Carrot and Coriander (2 page)

His strategy was working so far because now he was working for another friend of a friend of one of his clients—the pretty lady with nice legs who wanted a rockery building. A lady who seemed inclined to supervise his every move from her bedroom window, although she’d offered no comments or suggestions for the task. Just left him to get on with it. While she watched. He’d been at it for two days, and pretty much every time he glanced up she was there. Tall, though nowhere near his height. Maybe a little too thin, long wavy hair, sort of brown but maybe more reddish. She must be short-sighted because she always wore glasses. And she had lovely hands. He’d particularly noticed those when she’d handed him a mug of tea half way through his first morning. He’d thanked her, and she had said he was welcome. She had come back out later that day with another mug with some biscuits this time. And a chirpy toddler trotting behind her. That had surprised him—she didn’t look old enough to be a grandmother, although maybe she’d worn well. Very well, in fact. His gran had never looked anything like that. Close up she was—what? Attractive? More than that. She was bloody stunning.

The little kid was called Jacob, apparently, and was blessed with an extraordinary affinity for worms. This was not a fondness shared by his grandma, who had cast an embarrassed glance in Callum’s direction as she’d shuddered and asked the child to put the wriggling little pink knot back in the ground, where its babies could find it. She’d dropped her gaze almost immediately when she’d made eye contact with him, and Callum had still been puzzling about that when he’d heard the childish response—

“But I love it, mummy. It’s my pet.” Jacob had sniffled all the way back to the house, but to no avail. Callum had stared after the retreating pair.

Mummy! Well…

And now, she was there again. Watching him, always watching from the kitchen window and finding some pressing business to conduct on the windowsill the instant he turned in her direction. She’d wipe the paint away if she wasn’t careful.

Christ, he’s gorgeous. A little on the beefy side perhaps but what the hell? I would.

Except she knew she wouldn’t. Didn’t. Ever. Might have once, given the chance, but now there was Jacob to consider. She had responsibilities. Wonderful, life-affirming responsibilities. She wouldn’t change things for the world. But she definitely had no time for casual sex. Or any other sort. No, Rachel Saunders was not on the market. Still, it was a pity.

Not that someone like him would be interested in any case. Not in her. She was at least twenty years too old for him. He must have some lovely, sexy girlfriend tucked away somewhere—a lovely, sexy companion to go to pubs with, or to parties or football matches. And to sleep with afterwards. Someone who probably shared a cup of coffee with him in the mornings before he turned up here, or wherever else he might work. She knew he did a lot of gardening and other odd jobs in the neighborhood, had noticed him around. Who wouldn’t, he didn’t exactly blend in here—not the usual scenery at all. Gorgeous young men, built like athletes, ready to jump to it to do her bidding were not exactly thick on the ground here in leafy Adel.

And if she were brutally honest, the notion of building a rockery had never occurred to her until Jacob’s child minder had mentioned that her uncle had found this particularly enterprising young man who chopped logs, sold firewood and could trim hedges, and would do whatever needed doing around the garden. Putting two and two together, suddenly Rachel had found herself wanting a rockery. So the child minder had obligingly gotten the gardener’s mobile number from her uncle, she’d texted him and here he was. In her garden, digging and humping and generally providing the best floorshow she’d seen in years.

Christ, how pathetic.
In a few days he’d move on, she’d be two hundred quid down, and all she’d have to show for it would be a pile of soil with a few strategically positioned boulders and some heathers poking out of it. It wasn’t even as though her rockery would thrive, the gardener had told her as much and he seemed to know what he was talking about. He had even suggested a better location for it, but Rachel had rejected that notion out of hand as it would have entailed him completing the work in much less time. She wanted him here, for as long as she could spin the job out.

She really, really had to get out more. Just had to. But it wasn’t easy with a three-year-old, and she had to earn a living. Working from home as a freelance accountant paid the bills and made things a little easier with Jacob, but it meant no social life at all. At least not for the next few years.

