Читать книгу The Bed and Breakfast on the Beach: A gorgeous feel-good read from the bestselling author of One Day in December - Kat French, Kat French - Страница 9

Winnie marched out of the villa, buoyed up by a mixture of wine, lingering first-day euphoria and indignation. What happened to welcoming new neighbours with a cup of sugar and a smile? What happened to the famed Greek hospitality? But then he wasn’t Greek by the sound of it, and there probably wasn’t any sugar in his cupboards either; he didn’t strike Winnie as a man with an ounce of sweetness about him. From their first meeting she’d already deduced that he had no manners and even less in the way of small talk. His only redeemable feature seemed to be the fact that he was passably attractive, and if she was pushed, she’d acknowledge that he must have a shred of decency because he’d taken The Fonz in when he wasn’t obliged to.

Meandering through the tables out front on the beach-bar terrace, she paused to get her bearings. Where did he live anyway? Right led directly down onto the beach, so she struck out left and followed the sandy path around the villa and into the fields behind. Gosh, it was hot. Winnie made her way along the track, wishing she’d thought to slather on extra sun cream; she could almost feel her skin frying. She was one of those people with a pale and interesting complexion; achieving anything close to a sun-kissed glow required diligent application of factor 30 and short, careful interludes of exposure to the sun. Anything more intensive was likely to turn her into a walking, talking beetroot, and that really wasn’t the look she wanted to achieve before sundown on day one. Nothing marks you out as a tourist quite like a classic dose of sunburn, does it?

Lifting her sunglasses, she paused beneath the shade of an olive tree and looked first one way and then the other. Back home, her house had been a semi-detached in a suburban cul-de-sac, and her closest neighbour had probably been sitting three feet away on the other side of the party wall. Out here her nearest neighbour wasn’t even in sight, which, given the fact that he was so rude, was probably just as well.

Movement flickered in her peripheral vision, and she squinted between the trees. Bingo. Not just one donkey. Two.

‘At bloody last,’ Winnie muttered, shaking her leg to flick the irritating grit out of her flip-flop. A low stone wall ran around the perimeter of his olive grove, so she swung herself over it and started picking her way through the gnarled trees towards The Fonz. As she drew nearer, neither of the animals took the remotest bit of notice of her.

‘Hello, Fonzy,’ she said, in the quiet, polite manner with which she might greet an elderly relative. Nothing. Not so much as the flicker of an ear from either of them.

‘Chachi?’ she said, more uncertain this time as she moved within a few feet of the donkeys. One of them was pure white and considerably bigger than the other, and he lifted his head and gazed briefly in her direction before returning peacefully to grazing.

‘OK,’ she said under her breath, walking closer to the smaller, grey donkey. ‘If he’s Chachi, then I guess that must make you The Fonz.’ She reached out a tentative hand and stroked him between the ears. ‘I’m Winnie, your new owner, and I’ve come to take you home.’

He really did seem very indifferent to her. As a non-rider, she’d vaguely imagined that he’d have a saddle on, or a harness at least, something that she’d be able to lead him by, but he didn’t. He was, for all intents and purposes, naked.

‘How are we going to do this then?’ she asked, walking around him slowly. Running an experimental hand over his flank, she tried giving him a little two-handed push from behind but he didn’t even seem to register it. She tried a second time, this time with a little more effort, and he swished his tail as if a fly might have landed on his backside.

‘Bloody hell, Fonzy,’ she grumbled. ‘You need to go on a diet, buddy. You weigh a bloody ton.’

‘Why are you fondling my donkey?’

Winnie didn’t need to turn around to know who was behind her.

She was quite glad that it wasn’t The Fonz after all. ‘Might have known this one was yours,’ she said to the neighbour. ‘He seems as stubborn and unwelcoming as his owner.’ She moved across to stand behind the larger, white donkey. He really was big, practically a pony, really.

Winnie wiped her sweaty palms on the back of her denim skirt and patted the white donkey on the rump in a way she hoped was friendly enough before attempting the two-handed push on him too. It was hopeless. After a couple of increasingly effortful attempts, she swung around with her hands balled on her hips, first dashing away several beads of sweat running from her hairline into her eyes.

