn, and a couple of students who came back early to get started.”
“Get started doing what?”
“Making sure the guests all have somewhere to stay. Mowing pathways to the headland. Setting up an outdoor dance floor. And I need to find the arch and decorate it.”
“Arch? What’s that for?”
It’s a reasonable question. I’m still not about to spill how an arch, which I’m almost certain is in Marc and Stefan’s barn, spells romance to me. I settle for giving a less sappy reason. “It makes a great focal point for sunset photos.” I add finding that arch to a mental list that I prioritise while he keeps snipping. “Task number one has got to be pitching a whole lot of tents.”
I catch his gaze, his eyes twinkling. He’s laughing at my phrasing, I guess, and his offer confirms it. “Well, I just happen to be an expert at that if you want a hand.”
What is it about me and smiling today? I can’t remember when I last did so much of it. I haven’t forgotten what he just said though; Rae doesn’t have time to spare. He has a deadline of his own, doesn’t he? Needs to keep his head down until Monday. “Thanks, but no. I’ve pitched plenty all by myself before.”
“With shaking hands?”
“It’s passing.”
I hold a hand up, which still trembles.Wobbly traitor.
“Itwillpass.”
“Football injury?” he guesses. His gaze flicks to the side, letting me know he’s noticed my scars. “Nerve damage after surgery on your shoulder?”
“No. I’ve been doing a lot of chainsawing.”
“Ah. The vibration?”
I nod without adding more detail, and perhaps he reads that silent hurry-up message without me needing to verbalise it.
“There,” he says almost right away. “All done.” He makes himself a liar by raising the scissors again. “Or nearly. Hold still again, yeah?” His eyes narrow. I’ve been scrutinised plenty over the years, and not only by team doctors and coaches. For a moment, I’m reminded of teammates who had been on my side only to put distance between us, and that’s what he does next.
But not for long.
I still rock, as if his hand on my hip had been doing more than keeping me in place. Then I’m steadied again when he’s back with a comb I’d left by the basin.
“What—”
“Hold it,” he says, his focus intense before he snips some more.
I don’t have time for this. I’m about to say so when those dark eyes meet mine.
“My mum used to work in a salon,” he murmurs. “Had a boyfriend who was a great big beardy fucker like you.”
“And you aren’t beardy?”
He touches his own as if he’d forgotten he had one. “Huh. His was nothing like this.” That intensity bleeds out of his eyes, and it’s been so long since anyone looked at me like he had been, even for beard-trimming reasons, that I want to rewind to being his sole focus.
Maybe he does too. He picks up from where he left off, sounding brighter. “I suppose I am beardy for now.” He also gets back to his trimming, taking his time, like getting this right is important. “I saw her do this plenty for him,” he murmurs. “Give him a good trim. Comb and oil his beard for him. Wouldn’t let him leave our flat untidy.” His eyes narrow again, squinting, before he sets down the comb and scissors. “There. What do you think?” He turns me towards the mirror. His reflection doesn’t smile. If anything, he’s worried. “Might have got a bit carried away.”
Carried away?
