A Taste of Home by Heidi Swain (the beginning after the end read novel TXT) 📕

about you working for nothing,’ I frowned. ‘And I wouldn’t be either. Strawberry picking is hard work and if there’s no reward at the end of it…’

‘I’m sure we can come to some arrangement,’ she cut in, eagerly loading her fork with straw. ‘Perhaps you could pay me in food. That Italian feast you cooked up the other weekend was to die for. I’d pay good money for that and I bet you’ve got plenty of recipes to turn all this fruit into fine fare, haven’t you?’

I thought of Nonna’s much-anticipated cherry and almond tart, along with all the other dishes I had at my disposal thanks to her culinary education, and my mouth watered.

‘That I have,’ I confirmed, and another big idea landed.

The time flew by and it wasn’t long before we’d got a system going and the rows were almost complete. We were both ridiculously hot, but with regular breaks and plenty of drinks and chat, we pressed on determined to get finished before Grandad and Eliot arrived.

Not only did working with my new friend make the task more bearable, her presence also stopped me worrying about how Grandad was getting on. I thought he’d made great progress, and so did he, but we weren’t the professionals so our opinions didn’t count for much.

‘That must be them,’ said Bec, when we were just half a row short of finishing and heard a car on the drive. ‘I’ll keep going and you go and see how they got on. I know it’s been on your mind.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘but I’m pretty sure that’s not them. It didn’t sound like the Banana-mobile horn to me.’

‘Oh, that’s a point,’ Bec frowned. ‘It didn’t, did it?’

I was just about to walk up the row and retrieve my abandoned shirt when a man appeared around the corner, making me jump.

‘Well now,’ he called. ‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?’

‘Anthony,’ I breathed, crossing my arms. ‘Crikey, you made me jump.’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I knocked at the house first, but when there was no answer, I gave a blast on the car horn and ventured down. I hope that was okay?’

I walked towards him and sensing my discomfiture, he picked up my shirt and handed it to me.

‘Thanks,’ I said, shaking it out.

It was a nightmare to pull on, thanks to the layers of sunscreen and sweat and I could feel my temperature rising even higher as I struggled to force my arms into the sleeves.

‘And what about me?’ asked Bec, as she finished the final couple of metres of strawing up and tucked her damp curls behind her ears for what must have been the hundredth time. ‘Am I a sight for sore eyes, too?’

‘Absolutely,’ Anthony seriously said. ‘You’re both a vision of the modern rural idyll.’

‘That’s all right then,’ she smiled.

‘So,’ I said, giving up on the slippery shirt buttons. ‘To what do I owe the pleasure? Is this a social call or are you here to scrump my strawberries?’

Bec let out an inelegant snort and I felt my face flush. Anthony raised his eyebrows and I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing.

‘It is a social call,’ he grinned, ‘but I could go for a strawberry, if that’s what’s on offer.’

‘Why don’t you pair go to the house,’ suggested Bec, digging me in the back, ‘and I’ll pick some and bring them around in a minute.’

Anthony and I wandered off towards the yard.

‘I see you’ve got hens,’ he said, when the run came into sight.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘They’re new additions. They’ve only just arrived, but they seem to be settling in okay.’

‘A bit like you then,’ he said.

I ducked inside the run, lifted the lid on the nest box and found two beautiful eggs.

‘Oh, well done, girls,’ I said, picking the eggs up. ‘That’s a very good start.’

I wondered which of the trio was yet to perform. I would have put good money on it being the quiet one, who was hiding behind her larger coop mates.

‘Hold these would you?’ I asked, handing the eggs to Anthony so I could secure the door again.

When I took them back, I saw he had a dollop of hen poo on his hand.

‘Oh god, sorry,’ I said, ‘you’d better come into the kitchen and wash your hands. It’ll set like concrete before you know it.’

Had he been dressed like Grandad, or even Jake, he would have no doubt wiped his hand on his trousers and thought nothing more about it, but Anthony wasn’t the type to go around in clothes smeared with chicken poop. His outfit probably cost more than I’d ever earned in a month.

‘Can I get you a coffee or something?’ I offered once he’d washed his hands and was looking happier again.

‘No,’ he said, handing me back the towel. ‘I better get back to work.’

‘Not a very long social call then.’

‘Afraid not,’ he said.

‘I still don’t know what it is that you do,’ I commented. ‘It seemed to take me an age just to find out your name.’

‘That’s sort of why I’m here.’

‘To tell me it’s not Anthony Judd, after all?’

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘To speed up us getting to know each other.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘And how do you propose to do that?’

‘By taking you out to dinner Saturday night.’

‘Oh,’ I said again.

‘Not in Wynbridge,’ he added. ‘We’ll have to go a bit further afield, if we want to eat somewhere special.’

I didn’t think I had the right clothes to wear to eat somewhere special, but I did wonder if dining out with Anthony, no strings attached of course, might be just the sort of distraction I had been angling for when thinking about Eliot earlier. If Eliot somehow accidentally on purpose discovered that I had been out with someone else, then that would definitely help keep his feelings for me in check, wouldn’t it? And in turn, mine for him, too.

‘So,’ said Anthony, when I didn’t answer. ‘Is it a date?’

He really wasn’t my type, but that wasn’t the point.