My Not So Perfect Life(88)

“Not feeling well?” retorts Denise, with that tight-lipped look of hers. “Have you seen the empty bottles outside her yurt? I’ll tell you why she’s not feeling well—”

“Anyway…” I cut Denise off pleasantly. “I’d be very grateful if you could do that for me. Thanks, Denise.”

“Prosecco.” Denise utters the word with disfavor. “All five bottles. Prosecco.”

I’ve heard Denise’s views on prosecco many times before. Not to mention Parma ham.

“Whatever she drinks, she’s a client. We don’t judge our clients, OK?” I’m about to launch into a small lecture on customer service, when I hear a crash from the barn.



“Shit!” Alex’s voice comes from the barn, and I feel a stab of alarm. Don’t say he’s injured himself, that’s all I need….

“Are you OK?” I hurry toward the barn. “You probably shouldn’t go in there….”

“This place is insane!” As I enter the barn, Alex turns, a massive grin on his face. He has a scattering of dust and a cobweb on his face, and I instinctively lift a hand to brush it away—then stop dead, in embarrassment. What was I planning to do, stroke his face?

Alex darts the briefest of glances at my raised hand, and I can see the same thought process flashing through his eyes. Then he regards me again, square-on. Dust motes are floating between us, and I tell myself that’s why I feel breathless. Not because I’m slightly falling in…

In what? Lust sounds wrong, but it’s the truth. There’s a prickly, tantalizing vibe between us. It was there in London and here it is again. I know I’m not imagining it. Slowly, Alex wipes the cobweb off his own face, and his dark eyes glint at me as though he’s acknowledging it too.

“This place is a treasure trove,” he says. “Look at this!” He strokes the massive barrel that Dad bought to produce Ansters Farm Original Ale. What a waste of money that was.

I shrug. “My dad used to brew beer.”

“And that?” He points to the contraption behind the brewing kit. “Is that a loom?”

“We were going to weave alpaca wool and make our fortune. My dad’s what you might call…”

“An entrepreneur?” supplies Alex.



“I was going to say ‘deluded.’?” I laugh. “We’ve never made any money out of any of this stuff.”

“What about that?” He points to the 1950s jukebox.

“Oh, we were going to host rock ’n’ roll parties.” I can’t help giggling at the memory. “Dad styled his hair into a quiff and everything.”

“Does it work?”

“I’ll see if there’s a plug.” I edge past him, trying to glimpse the end of the electrical cord, and feel my rib cage brush against Alex’s. Because it’s a cramped space, here in the barn. (OK, full disclosure: I may have arched my back deliberately toward him as I passed.)

“Sorry,” I say.

“No problem,” he says, in a voice I can’t quite read. “D’you need a hand?”

As he takes my hand, I can’t help feeling a frisson. After all those fantasies I had, here I am with my hand firmly clasped in his warm one. Although it’s not like we’re holding hands, I tell myself. We’re only holding hands. Temporarily. In very much a practical, necessary movement.

On the other hand, he hasn’t let go yet, and neither have I. Which is…odd? I glance at him through the dim, dusty air, and his eyes are as unreadable as his voice. Or maybe they are readable and I just don’t dare believe their message. Because what I’m picking up from his dark gaze is pretty explicit.

“Katie?” Dad’s voice penetrates the gloom, and I jump, dropping Alex’s hand. “What are you doing in here?” He’s peering in from the yard, holding his Farmer Mick hat in his hand.

“Just showing Alex some stuff,” I say, reflexively moving away from Alex.



“Oh yes?” Dad’s eyes run suspiciously over Alex again. “And what stuff would that be, then?”

His tone is instantly recognizable, as is his expression. It’s his I’ve caught you up to no good in the barn, haven’t I? expression. Honestly. Just because I’m alone in here with a man?

I mean, to be fair, Dad has caught me up to no good in the barn a few times in my life. (The post-exams party; that time after the cider festival; once when I was with Steve—God, that was embarrassing.) But, now, hello, I’m a grown woman?

“Mr. Astalis was interested in the brewing kit,” I tell him firmly.

“I’m going to pick your brains, Mick,” says Alex. “I’ve always wanted to brew my own beer. In fact…” A thought seems to hit him. “Can I buy your brewery off you? I’ll put it in my garage.”

“Buy it?” Dad’s face lights up for a nanosecond; then he instantly adopts what I call his “business” face—i.e., an expression of curmudgeonly suspicion. “Well, now. Thing is, I was planning to go back into brewing. That’s valuable kit, that is. I’d have to hear your offer first.”

My face is burning with mortification. Dad was not planning to go back into brewing, and Alex must surely guess that. But his composure doesn’t flicker.