Page 47 of Summer At Willow Tree Farm

‘Unless, of course, you’re scared of me,’ she added.

His brows lowered and a muscle in his jaw ticked against the day’s growth of stubble.

Strike one to Princess Drama.

‘Why would I be scared of you?’ he said flatly, as if he hadn’t just risked indigestion to get out of her way.

She poured a liberal dose of gin into the shot glasses. ‘Fabulous. Then drink up.’

He eyed the glass then wrapped his hand around it. The raw, reddened scar from his tango with the rotary blade drew her gaze before he lifted the glass to his lips and bolted the generous shot down in one.

The glass cracked back against the table as he smacked his lips, that dark gaze never straying from her face.

Game on.

She lifted her own glass and floored it.

The perfumed drink roared down her throat like liquid fire, hitting her tonsils with a one-two punch. She gulped down the cough, her eyes watering like a faucet.

Waiting for her hand to steady, she refilled the glasses.

His eyebrow hooked up again. ‘Really?’

She picked up her glass. ‘Here’s to Mr Hegley,’ she said. ‘A man who recognises a great investment when he sees one.’ Then drained the glass.

The gin went down without a problem this time, probably because the lining of her throat had already been cauterised.

Art was still studying her, with that inscrutable expression on his face.

For a moment she thought she might have gone too far. Was he about to walk out, leaving her sitting there, with her foolish desire to end the animosity between them pooling round her deadly toenails in a puddle of despair.

But then he lifted one shoulder in a nonchalant shrug, tipped the glass towards her in a silent toast, and chugged it down.

Triumph – sweet and heady and possibly a tad out of proportion to what she had actually achieved – charged through her system alongside the fiery shot of alcohol.

She reached for the bottle, to refill. Maybe she couldn’t get Art onside with the project, but getting pissed with him suddenly seemed like the perfect compromise. But, as her fingers closed over the bottle, his palm wrapped around her hand. The touch was electrifying, zapping endorphins up her arm and down through her torso.

‘Slow down,’ he said.

She prised her hand out from under his.

‘How much did you have at Annie’s?’ he asked.

Not enough.

‘Not much… Only two glasses.’ Or had it been three? Because she suddenly felt more drunk than she had a moment ago.

‘Right.’ He didn’t look convinced. ‘How about we take a break.’ He hooked the stopper back onto the gin bottle, before carrying his bowl to the sink.

Ellie let her gaze drift over him, taking the opportunity to admire all his more basic qualities unobserved. Maddy was right, he was a phenomenally hot guy, dark and rugged, with that edge of raw earthy animal magnetism which made women everywhere – even happily married Aidan Turner fans like Annie – take notice. And tonight, his personality deficiencies didn’t seem particularly important. If anything, that air of inscrutability and stoicism made him… well, extra hot.

Everything about Art was so refreshingly straightforward. He didn’t try to bamboozle women with empty charm, which was mighty seductive to a woman who had spent the last twelve years living with a compulsive liar.

His back muscles flexed beneath the well-worn T-shirt while he rinsed out his bowl and propped it on the draining board. The alcohol hit ground zero and the hum in her belly built to a slow-burning fire.

Nope, I have not had nearly enough alcohol.

He flicked the water off his hands, wiped them on a tea towel, then headed towards the door.