Much Ado About You

I flinched. “Wow. That bad, huh?”

“She controls every aspect of Caro’s life.”

Calculating the dates quickly in my head, I replied, “But Caro’s twenty-two now.”

“Aye. But she’s lived with that woman for most of her life. I’ve tried my best. My mum has tried her best, but she’s got this grip on Caro.” The anger dimmed from his eyes, leaving only the melancholy. “I’m the closest thing she’s ever had to a best friend . . . She’s tried but her aunt always managed to chase off her friends. And she’s never had a boyfriend. Helena takes religion to the extreme, and she’s filled Caro’s head with all this toxic stuff about purity and what it means to be a ‘good girl.’ It’s all bullshit. It’s all meant to keep Caro living in that house, looking after the old cow into her dotage.”

Indignation for Caroline simmered inside me as I remembered how shy she’d been. I glanced at her beautiful cupcakes.

“That’s just the tip of the icing.” Roane gestured to them. “The lass is a born baker. Everything that comes out of her kitchen is heaven on a plate.”

“She should be working at the bakery then. Or opening her own!”

His eyes twinkled at my passionate exclaim. “Aye, but you try telling her that. I’ve offered to get her a place of her own, to break away from that woman and start living her life. But she won’t. She’s trapped by guilt.”

We fell into a companionable silence as I pondered Caroline’s situation. Maybe I could talk to Caroline. Roane was perhaps too close. Besides, he was a guy. It was presumptuous to assume a stranger could have more success than her closest relative, but maybe Caroline needed encouragement from an independent, mature woman who lived alone. I could show her how great it was. Plus, praise from a stranger about her baking was always better than support from family. The bias was removed.

“I can practically hear your thoughts turning,” Roane commented, his gaze roaming my face. “I’m not even going to tell you not to do whatever you’re thinking about doing.”

It was a little unnerving how quickly he was beginning to understand me. “I’ll be gentle,” I teased.

Something dark, hot, flashed in his eyes, and he quickly looked away.

Tension immediately sprung between us, and I scrambled to think of something to say to defuse it.

Roane beat me to it. “What are you doing for dinner?”

Grateful for the subject change, I replied, “Well, I was going to see what they had at the convenience store. I haven’t booked a rental yet to go to the supermarket.”

“The convenience store doesn’t have much. Why don’t we eat together at The Anchor, and I can find some time tomorrow to take you to get a rental car? Maybe give you a lesson on how to drive here,” he added pointedly.

“Is it that hard? I thought we just drove on opposite sides of the road.” I knew that it would be a little discombobulating at first, but did I really need a lesson?

“Which is harder than you think. But there’s more to it than that. We have different rules of the road here. And roundabouts. Lots of roundabouts.”

Hmm, when he put it that way. “Okay, I’d be grateful. Are you sure you have time?” I was under the impression farmers worked around the clock, and was more than a little surprised he’d joined me for lunch.

His dark, autumnal eyes locked on mine. “I’ll make time.”

A rush of attraction swept over me like a wave, and I tensed on my stool. Friend zone, friend zone, friend zone, I began to chant inwardly, wrenching my gaze from his. It was so unfair. If I looked into his eyes too long, I got flutters in my belly. If I stared at his mouth too long, I got tingles a little farther south than my belly.

The only place to look was his nose, and that was just weird.

Deciding that not to look at him at all was the best option, I studied my dwindling sandwich.

It seemed to work, and I relaxed long enough to pepper Roane with more questions about his life. It turned out he’d taken over management of what sounded like a fairly sizable farm from his parents. They had retired to their second home in Greece, which made me assume the farm was financially successful. But I soon learned Roane had to work extremely hard to make it so.

“We’re a commercial mixed farm,” he explained. “Meaning we farm to sell at market. Our arable farming is on the eastern part of the estate, where we grow crops of winter wheat and barley, oilseed rape, and spring beans. On this side of our estate”—he gestured to the room, so I gathered he meant “right here on the coast”—“we have our sheep farming. We also sell hay.”