Page 12 of Under Gorse and Stone

His eyes sharpen. “What did she look like?”

“Blonde. Her hair was very long, and she had a Cornish accent. She told me off for being late.” I give an awkward laugh and scrub my hand through my hair. “I’m having rather an odd day.”

“Well…” He licks his lips and seems to change his mind about what he was going to say. “Let us get out of this wind. You are shivering.”

As if to prove his point, a shudder passes through me, and he exclaims, ushering me up the steps and then following.

I look back, intending to say something, but the comment dies away as I see him make a gesture. It’s an almost lazy sweep of his fingers, but for a moment, I could swear the branches on either side of the steps cringe away.

His eyes are very gold and solemn. “It is best to guard yourself on the steps, Cary. They are neither up nor down, you see.”

Not really, but I nod politely.

His expression clears. “Come, I shall show you my home. It is not far from here. You shall feast and warm yourself.”

Once up the steps, he turns right, and I see a sandy path wending its way through the gorse bushes.

“I didn’t see this when I walked this way earlier,” I say chattily.

He smiles at me. “Few do.”

We walk, and he lowers his hand to my back to guide me around a rocky patch. Once we’re through, he leaves his hand there. It’s big and warm, and I fight the urge to shove into his touch.

I catch him watching my arse, and I repress a smile. “My face is up here.”

He looks up, and rather than look abashed, his face is merry. “Ah, but when a work of fine art presents itself, it demands obeisance.”

“Well, my bottom has always beenverydemanding.”

His laughter is rich and warm, and his gaze is hot when he meets mine. He’s a very appealing man—warm and flirty. I wonder how often he picks up men. With the potency of his personality and body, I bet it’s a lot. The thought makes me smile, and my body thrums with interest. It looks like my sojourn to Cornwall might have an unexpected benefit.

The path widens and comes out in front of a towering cliff face. The stone is golden, and a plant grows up the face of it, nearly concealing the massive wooden door set into the rock.

“Here?” I say in disbelief. “You livehere?”

“Aye. There are many rooms carved out beneath the cliff.”

“Ah. I remember seeing an Airbnb once that had been made out of a cave.” I nod at the plant. “Wisteria?” I ask, and he nods. “I bet that looks pretty in the spring.”

“Ah, Cary. The whole of Kernow is beautiful in spring when the gorse flowers are sunshine bright. The cliffs are carpeted with gorse, and the air smells of coconut and salt.”

“That sounds nice,” I say wistfully.

“You shall see for yourself.”

“Oh, I don’t know if I’ll be back, but it’s a nice thought.”

He cocks his head. “I think you shall see it,” he says, his accent softening the words, making the simple sentiment beautiful.

“Kernow? I’ve seen that on signs and stickers while I’ve been here. What does it mean?”

“Ah, ’tis the ancient and true name for Cornwall.”

He steps up to the door and pushes it open.

“You don’t lock it,” I say, astonished.

“Nay. What for?”