Leave Me Breathless, Page 3

  The lady comes to join me on the floor, helping me. “That’s Timmy.” She smiles at my frown as we both stand, both our hands full of various paintbrushes. “The cat,” she confirms, nodding her head toward the door. “Belongs to Mrs. Hatt. If a door’s open, he’ll invite himself in.”

  “I’ll remember that,” I reply with a smile.

  Resting the brushes on the table, she offers me her hand. “I’m Molly. I teach history at the town school.” Off-loading my brushes, I shake her hand with a smile. “Well, I teach English and math, too.” She shrugs. “Small school.”

  “Nice to meet you, Molly. I’m Hannah.”

  “I’ve been meaning to come introduce myself since I saw you moving in a couple of weeks ago.” Molly takes a peek around, looking impressed. “How’s it going?”

  “Great, thank you.” I head for the shelves and collect up the paint pots that Timmy knocked off. “I showcased some of my work at a show yesterday, and my online store is up and running now, too.”

  “Oh, good luck with that! There are some beautiful places around here to paint.”

  “There are,” I agree. “It’s a lovely little town. Have you lived here long?”

  “Oh, I’m a lifer.” Molly laughs as she approaches, helping me to restack the paint pots. “I love it here.” Her brown eyes are big and round, a friendly twinkle in them, and her hourglass figure must be the envy of women near and far. She’s got to be a few years younger than me, maybe late twenties, and her mousy-brown hair is pulled into a low, loose ponytail. “You’ll never want to leave.”

  I smile, making sure it’s not too tight. I might never want to leave, but I’ll have to eventually. “I don’t already.”

  “Where have you come from?” Molly asks casually as we finish arranging the shelf together.

  I automatically clam up, but quickly work to shake off my awkwardness. I can’t turn into a nervous waif every time someone asks anything about me. “I’ve lived abroad for years. Decided it was time to come home.” An image of my mother flashes through my mind, and a lump forms in my throat. Saturday, I tell myself. I can see her again on Saturday. I blink and look up at Molly.

  “Well, welcome back to England.”

  “Thank you.”

  I don’t know whether she senses she shouldn’t press me for more, or whether she’s oblivious to my struggle, but I’m grateful all the same for her lack of prying. Wandering over to the opposite wall, she scans the paintings. “So I’m hoping you can help me.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “The art teacher is off sick, so I’m covering her class tomorrow. But we never got the supplies we were expecting this week.” She turns toward me. “The kids will be so disappointed if they can’t paint their papier-mâché models.”

  “You need paint?” I ask, and she nods.

  “Enough to paint various giant planets for their solar system project.” She shrugs when I frown. “The art teacher is also the science teacher. Small school. I went to the town store and all they have is various shades of cream and white. That’s the bands on Jupiter covered.” Her expression turns somewhat awkward as I laugh.

  “I only really stock oils and watercolors,” I say as I gesture to the shelf. “They’re expensive and you’d need a hell of a lot to spread over a solar system.”

  “Crap. I’m on a budget.” Molly deflates. “Never mind, I’ll just—”

  “Wait, I have an idea that might work.” I head for the kitchenette, and Molly follows. Opening the top cupboard, I start rifling through, pulling down various bottles of food coloring. “Would you pass me that bowl?” I ask as I grab the flour and salt from another cupboard.

  “I’m intrigued,” Molly says as she watches me tip two cups of each into the bowl, followed by two cups of water. I add a few drops of red food coloring and mix it all up with a wooden spoon. “That’s Mars sorted.” I grab a container and tip in the homemade paint.

  “You genius,” Molly sings on a clap of her hands. “Where’d you learn that?”

  “When I was a student and money was tight.” God, those days were so carefree. I was so happy. And now I can be happy again. “You just need a lot of flour, salt, and time, but it’s cheap.”

  She looks at her watch, and I see a small flinch pass across her face. “I have to shoot to the vet to pick up my dog. The town store will be closed by the time I’m done.”

  “I don’t mind going to the store,” I offer, more than happy to help. “And I’ll mix the rest of the colors up, if you’re short on time.”

  “Oh my God, would you? I would be eternally grateful.”