‘Would it kill you to help me out here?’

He looked at her levelly with his arms folded across his chest. ‘You look like a prawn that’s been chucked on the barbie.’

Winnie shook her head and huffed. ‘Could you be any more stereotypically Australian?’

‘I could call you Sheila. Could you be any more passive-aggressively English?’

Yanking her sunglasses off, she stared at him. ‘Trust me, Mr … Mr I don’t know your name because you couldn’t be bothered to introduce yourself, there’s nothing passive about my aggression right now; I’m just about ready to beat you to a pulp with my bare hands.’

He didn’t look even the smallest bit threatened. ‘I’m not surprised the donkey doesn’t want to go with you. You give off a negative vibe. You clearly have anger-management issues.’

‘Anger-management issues?’ she half yelled. ‘I didn’t until I met you, you condescending asshat!’

‘In some countries this passes as foreplay,’ he said, and for the first time Winnie caught the faintest trace of humour behind his tone. ‘My name’s Jesse, seeing as you asked so nicely. Although I quite like “condescending asshat”, so you can stick with that if you prefer. I’m easy.’

‘Jesse as in the outlaw,’ she muttered. ‘Or donkey rustler.’

‘He was also a bank robbber, a gang leader and a murderer.’ He said it tonelessly, leaving Winnie to draw her own conclusions as to whether she was supposed to feel menaced. She didn’t.

‘Nice namesake.’

‘I was named after my father, seeing as you mention it. Wonderful guy, and surprisingly, he’s never robbed a bank in his life.’

Great. Now she felt shitty for insulting his dad. How did that happen?

‘So, Jesse,’ she said, thinking actually he looked like a Jesse, now she’d said it aloud. Jesse suggested bad boys and motorbikes and leather jackets, scowls, cigarettes and bad manners. Not that she’d seen him smoke, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled a box out and lit up. ‘Would you mind telling me how to make my donkey move, please?’

He scrubbed a hand over the dark stubble along his jaw and gave a non-committal ‘huh’. ‘Now there’s a question.’

Here we go again. ‘And does it have an answer?’ she asked, sweet as apple pie.

Jesse shrugged. ‘Not an obvious one, no.’

Winnie could feel the threads of her temper unravelling. ‘So give me the complicated one. It would appear that I have time to listen.’

‘Would you like a drink?’

Whoa. That volte-face was so violent it’d be a miracle if he didn’t give himself whiplash. In truth, Winnie was gasping for a drink; she hadn’t thought to bring any water with her as she’d expected her neighbour to be closer than he was, and the sun overhead was making her feel every inch the barbecued prawn he’d likened her to. Nonetheless, she still considered saying no, because there was every chance he was being sarcastic.

‘I don’t suppose it’d go amiss,’ she said, feigning indifference.

His full mouth turned down as he shrugged. ‘It was just a neighbourly offer. Don’t force yourself.’

Winnie sighed and gave in. ‘Some water would be very nice if you wouldn’t mind.’

He inclined his head, then turned away and started to stride through the trees. ‘This way.’

Was it OK to follow a stranger into his house in a foreign land? It’d seem terribly rude if she didn’t now she’d accepted.

He stopped walking and swung around. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘You’re not going to kill me, are you?’

‘Fucking hell, woman. I think I might if you carry on like this.’ He rubbed his hand through his dark, slightly too long hair, clearly exasperated. ‘I’ve lived on Skelidos for the last ten years without murdering anyone and I don’t plan on that changing today, but if you’d rather stay out here just in case while I fetch you a glass of water, then be my guest.’

They’d reached a low-slung farmhouse, and he gestured towards a table and chairs set out under the shade of a veranda.

Winnie considered her choices and decided that on balance he was unlikely to bump her off; he knew that she wasn’t here alone and, technically, she’d been trespassing on his land and inadvertently tried to steal his donkey so she wasn’t really in a position to be judgmental. He led the way through a stable door directly into his kitchen. Winnie wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting; something rustic and manly, if she’d been pinned down to take a guess. It wasn’t rustic. It was sleek and minimalist, a complete contrast to the traditional stone exterior of the building. Cool and uncluttered, his air-con was blessedly fridge-cold and his drinking water, when he passed it over, was as cool and clear as if he’d just dipped the glass in an icy mountain spring.