Not that life BJ—Before Jacob—had been one endless social whirl exactly. Back then she’d worked for a huge firm in Leeds city center, but had tended to keep herself to herself, had had lunch with female friends from time to time, and once or twice joined in girlie nights out. But no relationships, nothing to speak of. She had been too busy building her career, establishing herself, eventually managing to reach the dizzy heights of Small Business Adviser. That had meant that any client of the firm with less than fifty employees had gotten the not inconsiderable benefit of Rachel’s advice on their tax affairs. She was good with tax, prided herself on never letting the taxman get his hands on one penny he wasn’t absolutely and irrefutably entitled to. Never anything remotely shady, of course, always straight as a die, but Rachel knew tax law inside out, upside down and backwards, and ‘tax efficiency’ was her middle name.

Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately depending on her view of such matters, ‘contraceptive efficiency’ had become something of an alien concept. She used to be good at that stuff—as a teenager with all her life ahead of her she’d known with absolute certainty the value of avoiding unwanted pregnancies or worse, and had taken particular care. Then she’d ‘grown up’, gotten all sensible and serious, and stopped bothering with all that messy business entirely. Eventually all the men she might have been interested in had sort of drifted off and gotten married to other women. Some had gotten divorced, and there might have been opportunities over the years, but she was never in the right place at the right time, or was just too busy…and she had sort of gotten out of practice.

Then, four summers ago, she had found herself on holiday in Spain with three single friends from the office. Somehow the normal rules hadn’t seemed so important there, and she’d ended up in bed with a rather charming Spanish lifeguard called Sebastien. And the rest was history.

After the first shock had worn off, when she’d discovered she’d come back from Spain with more than a stuffed donkey and bikini stripes to show for the adventure, Rachel had embraced this whole new life with a vengeance. She had never—not once—considered terminating her pregnancy. Indeed, she half wondered if she’d subconsciously done this on purpose—a sort of body clock taking over thing. In any case, Jacob was an absolute gift, she adored him, and she re-arranged her entire life around him. She had resigned from her job as soon as she’d known she was pregnant and had started her own business. Her reputation was such that she’d had no trouble attracting the first few clients, even without invoking the wrath of her previous employer by poaching their accounts. She had soon been bringing in enough each month to keep her afloat, and maybe she could step it all up a little later on, once the baby was here and she was settled again.

Somehow she hadn’t quite reached that stage yet, but she was content. She was comfortable. And she had her wonderful little boy.

And now, at least for the next few days, she had a rather wonderful big boy too. But best not to let him know she’d been watching him. It wouldn’t do to embarrass him, after all. Or herself.

* * * *

“Could you move your van, please. I need to get out.”

Callum straightened, wiped perspiration from his forehead as he turned to his client. She looked remarkably fresh this morning, and had a sort of slightly damp, just showered look about her. While he just felt minging. No hot shower at Kev’s place, no hot water at all since the electricity had gotten cut off. He so needed to move.

“Right.” He didn’t apologize for blocking her in, just groped in his jeans pocket for the keys to his battered old black Transit and strolled past her. She trailed him around the side of the house to the front, where Jacob was already strapped into his child seat in the back of his mum’s Ford Fiesta. Nice car, he mused, very serviceable. Like its owner. Except she wasn’t about to let him service her any time soon. Pity.

He smiled at the kid as he passed and hopped up into his own van. He backed it out of the drive, then waited in the road for the Fiesta to emerge from the gate. When she’d gone he maneuvered his van back into the driveway, tucked it around the side of the house out of her way, then got back to work.

The low growl of her diesel engine about twenty minutes later told him she was back. The crunch of tires on gravel as she pulled into the drive. The engine died and seconds later the car door slammed shut. Just one car door, so that meant she hadn’t brought the kid back with her. School? No, too young, surely. Nursery then. He shrugged and got on with piling soil into his, or rather her, wheelbarrow.

Chapter Two

“I’ve got soup.”

The quiet, feminine voice startled him. He hadn’t heard her approach, so she must have come out of the back door this time. Watching him when she thought he couldn’t see her, and now sneaking up behind him. She made him uneasy, edgy even. Truth was, he was itching to get his hands on her. His grubby, rough hands all over her smooth perfection. Not that he would. Well, not unless she asked very nicely.

