Belle, an art student in need of a place to work on the paintings for her evaluation, makes the mistake of leaving it to her bungling cousin Craig to find that place for her.
And find her a place, he did...
"Craig! You said this house was, and I quo...
His voice is like warm honey. I swear it is. I can feel it trickling all over me, making my skin break out in goosebumps. He is looking at me with such sincere concern; I almost don't feel embarrassed. Almost... I hear myself say: "Pretty..." and now I am completely embarrassed.
And the worst part is, I meant him. That was not why I'd stumbled, though; for a split second when he turned, I'd thought he was the man from the painting, and the shock made my legs go numb, and my brain go dull.
It isn't the painting man, though. It is someone quite different. Someone with warm dark eyes and thick, equally dark hair, short but longer towards the top and completely messed up by soot and sweat and dust.
He flashes me a smile. It is like lightning, there and gone, turning his face from serious to sparkling and back to serious in one sharp second. I've never seen a smile quite like that before. It does the weirdest things to my entrails.
"I'm... dream... thought... you... man..."
Apparently, I now have some kind of brain damage concentrated in the area that controls my speech.
"Sorry, what?"
"Juice... You..." I say, reluctantly removing myself from his arm. Great! Hopefully, he thinks I'm a non-English-speaking foreigner... and not dense... I think I might be the latter.
He gets the message, and smiling that smile again, he thanks me and downs the contents of the glass without coming up for air. I stare; I admit it. I watch his throat muscles work, vaguely thinking that I'd choke on the juice if someone stared at me like this, but I cannot help myself.
Dirty and sweaty as he is, he is still the most beautiful creature I've ever laid my eyes on, and that includes horses and tigers and dolphins. I mean it! The shirt is open in the front, and under it, a stained, white, sleeveless t-shirt is sculpted over his chest muscles.
Oh, my soul!
To hell with painting in my sleep; I'm feeling a strong urge to do some more portraits right now, and not necessarily on one of the canvasses upstairs. I'm having visions of using the human kind. I could change my career plans and become a tattoo artist instead. Yes, definitely a viable idea. I hear someone giggling like a friggin' schoolgirl.
Oh, please don't let it be... me...
He hands the glass back to me, smiling again. He is looking a little befuddled. I would too. He is probably trying to determine my species.
"Ron?" I croak. My voice is not working with me right now.
"Oh! No," he pulls off his dirty work gloves and sticks out his right hand. I take it reflexively and almost giggle again. He really is all sunshine, lightly tanned skin and warmth. "I'm David Stirling; I'm renovating the garden."
"Oh!" That explains a lot. "I'm... sleep deprived."
What the hell am I saying?!
His smile dissolves, and he's suddenly looking serious again, repentant even.
"I'm sorry! Did I wake you? I tried not to come too early and to be quiet. I'm sorry... My grandfather told me he has someone renting. I guess the noise is more than you thought it would be?"
Grandfather?
I remember the letter mentioning appreciation for my giving my consent for the renovations on the grounds to be continued and assurance that I can retract the consent at any moment should I find it to be too distracting. The letter was signed by one Richard Stirling.
For the record, it had been Craig who'd given my consent... I'm glad he did... So pretty...
"No! No! Not you! The clocks."
Oh, great, yes, lead with that, why don't you?
"Clocks?" he looks rightfully confused.
"They go off at random... wake me up at night..." I complete my story miserably. Why, oh, why am I being so dumb? Way to make a first impression, act like an infatuated schoolgirl and then start talking about broken clocks with minds of their own.
"You mean the ones in the house?"
I nod my head. No point in using more words. I'll just brace myself for the "are you sure" and the "are you drunk" that are going to follow now. He might even sniff me for traces of marijuana. And I don't even blame him; I'm acting more than a little high.
"I've never heard them chime before. Actually, I haven't even heard them tick before. Would you mind if I take a look at them? Maybe I can unset them for you or... something."
"Yes, I'm sure. No, I'm not drunk..." Oh, my soul! I should just wrap it up and go back to bed or grab his shovel and bury myself in the orchard. "What?"
His lips are twisted in a half smile. To his credit, he is really trying not to laugh at me. His eyes are sparkling with mirth, and a less tactful person would now really ask me: "Are you sure?"
"Oh! Yes, of course. Please."
After making sure that no sparks can escape from the hole, David pulls the rag from his back pocket, wipes his face with it and sticks it back in place. Mesmerized by his simple work actions, I don't realise immediately that he is watching me expectantly. Blushing, I nod my head, turn and lead the way to the kitchen door.
"Uhm... Should I bring this in for you or..."
I hear him ask when I reach the door and am about to open it. I turn to see him standing next to the clothesline, my lacy panties between his fingers. Tiny bits of dirt on it is making it obvious that it had fallen from the line. Of course, this will happen... why on Earth not? I should've brought the clothes in yesterday.
"Are they wet?" Oh my soul, did I just ask a stranger if my undies are wet?
He shakes his head, glancing away from me, really suppressing his laughter now.
I cross to the clothesline, grab the panties dangling from his fingers and pull the other garments from the line as well, talking up a storm to hide my embarrassment.
"I forgot these out here yesterday. Good thing the storm last night didn't blow them clean away! Thank you for picking it up for me..." I go on and on, and then we're finally inside the house.
David stops at the door to drop his gloves on a cabinet and remove his work boots while I put the glass on the island and dump the washing in the pantry. I'll deal with it later. I currently feel that the shorts, t-shirt and undies have caused me nothing but misery.
I might add them to the burn pile outside.
"They're ticking," David says, his face filled with disbelief, or perhaps it is awe.
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