Falling for the Rebel Heir

Blake Ally

‘I didn’t expect to see you here,’ he said.

‘I wasn’t coming to use your pool, if that’s what you mean.’

Hud laughed before he even felt it rising up his chest. It felt good. No, it felt great. Natural. Unforced. Curative. He held up both hands in surrender. ‘Ah, no. I was just making conversation. Badly, it seems.’

She flicked her hair off her face. Not out of any kind of flirtation but more like she was shooing away a bothersome fly. Either way, the shift and tumble of her hair mesmerised him. The woman wasn’t a mermaid, she was a siren. An unwilling siren, if that clenched jaw was anything to go by, but a siren all the same.

‘You come here often?’ he asked, wondering where these conversational gems were coming from.

‘More often than I should probably admit,’ she said with a shrug.

Hud didn’t realise he had a thing for shoulders until that moment. Pale, delicate, eloquent shoulders were his new favourite thing.

‘But I came out this morning in the hope I might bump into you,’ she said as she finally made prolonged eye contact with him.

Well, that was one for the books. Hud stopped his daydreaming and came to attention. ‘You could have come knocking on my front door,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve established you know where I live.’

Her eyes blazed and he bit his inner lip and told himself to cool it. The more he pushed, the more she seemed determined to pull away. But maybe it was worth it for the flare of energy in those blue-grey eyes.

‘Not my style,’ she said, the tight half smile shifting into something far more natural as it tugged at the corners of her lips. ‘I tend to make things far more difficult than all that.’

‘I’ve been there,’ he said. And he smiled back, feeling it from the inside out.

Then her smile slid away and she shook her head and, with a big deep breath, said, ‘Look, I wanted to apologise for yesterday. And all the days before that. The trespassing. The tidying. The water usage.’ She closed one eye and squinted up at him through the other, obviously mortified at having to say so.

And it was just as obvious to him that he found this woman utterly adorable. Whoever she was. Whatever she was really here to say to him. Because he knew as well as he knew his own name that she sure wasn’t here, hat in hand, just to say, I’m sorry.

‘You have nothing to apologise for,’ he said. ‘The pool house never looked so good. Ever. I should have come looking for you at the other end of this forest of ours to say thank you.’

She opened the other eye and her eyebrows disappeared under wavy wisps of dark red hair. Her voice dropped when she said, ‘It never looked that good ever? Maybe you should demand a refund from your previous pool guy.’

Hud laughed again. And his smile lingered. Grew, even. ‘You needn’t have worked nearly so hard at it.’

‘How could I not? It’s the most amazing structure I’ve ever seen. Like something out of a fairy tale.’ She let go of a sigh. A long romantic sigh that seemed to curl about them both until Hud realised the sounds of the forest had slipped completely away until all he could hear was the sound of her voice, her breathing, the swish of her voluminous skirt.

Her eyebrows settled back to a normal position, perhaps even a little furrowed as she shifted her stance as though her toes were turning numb in her shoes, and said, ‘But, even so, you were no doubt surprised to find…what you found. And I feel utterly embarrassed. About the whole thing with the pool. Tidy though it is. And for thinking you were going to rob me. And for the running away without explaining myself.’

And? Hud thought. For she wasn’t finished yet. He could almost see the wheels turning behind those smoky eyes. Right, she was thinking, he’s going to make me say this, isn’t he?

She squared her shoulders. Tossed her hair again. Looked him dead in the eye and said, ‘But, since you think I’ve done such a good job of keeping your pool house in tiptop shape, perhaps we can come to some arrangement where I can continue.’

She tried to make it seem a by the way kind of statement, but he knew from the tightness in her neck and the way she grabbed hold of clumps of her tie-dyed skirt that this was what she’d come here to say.

Hud opened his mouth to tell her she could do whatever she liked, when she held up a hand, palm forward, and he stopped before the words made it past his larynx.

‘I’m prepared to buy the chlorine, the tile cleaner, pay a portion of your water bill, get on my hands and knees and clean the grout with a toothbrush, anything. I just…’ She stopped to swallow, and for the first time he saw a flutter of vulnerability beneath the resilient exterior. ‘I just need to keep swimming in your pool. If it’s okay with you.’

She made it seem as if she needed it the same way he needed oxygen in his lungs. The same way he needed to find out how to clear his head so that he could get back to work. And the way he had come out here into the misty forest with some strange need to make sure that she was real.

‘Where on earth will you find the time to do all that?’ he asked.

‘I am a fact checker for several regional newspapers. I work freelance. My time management is my own.’

‘Sounds pretty cushy.’

‘Suits me. Not so many rave parties and shoe shops to keep a girl in trouble in Saffron, so one doesn’t need a great deal of money to have a very nice life here.’ She glanced over his shoulder to what was no doubt a gorgeous view of Claudel’s elegant gabled rooftop beyond. ‘Well, I don’t, anyway.’

He didn’t give her the satisfaction of turning. Instead he just waited for her pointed gaze to rock back to his. For suddenly he was having ideas.

Her time was her own. And he had nothing but time. Maybe this woman’s needs and his could work together. He slid his hands into his pockets. ‘So I take it you can type,’ he said.

Her hands slowly let go of the skirt fabric they’d been clinging to until the red and black cotton swished about the tops of her heavy boots. ‘Can I type?’

He nodded.

‘So fast you won’t see my fingers move for the speed. But I don’t see what that has to do with—’

‘I have a story I need to get down on paper,’ he said. ‘And I am a two-finger typist of the worst kind.’

‘You’re a writer? But I thought you were some kind of flashy documentary photographer,’ she said, then her face dropped as she realised she’d given away the fact that she’d done some asking around about him.