  “Of course.” I shrug off her appreciation. “It won’t take me long. I hope your dog is okay.”

  “Oh, nothing major. Well, I say that. I’m sure Archie wouldn’t agree when he’s just had his balls cut off.”

  I laugh, wincing for effect. “What breed?”

  “A Labrador. You a dog person, or a cat person?”

  “A dog person.” My smile falters as I go to the sink and rinse the bowl of red paint. “I used to have a cockapoo.”

  “Oh no, did she die?”

  I nod, because, again, it’s easier. She didn’t die. I was told my life wasn’t suitable for a dog. So she was taken to an animal shelter. “Candy. She was a crafty character. But loyal to the bone.” And that loyalty turned out to be the cause for her having to leave me.

  I set the clean bowl on the drainer and dry my hands with a tea towel as I face Molly, pulling my smile from nowhere. The sympathy emblazoned across her face stabs at my heart. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I can only imagine how you felt. They become a part of the family so quickly.”

  I bet she can’t imagine at all. “Anyway.” I toss the tea towel aside. “I’d better get to the store before it closes. Would you like me to drop off the paints once I’m done?”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course. I’m sure you’ll have your hands full with Archie.” I collect my keys from the counter. “Where do you live?” We walk out of the shop together, and I lock the door behind me.

  “If you head past the school, past the church and Mrs. Hatt’s, and over the bridge, you’ll see a little cottage set back from the road. That’s mine.” Molly surprises me with an impulsive hug. “Thank you so much, Hannah. We’ll have to have a drink together. My treat.”

  “That’d be lovely.” I can’t remember a time when I went for drinks with girlfriends. I haven’t had any friends for years.

  Molly breaks away and heads for her car, waving as she goes. Feeling happy and useful, I head for the store to stock up on flour and salt, and spend the next hour mixing paint until I have a stack of tubs in various colors to cover all planets. I also have various-colored smears of homemade paint all over my face. I look in the mirror and smile. Then I stack the containers carefully in a box, set it in the basket of my bicycle, and get on my way, leaving my cheeks sporting every color of the rainbow. Because having to be perfect isn’t a problem anymore.

  Chapter Three

  RYAN

  With my elbow resting out of the window, I turn the wheel with one hand as I weave through the familiar windy roads of the Peak District. The sun is low, the glare brutal, but it’s fucking glorious. I inhale the smell of nature and the great outdoors.

  Home.

  I reach forward and turn on the radio, and All Saints’ “Pure Shores” joins me. I smile and relax back, tapping the steering wheel as I negotiate the snaking roads through the fields. Now, this is me. Nature. Clean air. Simple living. It’s good to be back.

  As I breach the threshold of town, I take my foot off the accelerator and slow to a crawl, surprised to see something unfamiliar. “Bright Art?” My truck slows to a stop as I take in the new store where a florist used to be. I laugh sardonically. “Good luck with that around here.”

  I put my foot down and carry on up the street, and as I drive over the bridge across the river, I spot Mrs. Hatt trimming her hedges. I honk my horn, and she swings around with her
garden shears, her face a picture of pleasure. “Ryan!” she sings.

  “Hey, Mrs. Hatt,” I call as I slow to a crawl again. “Anything new to tell me?”

  She chuckles, dipping and shooing away one of her cats. “Oh, you know Hampton. Nothing changes.”

  Yeah, nothing changes. Which means Darcy Hampton is still the mega bitch from hell. Can’t wait to bump into her.

  I honk my horn in goodbye and take the next right onto the dirt road that leads to my sanctuary, and I once again find myself breathing in the fresh country air, my eyes closing briefly in bliss as I let my contentment breeze out on a long exhale. “Fucking perfect.”

  I open my eyes.

  And jump out of my fucking skin.

  “Shit!” I swerve to the left, feeling something catch the side of my truck. “What the fuck?” I fight to gain control, yanking the steering wheel to the right as I hurtle toward a gigantic tree trunk. “Oh, you fucker.”

  Bang.

