all that. You so don't look like an advertising executive."
He liked the bit about being rugged and manly, curling his lip flirtatio usly at her before he even realised he was doing it.
"Well, y'know. Appearanc es can be deceptive, as they say. I think we used that as a slogan once. An ad for some chilli-flavoured rice snack or something. Cliché or what? I didn't like it, but the top brass overrode me."
"I just can't see you in a suit."
"We didn't wear suits, love. We were creatives."
Oh, he'd called her 'love'. It had just slipped out somehow. He watched for a reaction but she seemed oblivious, still tucking in to the hotpot with gusto.
"But you're local," she said. "Aren't you? You come from around here. I mean, you've got the accent and everything."
"Actually, I don’t have the local accent. I come from Swansea. This is mid-Wales. So I'm a foreigner hereabouts."
They smiled at each other, and the eye contact seemed to last a frighteningly, wonderfully long time.
She was the one to break it.
"Do you speak Welsh?"
"Of course."
The conversation over the meal turned to the language, Rhys teaching her some elementary phrases amid much laughter and tormented pronunciation, until the food was eaten.
They took the bottle of wine into the living room. Rhys found a pack of cards in a drawer and they sat cross-legged in front of the fire playing gin rummy until Kim, too often defeated, threw the cards in the air and lay down, her head by Rhys' knee, looking up into his face.
"This is like holidays when I was little," she said softly, smiling up – was she smiling at him or the ceiling? Her eyes were misty and faraway. "In a caravan in the rain. Playing cards because there was nothing else to do. But then, it's not like that. We aren't playing cards because there's nothing else to do, are we?"
"You've had too much wine," said Rhys, holding the near-empty bottle aloft and squinting at it. But his heart raced and his throat was dry, not just from th e slightly bitter aftertaste of the Merlot.
"Maybe. But it's like stepping off the edge of the world, into a lovely, lovely…I don't know." Her head moved closer, almost nudging his thigh. "Don't you ever get lonely?"
"I chose this life," he said, putting the bottle down. "I can't complain. I don't know any women who'd take to getting up at four thirty to bottle feed the lambs either."
"You do, then? Lonely Mr Farmer." She began to sing. "The farmer wants a wife, the farmer wants a wife, E-I-E-I, the farmer wants a wife."
"You've got a nice voice," he said, but the compliment seemed to sour her mood.
"Thanks," she said, looking away from him, back to the fire. When she looked back at him, she had wiped the pensiveness away and switched on an impish smile.
"So you prefer sheep to women, then, do you? Is it true what they say?"
It seemed the natural thing to do, to take hold of a pigtail and wrap it around his fist in mock-threat.
"And what might that b e? Would you care to tell me?"
"One man and his sheep. A relationship of equals." She snorted with laughter, then squealed as he yanked the pigtail and descended towards her, lying propped on his elbow, his face an inch from hers.
"Say that again, and see what happens," he whispered, his knuckles grazing her neck as he held the hank of hair fast.
"Sorry," she squeaked, her eyes gleaming with exhilaration. "So it's not true then? You prefer women to sheep?"
"Do you want proof?" The tip of his nose touched hers. She was so close and she smelled of wine and roses. And what was the harm, anyway? How could it hurt?
She nodded and he sensed the tension in her body, the breath held, the muscles furled.
Permission.
He r eleased her pigtail and slid his hand underneath its tight plait, palm on the side of her neck, fingers reaching around to the nape. Warm, female skin beneath his touch – something he had thought he could live without. What a fool he was.
Her lips were soft with a trace of some lipstick that tasted of
He liked the bit about being rugged and manly, curling his lip flirtatio usly at her before he even realised he was doing it.
"Well, y'know. Appearanc es can be deceptive, as they say. I think we used that as a slogan once. An ad for some chilli-flavoured rice snack or something. Cliché or what? I didn't like it, but the top brass overrode me."
"I just can't see you in a suit."
"We didn't wear suits, love. We were creatives."
Oh, he'd called her 'love'. It had just slipped out somehow. He watched for a reaction but she seemed oblivious, still tucking in to the hotpot with gusto.
"But you're local," she said. "Aren't you? You come from around here. I mean, you've got the accent and everything."
"Actually, I don’t have the local accent. I come from Swansea. This is mid-Wales. So I'm a foreigner hereabouts."
They smiled at each other, and the eye contact seemed to last a frighteningly, wonderfully long time.
She was the one to break it.
"Do you speak Welsh?"
"Of course."
The conversation over the meal turned to the language, Rhys teaching her some elementary phrases amid much laughter and tormented pronunciation, until the food was eaten.
They took the bottle of wine into the living room. Rhys found a pack of cards in a drawer and they sat cross-legged in front of the fire playing gin rummy until Kim, too often defeated, threw the cards in the air and lay down, her head by Rhys' knee, looking up into his face.
"This is like holidays when I was little," she said softly, smiling up – was she smiling at him or the ceiling? Her eyes were misty and faraway. "In a caravan in the rain. Playing cards because there was nothing else to do. But then, it's not like that. We aren't playing cards because there's nothing else to do, are we?"
"You've had too much wine," said Rhys, holding the near-empty bottle aloft and squinting at it. But his heart raced and his throat was dry, not just from th e slightly bitter aftertaste of the Merlot.
"Maybe. But it's like stepping off the edge of the world, into a lovely, lovely…I don't know." Her head moved closer, almost nudging his thigh. "Don't you ever get lonely?"
"I chose this life," he said, putting the bottle down. "I can't complain. I don't know any women who'd take to getting up at four thirty to bottle feed the lambs either."
"You do, then? Lonely Mr Farmer." She began to sing. "The farmer wants a wife, the farmer wants a wife, E-I-E-I, the farmer wants a wife."
"You've got a nice voice," he said, but the compliment seemed to sour her mood.
"Thanks," she said, looking away from him, back to the fire. When she looked back at him, she had wiped the pensiveness away and switched on an impish smile.
"So you prefer sheep to women, then, do you? Is it true what they say?"
It seemed the natural thing to do, to take hold of a pigtail and wrap it around his fist in mock-threat.
"And what might that b e? Would you care to tell me?"
"One man and his sheep. A relationship of equals." She snorted with laughter, then squealed as he yanked the pigtail and descended towards her, lying propped on his elbow, his face an inch from hers.
"Say that again, and see what happens," he whispered, his knuckles grazing her neck as he held the hank of hair fast.
"Sorry," she squeaked, her eyes gleaming with exhilaration. "So it's not true then? You prefer women to sheep?"
"Do you want proof?" The tip of his nose touched hers. She was so close and she smelled of wine and roses. And what was the harm, anyway? How could it hurt?
She nodded and he sensed the tension in her body, the breath held, the muscles furled.
Permission.
He r eleased her pigtail and slid his hand underneath its tight plait, palm on the side of her neck, fingers reaching around to the nape. Warm, female skin beneath his touch – something he had thought he could live without. What a fool he was.
Her lips were soft with a trace of some lipstick that tasted of
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