Page 7 of Not Exactly Mr. Darcy
“Are you—?”
“I saw the one about the house being closed, but there was no chain across the drive like there was with the main entrance.”
He gritted his teeth, gesturing her to head back to the car park, with another click and pointed finger at CeeCee to make her stay. In his years of working here he’d come across all sorts of tourists, from the persistent who insisted he open the house just for them, to the careless who dropped cigarette butts and litter like they thought they owned the place. How would they like someone to treat their house like a rubbish tip?
She shot him a look but didn’t argue, probably realizing he meant business. Just as well. He was sick and tired of people treating him like—
“See?” She stopped, pointing to the car park, empty except for an ancient Morris Minor.
Huh. So where had—?
Oh. He hurried to the collapsed A-frame and picked it up, dusting off the side that proclaimed GARDENSCLOSED. He pointed to it. “See?”
“Well, I do now.”
Pique rose at her dry response. “You should leave,” he grouched.
She nodded, and her easy compliance drew another moment of disconcertment. He wasn’t used to women who submitted easily, although something about this woman’s angled jaw and flashing light-filled eyes suggested she wasn’t as meek as her nod suggested.
He watched as she moved to her vehicle, opened the door, and then hesitated. “Before I go, can I ask if you know why the gardens are closed?”
“The owner doesn’t want visitors.”
“Oh.” She sighed.
“What?” He winced. Why was he asking her questions? She needed to leave, and questions only meant she’d stay.
“It’s just a shame.” She looked around, her lips tilted with pleasure. “It’s just so beautiful. Whoever does the gardens here must be run off their feet, but they’re doing a great job.”
Did she mean to sound condescending? He wasn’t doing a great job. Ten men could barely do the gardens justice. His eyes narrowed.
She blinked and seemed to draw into herself, the golden smile fading. “Did I say something wrong?”
“You need to leave,” he said, more harshly than he wanted.
But it seemed to work, as she dipped her chin, hopped in her car, and drove away.
His fingers clenched, and for a moment he hated himself for how he’d spoken. But she couldn’t stay. Women like her were trouble. And he’d been troubled enough for six lifetimes and had no wish for any more. So it was a good thing he’d never see this disconcerting woman again.
Chapter 3
Liv’s deep breathing had mostly settled her pounding heart by the time she pulled up outside the Duck Inn. She clutched the steering wheel, wondering if she should go in or return to Gran’s. But after that encounter, she sensed even a video call home wouldn’t help settle her nerves. She needed real people, like those sitting at the picnic tables grouped near the pond, not those far away.
A tap on the window made her jump. She placed a hand on her chest and found a wobbly smile for Marge as she wound down the window.
“You all right in there, duckie? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
She shivered. No, not a ghost, exactly. Just had an unearthly sense that something more than a simple accidental trespass had occurred. Why had that man been so surly?
“Sorry.” No,sorrywas something the rude man should say. And something she’d makesurehe’d say, the next time she saw him. She retrieved her handbag and got out, brushing down her shorts. “I was just at the Hall and—”
“You were at the Hall?” Marge wore a frown.
“Just to see the gardens,” she assured her. Honestly, why was everyone so upset? “Joe, at the shop”—she gestured across the road—“told me they were open.”
Marge sighed. “Joseph can barely remember what day of the week it is, let alone which days the gardens are open.”
“So, theyareopen?” Had the rude man lied?