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking a seat when he pulled out a chair at the glass dining table.

‘It’s safe. I’m fresh out of arsenic,’ he said, dropping into the seat opposite hers.

Winnie smirked and took a welcome drink as he watched her.

‘So what’s going on over at the B&B?’ he asked. ‘Are you three doing a Thelma and Louise?’

God, he was annoying. ‘Meaning?’

He lifted one shoulder. ‘Bitter women running off together for an ill-advised adventure?’

‘Way I remember it, Thelma and Louise were badasses who murdered a man because he behaved like a cock and then killed themselves.’

Jesse cupped his glass between his hands on the table. ‘This could be an interesting summer for all of us then.’

‘And we’re not bitter,’ Winnie added, correcting him belatedly. ‘We’re three modern, perfectly happy women who spotted a shrewd business investment and snapped it up.’

Jesse nodded, then lifted his glass and downed the entire contents. Something about the action disturbed Winnie; for a few brief seconds she found herself noticing the physicality of him, as if she were watching a movie. He could pass for Greek; the sun had burnished his skin that deep bronze that could never be attained on a package holiday, and if his hair wasn’t black, it was as near as damn it. He’d changed from the billowy shirt into a faded red T-shirt that had either shrunk in the wash or been given to him by a lover who enjoyed the way it fit him a little too well; either way Winnie couldn’t help but be aware of his long, lean biceps and the generous width of his shoulders. All that fresh air and olive farming clearly agreed with him.

‘Speaking of badasses,’ she said, because getting her mind off the fact that he looked hot was a good idea. ‘How do I get that bad ass out there to walk back to the B&B with me?’

Jesse shook his head. ‘There’s no way you’re going to win him over in five minutes, or five hours even. Five days, possibly, or five weeks, I’d say it’s almost a definite. He has to trust you. To like you, even, before he’s going anywhere with you.’ He paused. ‘Hard work. Bit like a woman, really.’

Winnie curled her lip at him. ‘You just don’t stop, do you?’

He lifted his hands palms up. ‘Just sayin’.’

‘I don’t know about us being bitter women,’ Winnie said. ‘It sounds to me as if you’re the one with the chip on your shoulder.’

He laughed and rubbed the heel of his palm into his eye socket. ‘On the contrary. I love women. You all just drive me fucking crazy with your complications and contradictions.’

‘That is so incredibly rude and ignorant,’ Winnie said, bridling. ‘So what, you hide out on your farm drinking beers with your donkey?’

‘I’m not a monk. I fuck sometimes. I even make breakfast afterwards. I’m one of the good guys; I don’t promise the moon on a string, because strings strangle relationships.’ He made a yanking gesture that clearly indicated a noose being tightened around his neck.

Winnie stared at him. ‘Well, say it like it is, why don’t you?’ she said, taken aback by his frankness.

‘What do you want me to say?’ He looked thoroughly unapologetic. ‘I like a simple life. I don’t do hearts and flowers.’

‘So what do you do?’ Winnie asked, trying to steer the conversation around to life on Skelidos because they’d got really quite deep into relationship talk, and that was weird given that this was their first real conversation.

‘With women? I do talking.’ He gestured between them to demonstrate man and woman. ‘And I do kissing. I do kissing really well.’ He laughed, as if that was sort of a given for a cool guy like him. ‘And I do sex, naturally. I’m pretty darn good at that too.’

Winnie wasn’t sure if she wanted to tip her cold water all over her own head or chuck it at him. It was definitely an inappropriate thing for him to say, and yet he said it so flippantly that it came over as cheeky rather than sleazy. He was a rogue; but at least he was upfront about it, and that was actually something of a relief after all of the underhand behaviour that had ended her marriage.

‘I wasn’t asking about your sexual technique,’ she said, drily. ‘I was asking what you do here on the island.’

