A Season for Second Chances(59)

“Oh, it’s more than just notes,” said Annie. “It’s practically an almanac. She writes beautifully. It’s almost like prose poetry in parts.”

“May I see it?” John asked.

Annie considered him, her head tilted to one side. “Yes,” she replied after a beat. “Of course.”

John followed Annie out of the mess in the kitchen—she felt slightly off kilter with one shoe missing—and into the sitting room. She picked the yellow exercise book up off the coffee table and handed it to him. John took the book and began to leaf through it. He stopped every so often, his finger hovering over the page to read a particular extract before continuing. A wry smile played on his lips as he skimmed over the pages.

“These are some comprehensive notes,” John mused.

“Yes.”

“Almost a manual,” he added.

“Almost,” Annie agreed.

John closed the book but held it in both his hands as though weighing it. Outside the window, the October sun danced across the teal water, making it sparkle and wink as though it were trying to convey a message via Morse code. John looked down at the book, then out over the ocean and back again.

“Right,” he said as though responding to an unseen voice. His dark eyebrows knitted together, his expression pensive, and then he said, “Right,” again but made no move to expand on his internal monologue.

Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle meowed mournfully—pure attention seeking on her part—as she padded into the sitting room and broke whatever cycle of thought John had been locked in. He looked at Tiggs, and she looked back.

“I sought permission first,” said Annie hastily before John saw fit to reprimand her for yet another abuse of his aunt’s abode.

“Yes,” he replied absently, still holding the book. “Of course.” He bent down, resting the book on one knee, and made a kissing sound to Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle while holding his hand out to the yawning cat.

“She won’t come to you,” said Annie. “She’s not good with people. Hates my husband.”

John looked up at Annie, one eyebrow raised. His eyes, she noticed, were blue-gray like the sea when the sky was thick with cloud.

“Is your husband here too?”

“No. I left him behind. I prefer the cat.” She added, “We’re separated,” though she wasn’t sure why she felt the need to clarify this.

John’s mouth twitched at the corners in what Annie thought looked like a suppressed smile. “What’s her name?” John asked, nodding his head toward the fat ginger cat.

“Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle. Tiggs for short; she answers to both.”

“Because she’s prickly, like her owner?” John inquired.

“I am not prickly!” Just rise above him, she thought. You are better than this. “If you must know, it’s because she likes laundry,” Annie continued.

John raised an incredulous eyebrow.

“She likes to sleep on clean washing. When I first got her, I kept finding her in the airing cupboard or in the linen basket. So, you know . . . Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle: the hedgehog who was a washerwoman.”

John nodded sagely.

“Delighted to meet you, Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle,” said John.

To Annie’s annoyance, Tiggs padded over to John, sniffed his outstretched hand, and began to rub her head against his knees as he made a fuss of her.

Traitor, Annie thought.

“She seems to like me,” said John, looking up with a smug expression.

“Perhaps you smell like fish,” Annie retorted, narrowing her eyes.

John laughed softly, and the sound was warm and friendly, like a deep purr; Annie pursed her lips.

“Or perhaps it’s my animal magnetism.” He grinned. His Scottish burr added a curling lilt to all his words, which Annie found annoyingly pleasant. Oh my God! Annie thought. Is he flirting with me?

“Maybe you carry catnip around in your pockets in order to ingratiate yourself with lady cat owners,” Annie said, smiling sweetly.

“Have it your way,” John said. “I’m guessing you usually do.”

Annie took a sharp intake of breath but when she looked at John he was still smiling amiably and she decided to let that one pass. She had, after all, just made a rather large hole in his aunt’s ceiling, and he had been surprisingly gracious about it. As though reading her mind, John stood up, leaving Tiggs rubbing herself around his legs. Tart, Annie thought at her cat.

“I’ll get the rest of those boxes down for you and then have a look-see what we’ve got in the cellar to fix that hole,” said John.

He saw Annie looking at him.

“I keep a few things here for maintenance,” he explained.

“You don’t have to do it now.”

“Trust me, you don’t want the north wind blowing through there. It can get pretty feisty down here at this time of year.”

Annie had to admit that she would rather not have wind whistling through a gaping hole in the ceiling. Not to mention the potential for large spiders to extend their creeping grounds down into the flat.

John was surprising her, and she found herself in uncharted territory. He could have been an arsehole about the ceiling, but he hadn’t; quite the opposite in fact. And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle had given him her seldom-offered seal of approval. There was no denying he was handsome. Was Annie warming to John Granger?