Page 31 of Summer At Willow Tree Farm

He frowned. Apparently this was news to him.

‘And whether or not you can look after yourself is debatable, frankly.’

‘It feels good now.’ He lifted his bandaged hand off the table and cradled it back in his lap.

‘That’s only because the Nurofen is kicking in.’ She took the rest of the packet out of the first aid box and placed it on top of the paperwork he’d been doing when she walked in. Whatever he’d been writing, it looked a mess. The spidery scrawl barely legible. ‘Make sure you keep dosed up on them until the antibiotics kick in. You’re sure you don’t want to take the other stuff the doctor gave you tonight? It should help you sleep.’

He glanced away. ‘Yeah, maybe, if it’s still sore I’ll take some tonight.’

Hmm, no he wouldn’t. She wondered if he had a phobia of painkillers as well as hospitals.

Luckily, getting to the bottom of Art Dalton’s bizarre behaviour was not her concern.

‘And talk to Mum about the food situation. Or I will.’

He considered the request. The pulse in her neck throbbed as she waited for a response.

It suddenly seemed vitally important she make him understand he needed to keep her mum informed. Or she’d worry. Which was fairly ironic.

What right did she have to insist he be a better surrogate son to Dee, when she’d been an absentee daughter for nineteen years?

‘I’ll talk to her,’ he said at last.

‘Good.’ She wiped her hands on her jeans, nervous and not sure why.

She closed the first aid box, tucked it under her arm. ‘I should get these back to the pantry.’

Art caught her wrist in his good hand. ‘Listen, thanks, Ellie.’

She looked down, the feel of the rough calluses against delicate skin triggering a memory she didn’t want.

He let her go.

Had he remembered it too? Because that would be mortifying.

‘I owe you one,’ he said.

‘Too right you do,’ she replied. ‘But there’s no need to thank me, because I plan to collect, when you’re least expecting it.’

A smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘Why am I getting the feeling I’m going to live to regret this?’

‘Probably because you are.’

CHAPTER NINE

‘I don’t need you to do the paperwork,’ Art asserted. ‘I’ve got a system.’

Ellie cast a critical eye over the mess on Art’s desk, more than ready to call in yesterday’s debt.

From the pile of order forms and invoices, the files stacked up in dusty towers on the wind

owsill, and the Excel spreadsheet open on the computer that hadn’t been updated since yesterday, it was obvious the man didn’t have the first clue what he was doing. Plus, there was his injured hand to consider. He couldn’t even hold a pen properly.

No wonder this job gave him a headache. It was giving her a headache just watching him struggle with it, hunched over his desk with all the enthusiasm of Bob Cratchit on Christmas morning.

She had hinted heavily during last night’s supper, but, true to form, Art hadn’t asked for her help. So she’d been forced to demand he take it.

And lo and behold, as soon as she had, she’d smacked straight into Art’s I-Don’t-Ask-For-Help-Because-I-Have-Testicles bollocks.