Page 5 of A Fresh Start at Bramble Cottage
“I need the towing hook.”
“The . . . towing hook?”
“It’s probably in the boot, under the spare wheel.”
“Oh . . . right . . .”
She opened the boot, fumbling clumsily to remove the screw holding the spare wheel in place. With an impatient grunt he moved her aside — it was the most fleeting touch, but it sent an odd little shimmer of heat over her skin.
Steady girl— what was that about? Just because he had hard muscles and sexy eyes. And a judgemental attitude.
He swiftly unfastened the screw and lifted the wheel out, and located the metal hook in the tray beneath. In a few moments he had re-tied the tow rope and returned to the tractor.
It looked worryingly as if there wouldn’t be room to turn the big machine around and get it past the stranded car, but she shouldn’t have underestimated him. He bounced the thick wheel over the ditch on the opposite side of the lane, and eased round to the front of the car.
Rufus jumped up and wrapped himself across his shoulders again, and he held out his hand to help her up into the cab. Sitting beside him again, she was all too aware of the raw male power in those wide shoulders, the strength in his hands on the steering wheel.
She clenched her fists in her lap, the diamond ring on her finger digging into her palm. Okay, she could acknowledge that he was an attractive man — just thinking that wasn’t being disloyal to Jeremy. But he clearly didn’t like her.
Besides, there’d probably be a farmer’s wife in the farmhouse on the far side of the yard.
They passed the entrance to the farm. The lad was hosing down the muddy yard, supervised by the two collies who lay side by side in the entrance to the barn. Rufus didn’t even deign to glance in their direction.
A little further on they rounded a slight bend in the lane, and the cottage came into view.
It was a lot smaller than she remembered. It was tucked into a dip, with a rough patch of lawn running down to the front door. Built of the same grey stone as the farmhouse, it didn’t look as neglected as she had feared. The grey-slate roof tiles and square brick chimney looked sound.
An overgrown hedge bordered the frontage. Tom manoeuvred the car into the gateway so that it was clear of the lane. “It’ll be okay there until the garage can come and pick it up.” He held out his hand. “Give me your phone and I’ll put Barry’s number in for you.”
“Thank you.”
He keyed a number into her phone and handed it back to her. She jumped down from the cab, and Rufus scrambled down after her and set off to explore the patch of lawn.
Tom unfastened the tow rope and coiled it up, tossing it into the back of the tractor, then stood and studied the cottage, his thumbs in the pockets of his jeans.
“What are you planning to do with it?” It wasn’t friendly curiosity in his voice — there was more than a hint of suspicion.
“I don’t know yet — that’s why I came down to look at it for myself.” She strolled slowly down the gravel drive, pausing to tug at a flourishing weed. “It’s probably going to need a major renovation project.”
“And then?”
“Well — sell it, I suppose.”
“Why not sell it as it is, so someone local could afford it and do it up themselves?” he suggested.
“There’s a greater profit margin if you sell it after it’s been renovated.” Uh-oh — she sounded just like Jeremy.
“And of course that would be the most important consideration.”
She turned sharply, stung. “That’s not fair. You don’t know me — you don’t know anything about me.” She drew in a steadying breath. “Look, I appreciate your help with the car, but I’m not going to discuss my business with you.”
“Fine. Have a nice day.” And without another word he turned his back on her and whistled to Rufus, scooped him up and deposited him in the cab of the tractor, then swung up intothe driver’s seat. Putting the machine into reverse he drove away up the lane to the farm.
Chapter Two
Vicky felt a small stab of guilt as she walked down the overgrown path to the cottage. Aunt Molly had always been very proud of her garden. Tom had been right to be critical of her. She ought to have made more of an effort to keep in contact over the years, especially recently, when Molly would have been in her late eighties, her nineties, and may have needed help.
Not that she would have accepted help easily. The old lady she remembered from more than sixteen years ago had been fiercely independent, and she didn’t imagine that she would have changed much.