She shifted, dropped her gaze again as she started to back away. Callum realized he’d been glaring at her. Shit—no good came of scaring his customers. But there was something about her manner, her shyness, that appealed. That seemed familiar. Surely she wasn’t…? Wouldn’t…? Would she?

“I’m sorry. I was miles away. What did you say?” He pushed his lips into a grin of sorts. The friendliest he could conjure up at short notice. But he was trying.

“Soup. Carrot and coriander. I made it. Lots of it. Too much just for me and Jacob. I wondered if you’d like some. For lunch or maybe you could take some with you…”

Her voice trailed away, and he pulled himself up short as he caught himself glaring again. Bad habit. But soup! Did he look like the carrot and coriander sort? He was about to refuse, as politely as he could manage, but something stopped him. Maybe her obvious nervousness around him—was she actually shaking? And he did like carrots at least. Occasionally.

“Thank you. Soup would be…nice.” Had he actually just said that?

Apparently he had because she smiled, her face lighting up before she dropped her gaze again. But not before he noticed she had green eyes, reminding him of a rather nice BMW he’d once nicked. Her hair was a definite red now he saw it up close, with chestnut highlights. He smiled back. A real smile this time, his pleasure genuine because she was sweet, nice, and he was beginning to think she might be so much more.

“Would you like to join me? Unless you’ve got other plans, of course…”

‘Other plans’ would have extended only as far as the fish and chip shop two streets away. He found himself accepting her invitation to lunch, and it was not until afterwards that he remembered he was filthy, hadn’t showered in days, and probably smelled like moldy cheese. Still, it was done now. And he could always have his soup outside.

Except she had other ideas. “Great. Lovely. Just come on inside then, when you’re ready. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

* * * *

And so she was, all homely and sweet and wholesome, folding freshly washed laundry into a pile for ironing, as he entered from the back garden. He estimated her to be around forty, almost twice his age, but shit, she was still hot. In a moment of weakness his unruly mind conjured up a distinctly graphic image involving Mrs Saunders, her ironing board, and maybe a couple of clothes pegs. She’d be naked, naturally, and draped on her back along the length of her ironing board, her hands secured beneath it. Her thighs would be spread wide, her pussy slick and glistening, open to his touch. The clothes pegs would be pressed into service as nipple clamps. Crude perhaps, but perfectly functional. Maybe he could even find another one for her clit…

His cock started to harden as he warmed to his theme so he stifled it, fast. He was here to eat. He cleared his throat, then, “I need to wash my hands, if that’s alright?”
And the rest!

“Of course. Help yourself. I’ll get your soup.”

She drifted across the large kitchen to rummage in a cupboard, pulled out two pretty yellow and blue bowls then set them on the worktop next to the stove. A large pan sat there, wisps of steam floating from its surface. Mrs Saunders picked up a spatula and stirred its contents gently before ladling generous helpings into each bowl. She carried them carefully over to the table under the window then set them down. Moving up close to Callum as he rinsed his hands under the warm tap, she dug in the drawer next to the sink for cutlery. He was amazed—her closeness was doing nothing to help reduce his inconvenient hard-on. It might be just her, that pleasant, flowery smell perhaps. Not overtly and intentionally sexy perhaps but still, there was a distinct—something—about the alluring Mrs Saunders of the downcast eyes and inappropriately placed rockery.

He eyed her over his shoulder, strangely irritated at the effect she was having on him. She seemed oblivious to his growing discomfort, concentrating on sawing huge chunks of white bread from a fat, round loaf. He had a suspicion the bread was home-made too. Walking somewhat awkwardly he managed to seat himself at the table and grabbed the napkin she’d set out for him to drape discreetly over his lap.

The soup was surprisingly delicious. And the bread. He had two helpings of each. They ate in near silence, but Callum was acutely aware of her. It seemed to him intensely awkward that they should be sharing a meal, a table. And by the way she studiously avoided looking at him he suspected she was just as ill at ease. But still, here they were. In her kitchen. Eating together. Eventually, he was first to give in.