Page 7 of Knots About You
‘Oh!’ I squeaked as a cat jumped onto my suitcase, glaring up at me like I’d been caught cheating on a test. It was a wild-looking thing, chunky with tufty orange fur, one ear that looked like it had been used as a chew toy, and half a tail that swished back and forth.
‘This is…’ the man began.
‘A cutie,’ I said, scooting closer. ‘Look at your little face. I need to smoosh it.’
The cat sniffed my fingers as I outstretched my hand and then pushed its head into my palm. A purr started that would rival any vibrating machine I’d heard. And I’d heard plenty given Marty’s lack of prowess in the bedroom. I melted on the spot.
‘Oh my god,’ I whispered. ‘I love him. Or her.’
‘Him,’ the man said, sounding surprised. ‘Inspector Meowrse. He… doesn’t normally…’ He trailed off as the cat climbed into my lap and demanded further petting. ‘He hates everyone. Except me. And my dad. Occasionally, my sister has prawns. He bit the postman last week.’
‘Meowrse?’ I beamed at the cat, who was making biscuits on my thighs. ‘Well, I’m honoured to be amongst the chosen ones. It might be a pity party, but I’d accept a furred pity party any day.
For a second, he looked almost put out by the cat’s affection. Which secretly pleased me a little. Since my sacking, it had felt like the world was going out of its way to take a giant dump on me. But this one people-hating cat still thought I was okay.
The man stood, and I mourned the lack of his steady presence almost immediately.
‘I’m Owen Harris. This is one of the barrel stores for my distillery. It’s just empty barrels so your soggy self didn’t ruin anything. And you’re welcome to sit tight while I grab you something dry. Or you could come over to the house and warm up by the burner. If you’ve decided I’m safe.’
Safe.
As much as I didn’t know him, the feeling of safety rolled from him in waves.
‘Claire,’ I said, untangling my hand from the orange fur and stretching it out to shake his. ‘I’m Claire. Sorry for trespassing. And breaking down like some washed-up maniac.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ He took my hand and pulled me up to my feet before glancing down at the foot-shaped pools I left on his floor. ‘Do you need me to carry you to the house?’
Heat filled my cheeks at the thought. As much as I wanted to scream yes, I shook my head and bent to zip up my soaked case.
Inspector Meowrse meowed loudly and padded off among the barrels. Owen offered me an arm, and I took it because pride is for people who hadn’t already made a royal tit of themselves. Owen picked up my case as if it weighed nothing, despite its water-logged weight.
‘I don’t know who trained you,’ I said, before my brain could stop my mouth. ‘But she deserves a medal.’
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Small, lopsided and dangerously delicious. ‘You’ll have to thank my mother, I guess.’
We didn’t talk as we made our way through the wind and rain to his house. It would have been pointless trying to shout over the storm. Was the squirming in my stomach from nerves or the intuition that told women not to go with strange men?
In London, I wouldn’t have dared. I wouldn’t have dared had I arrived in my usual organised fashion, but the world had handed my backside to me and I had very little fucks left to give.
The house was ancient, sturdy, and warm.
Toe-curlingly warm.
Owen deposited me in a sitting room, with sofas and armchairs that looked like they’d seated thousands of backsidesover the years. The brown leather had faded to near white in the centre of the seats, armrests similarly patina-laden.
Only the ticking of the clock and the soft hiss of the wood burner were audible as he abandoned me there. I didn’t sit in case I left a wet butt print.
‘The towels are a bit tragic, I’m afraid,’ Owen said, coming back into the room and handing me a faded brown towel. It had garish yellow flowers printed across the fabric.
‘I’m sure it’ll dry the same,’ I said, grabbing the towel and burying my face in it anyway. ‘Fashion is cyclical and all that.’
‘Strip off and I’ll get your clothes washed.’ Owen said, as if we were discussing a regular human activity and not the public airing of my rear end. He dumped a handful of woolly items on one of the chairs without a word of discussion. ‘I’ll stick the kettle on. And then we can ring round and figure out where you’re meant to be.’
‘You don’t have to wash my clothes…’
Owen took a long look at my socks and trousers, which were now coated thickly with mud. Oh shit. I glanced at the floor behind me and saw my trail of muddy destruction.
‘Yes, I do.’