‘Ah. My mistake.’ The glint in his eye told her that it wasn’t necessarily a mistake at all. ‘Well, as you so astutely observed, I farm olives and drink beer,’ he said. ‘And I sculpt.’

Now he’d surprised her. ‘You do? Sculpt as in …’ She made vague pottery movements in the air with her hands. ‘Pots and things?’

Jesse nodded. ‘I have a wheel for smaller stuff, but I mostly do bigger commission pieces. Animals, people, that sort of thing.’

‘Wow.’ Winnie was genuinely thrown. He seemed too much of a jock to be an artist, although she was self-aware enough to realise that her sweeping generalisation was small-minded. ‘Can I see?’

He huffed under his breath, as if she’d asked a stupid question. ‘No.’

She’d expected as much. Back home in the UK, Winnie had been forging a career for herself as a self-taught jewellery designer, and she’d never been keen on showing any of her pieces to people before they were finished. She’d worked alone from her tiny garden workshop, happy with just the radio and next door’s cat for company. Her silver and copper wire work didn’t cost the earth, but she’d been making a name for herself as a designer with flair and an eye for pretty gemstones. The last couple of summers had been especially busy with bridal commissions, but this year she’d barely touched her tools. Rory had stolen far more than her happiness; he’d tucked her creativity into his holdall alongside the aftershave she loved the smell of on his skin and the cufflinks she’d made for him as a first-anniversary gift.

‘One day maybe,’ Jesse relented, and Winnie realised that he’d probably misread her silence as having taken offence at his refusal to show her his studio.

‘No, it’s OK, really.’ Casting her eye around the kitchen, she wondered if he actually cooked in here. It didn’t look used. She was about to ask when something brushed against her legs, making her jump and glance under the table.

‘You have a cat,’ she said, laughing as the big black and white moggy bumped her hand when she reached down to fuss it.

‘Bandit,’ Jesse said, and the animal jumped up on his knees. ‘He isn’t mine, exactly. He lives a couple of farms across officially, but he spends most his time here.’ The cat scrubbed his head against Jesse’s five o’clock shadow, purring like a small generator. ‘He’s no looker, is he?’

Winnie considered the cat; he was missing a chunk of one of his ears and his fur in places seemed to have worn a little threadbare. He looked like he lived up to his name.

‘He’s characterful,’ she said in the end.

Jesse set the cat down. ‘I don’t mind him. He’s thorny and can be cantankerous, but he’s a hunter so he gets to stay.’

Winnie didn’t ask what Bandit hunted in case she didn’t like the answer.

‘It sounds to me as if you make a habit of collecting your neighbours’ animals.’

‘Come on now.’ He frowned. ‘I literally saved your ass. I can see that you’re struggling to say thank you.’ He sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Take your time.’

In truth, Winnie could see that he had sort of saved their donkey, but she still hadn’t completely forgiven him for his earlier rudeness. ‘Who calls a donkey The Fonz, anyhow?’

‘Ah, now that’s a story.’

‘Another one?’

He looked at her. ‘For a different day maybe. You better come back again tomorrow and try to woo him.’

‘Do you think he’ll come around to the idea?’

Jesse shrugged. ‘I imagine he’ll come to tolerate you in short bursts.’

Winnie curled her lip, unsure if they were even still talking about the donkey. She pushed herself up onto her feet and dusted her hands down her skirt to smooth it.

‘I should go, before they send out a search party.’ She slid her hairband out and gripped it between her teeth while she finger-combed her ponytail back into place. ‘You didn’t make the best first impression.’

‘Can’t think why,’ he said, standing up and putting their empty glasses into the sink.

Winnie headed to the door. ‘Is there anything I can bring to encourage him to like me more?’

‘I think he likes bikinis and girls who can cook a good steak.’

Winnie shot him a sarcastic look over her shoulder, and he just shrugged and half laughed.

Pausing by the donkeys to give them both a quick fuss of the ears, she looked back towards the house. He hadn’t followed her out; she’d have been more surprised if he had.

One way or another, Jesse was going to be trouble.