‘Let me dry off and put some clothes on,’ he said, ‘and I’ll help you bring your things in.’
She was perfectly capable of bringing her own things into the cottage. She wasn’t a delicate little flower who needed a man to sort things out for her.
Before she could make the point, he said, ‘The cottage is open-plan, so I’m afraid I can’t shut Truffle in another room. Two of us bringing your things in means it’ll be quicker and I won’t have to keep her on her lead for so long.’
‘Right.’
‘Free feel free to make yourself some coffee,’ he said. ‘The mugs and the coffee are in the cupboard above the kettle.’
‘Thank you.’
He stepped aside to let her in, then closed the front door behind him. ‘Good girl, Truffle,’ he said to the chocolate Labrador, then disappeared up the spiral wrought-iron staircase in the centre of the room.
So she was stuck in a cottage in the middle of nowhere with a complete stranger—one who didn’t seem to be that pleased to be sharing his living space—and a nervous dog. What else hadn’t Clara told her?
To be fair, Clara had said that her friend might still be there; but she’d also said that her friend would most probably be gone before Georgie arrived. And she hadn’t even mentioned the dog.
Plus Georgie had no idea what her new housemate’s name was. He hadn’t even introduced himself. Grumpy McGrumpface, perhaps? He might be gorgeous, but he seemed incredibly prickly. She really hoped there was a soft side to him, because sharing a place with someone difficult was going to be really wearing.
‘I’m going to make some coffee,’ she said to the dog, who was regarding her warily from the other side of the room.
At least with Grumpy McGrumpface leaving the room she had a chance to look round. Hayloft Cottage was compact and open plan, and utterly gorgeous. The windows all seemed quite deep-set, so Georgie guessed that the stone walls were very thick. The floors were pale flagstone, and at one end of the ground floor there was a kitchen consisting of cupboards painted sky blue, an old-fashioned butler’s sink, a cream-coloured Aga and a plate rack on the wall. She assumed that the fridge, freezer and washing machine were hidden somewhere behind the cupboards. Opposite the cupboards was a scrubbed pine table and four matching chairs.
The wrought-iron staircase was the feature in the middle of the room, and there seemed to be a baby’s safety gate fastened across it. On the far wall there was an old-fashioned wood burner and two comfortable sofas on either side of it with a thick rug and a coffee table set between them, plus a wicker basket with a soft blanket that clearly belonged to the dog. It was cosy and pretty, and Georgie tried not to think about the fact that it was in the middle of nowhere or how disconcerting it was not to hear any noise from passing traffic.
She headed to the kitchen area and filled the kettle. Just as Truffle’s owner had said, the coffee was in a tin above the kettle, along with a shelf of mugs.
Should she make some coffee for him, too?
She was still dithering when he came downstairs. He was dry now—or at least drier, because his hair was still damp. And it wasn’t dark, as she’d first thought: it was a deep auburn. Utterly gorgeous: but she knew that being handsome and being nice didn’t necessarily go together. Charlie had been charming, but he had turned out to be far from the nice man she’d thought she’d married; and her new housemate wasn’t even charming, let alone nice.
Cross with herself and knowing that she was possibly being unfair to him—for all she knew, he could’ve had the day from hell and the last thing he needed was a complete stranger turning up on the doorstep when he wasn’t expecting her—she asked, ‘Can I make you a coffee?’ Once she’d downed a mug of the stuff, her head might be back in the right place again and she’d be her usual practical self. And hopefully she’d also stop reacting to him like a hormonal and star-struck teenager. She wasn’t here to get swept off her feet by a handsome stranger; she was here to get her life back on some sort of track.
‘Thanks. No milk or sugar.’
Did he mean he didn’t take milk or sugar, or that there wasn’t any? She’d organised a food delivery with a note telling Clara to use whatever she needed and to make herself at home. She’d left a bottle of decent Prosecco in the fridge and a box of her favourite truffles, with a sticky note saying ‘Welcome to London’. As this was Scotland, she’d kind of hoped that Clara might have left her some shortbread as a ‘welcome to the job swap’ sort of thing. That hope was starting to feel a bit forlorn. And this place suddenly felt every one of the four hundred and so miles away from London, away from nearly everyone she knew.
‘If you take it, sugar is in the cupboard next to the coffee and there’s milk in the fridge,’ he said, as if her thoughts were written all over her face.
‘Thanks.’ She made two mugs of coffee, then added milk and enough cold water to her own mug that she could drink it straight down, as she often did at work.
He raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s how my colleagues tend to drink their coffee.’
His colleagues? ‘Are you a medic, too?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘Clara didn’t really say anything to me about you. I’m afraid I don’t even know your