  The impact jolts me in my seat, the hood of my truck flying up, the air bag inflating with a boom. It takes a few seconds for me to grasp my bearings, my hands tussling with the balloon in my face. “Shit.” What the hell was that?

  Jumping out, I ignore the steam billowing from the engine and race around the back, scanning the area. Nothing. Was it a rabbit? No, too big. “A deer?” I say out loud, just as the air is pierced with a high-pitched curse.

  “Fucking hell!”

  I swing around and see the bushes across the road rustling, and then a woman staggers out. “You fucking wanker!” she yells, falling to her arse and rubbing at her knee. “You should watch where you’re damn well going.”

  Whoa! “Are you okay?” I ask, a little warily, gingerly stepping closer.

  She looks up at me, her hand pausing in its rubbing of her knee. Her face deadpans for a second as she takes me in from top to bottom, before her scowl returns. “No.” She pulls the leg of her dungarees up and hisses at what she finds. A huge, bleeding scrape. “Ouch.”

  I blink, a little taken aback, but now for other reasons. With her rainbow-streaked face, she’s just about the most adorable thing I’ve ever laid my eyes on. From her dungarees to the cute scarf that she’s got knotted on her head, she’s stunningly pretty, even with twigs and leaves stuck all over her. Where did she come from?

  I watch, still as can be, as she struggles to her feet and limps a few paces away from me. “Oh God, that hurts.”

  I come to life, snapped into action by her pained voice. Shooting over, I take her arm. “You came from nowhere,” I explain. “There’s never anyone on this road.”

  She shrugs me off, annoyed, and tries to straighten. “Get off, you oaf.”

  Yikes. She’s seriously pissed off. I raise my hands in surrender, backing away as her hard stare slowly drops, being replaced with…

  Oh shit. Her eyes well. Her lip wobbles. Her paint-covered face twists a little. “Ouch,” she croaks again, rolling her shoulder and hissing in pain. God damn, have I ever felt like such an arsehole?

  I move in quickly, unable to stop myself. “Here, let me help.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  Rolling my eyes and disregarding the fact that I’m about to be smeared in rainbow paint, too, I swoop in and scoop her from her feet before she tries some heroic move to decline my help again. I carry her to a nearby fallen trunk, holding her tighter when she struggles in my arms, hissing in pain between her protests.

  “Quit wriggling,” I order sternly, trying not to lose my patience. She eventually submits and stills in my arms, and I peek out the corner of my eye to find her staring at me, her eyes a little wide. “Bad day?” I ask flatly.

  Her expression changes in a heartbeat, going from stunned to angry. “It was fine until you ran me down.” She looks away, a little snootily, and I see her teeth sink into her bottom lip. She’s not just still now, she’s tense, too, and when she snatches a quick glance at me again, finding I’m studying her, she huffs and looks away.

  “Then I’m sorry for ruining it,” I say quietly.

  “So you should be.”

  I lower her to the tree trunk and drop to my haunches before her, breathing in patience as she fights to focus on anything other than me. She’ll struggle; I’m no small guy, and I’m crouched in front of her.

  “Seriously, are you okay?” I soften my voice and dip to get myself in her downcast vision, forcing a small smile that I hope makes her feel better.

  She lifts her eyes but not her head, as if afraid to look me in the eye. Her forced angry expression softens a little, and I take a moment to marvel at how blue her eyes are. “Well?” I prompt, realizing that I’ve been staring for a little too long.

  She shrugs, more placid now. With her hand on her shoulder, she rolls it a little. “A bit sore.”

  “Can I take a look at your knee?” I motion to the area where the leg of her baggy dungarees is pulled high up her rather lovely thigh, exposing the grazed, bleeding mess.

  “You can see it, can’t you?” she asks a little sardonically, and my lips straighten in natural displeasure without thought. Is she going to continue to be difficult for the sake of it? Noting my annoyance, she waves a hand dismissively. “Go for it.”

  Dropping to my knees, I take her slender ankle and rest her foot on my thigh. “Relax,” I order gently, feeling her stiffen at my touch. “I’m not a mass murderer.” I peek up, and for reasons I can’t explain, I savor the sight of her trying so hard to hold back her smile.

  “How would I know?” she asks.

  “Well, if I wanted to kill you, I could have done it within a second of seeing you.” I inspect her knee, seeing bits of dirt and gravel in the cuts.

  “What are you, a hit man?”

  I laugh lightly and pull my T-shirt up over my head, then use it to dab away the trails of blood down her leg. “No, actually. Ex-MI5. Now I’m in protection. Or I was,” I correct myself, seeing astonishment on her face, but she doesn’t say anything. I’m not sure if she’s stunned by the information, or by my chest. Could be both. I don’t know, but something tells me to move things along quickly. She appears to be in a bit of a trance. “This needs cleaning up.” She just nods, suddenly mute. “My place is just up the track. You happy to go there?” She shakes her head. “Lost your voice?”

  Looking away as she blinks repeatedly, she clears her throat. “I can clean myself up when I get home.”

  She’s wary. I can’t blame her, really. I’m a six-foot-three-inch bloke with a scar on my lip and a bent nose from endless breaks. Hardly a comforting sight. Suddenly bothered by this, I force a smile again, knowing it’s crooked from that scar. Her eyes drop to my mouth, and she swallows. The atmosphere shifts. The silence is awkward. My skin tingles unstoppably.

  “My…” She seems to lose her voice as she shakes her head, looking past me, and I follow her stare to the bushes, seeing the wheel of a bike poking through the branches.

  Oh.

  I quickly rise, giving us both space, and pace over to tug the bike free, standing the mangled mess on the road. The bush is a vibrant mix of every color under the sun, and I notice various containers scattered everywhere. Paint. I go to ask what it’s for, but when I look back, I find her pouting solemnly at her ruined bike. She shouldn’t pout. She definitely shouldn’t pout. Those lips…

  “I loved that bike,” she murmurs.

  My admiring is interrupted, and I quickly feel like even more of an arsehole. Being a knight in shining armor isn’t usually my style. Then again, I’ve never nearly killed a woman. Though I can’t deny I’ve imagined strangling some. Or one in particular.

  “I’m sorry,” I say sincerely, feeling like total shit. “I’ll replace it.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “But I want to.”

  Her head cocks as she studies me, like she’s trying to figure me out. And silence falls again. Awkward, again. I lay her bike—which is certainly dead—on the ground and head over to my truc
k to escape the odd atmosphere. The smoke has calmed, no longer billowing up from the engine.

  “Is it bad?” she asks, joining me. I tense, her arm nearly touching mine where she stands beside me.

  “Just a popped valve.” I pull down the hood, grimacing at the tidy dent on the bumper. “I think the tree took the worst.” I collect her bike and put it on the back, then open the passenger door. “Hop in.”

  She’s hesitant, looking back down the road. “No, it’s fine, I’ll walk.” Approaching my truck, she reaches for her bike, and I immediately step in to help. And quickly pull back when she jumps out of my way like a skittish kitten.

  I motion to the bicycle and slowly reach for it. “I was just going to help you get it down.” As I set it on the ground for her, she closes her eyes briefly, exhaling, and I’m sure it’s to gather herself.

  “Thank you,” she breathes, claiming her bike. She offers me a small smile, one I can tell is forced.

  This isn’t sitting well with me at all. She’s bleeding, she’s clearly hurt her shoulder, her bike is obliterated, and it’s getting dark. Hampton may well be the safest place on earth, but an injured woman shouldn’t be roaming around on her own. Not anywhere. And especially when I’ve offered to give her a ride. And especially when I’m the damn fucking cause for her having to walk home in the first place. I move forward but come to an abrupt halt when she takes a step back.

  “I’d feel a lot better if you let me drive you home,” I tell her.

  “Honestly, I’m really fine.”

  “Your knee disagrees.” I point to the bloodied mess, and she peeks down. “Let me at least clean it up.”

  She doesn’t answer this time, and instead turns quickly and pushes her bike down the track a bit too hastily for my liking. “I’ll be fine,” she calls as she goes.

  I step forward, instinct telling me to go after her and insist on sorting that knee and taking her home, but I stop myself. She doesn’t want my help, and I’m not the kind of man to force myself on anyone.