Page 40 of The Clockmaker's Cottage
His gaze softened just a fraction.
‘For what it’s worth, you handled it well.’
‘I didn’t expect him to go for the jugular like that. Not here. Why would he do that?’
‘I’ve no idea, but there’s definitely more to this.’
‘I need to get out of here before the press swarm in with questions. I need a breather.’ He pointed to the window. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Are you suggesting we climb through the window?’
‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.’
There was a moment where Pippa simply stared at him– the famous, sensible, buttoned-up doctor of horology– and then she burst out laughing.
‘We can’t climb out of the window. Have you lost the plot?’
‘We can,’ he said, already dragging a nearby chair across the floor. ‘Door equals questions and microphones. Window equals freedom and a cup of tea back at the cottage. The choice is obvious.’
‘You’re deranged,’ she said, shaking her head but smiling. ‘It’s absolutely chucking it down and right underneath this window is a soggy flower bed and what looks like a prickly bush.’
Theo positioned the chair beneath the wide sash window and tested its wobbliness with the seriousness of a man conducting a scientific experiment. ‘Right. After you.’
‘Me?’ she squeaked. ‘Why me first?’
‘Because if I go first you’ll chicken out and I’ll have to drag you through it.’ His eyes flickered, teasing. ‘And I know the last thing you’d want is to be wrapped in my arms.’
Oh. That made her heart do an entirely unreasonable little cartwheel.
‘Fine. But if I break my ankle, I’m suing.’
‘Noted.’
She rolled her eyes and hoisted herself onto the chair. It wobbled, and she grabbed his shoulder for balance. His hands came up instinctively, steadying her waist. Warm, firm, strong. Too strong. Why did his hands have to feel like that? This was a crisis! There should be rules about men having unnecessarily good forearms during times of emotional vulnerability.
She lifted the window and rain sprayed through the opening almost immediately. ‘We are going to get soaked.’
‘Ready?’ he asked, voice lower, closer.
No. Absolutely not. But she nodded anyway. She shoved her bag out of the window, rain immediately plastering her hair to her face, and then swung one leg out, then the other. She hadn’t put her raincoat back on after the interview, a decision she regretted instantly.
Instead of stepping gracefully down, she half-slipped, half-launched herself through the window, and gravity, aided enthusiastically by the universe, did the rest. She landed squarely in the flower bed, feet sinking straight into cold, sucking mud that splattered up her jeans, making a very clear case for never doing anything that Theo Blake suggested ever again.
She gave a muffledwhumpfand then– silence.
She fell backwards.
‘Pippa?’ came Theo’s strangled voice from above, his tone somewhere in between concern and possibly amusement. ‘Are you alive?’
She flailed an arm dramatically. ‘I think I’m okay.’ Then she realised she was lying perfectly flat, arms and legs spread out like a starfish, and she started laughing. Soft at first, then uncontrollably. Rain soaked straight through her T-shirt, yet she didn’t move. She felt ridiculous and joyful and very much alive.
Theo leaned out of the window, hair flopping messily, his expression somewhere between horrified and desperately trying not to laugh. ‘You look like you’ve been dropped from a great height.’
‘I’m making a mud angel,’ she corrected, dragging her arms and legs exaggeratedly through the flower bed. ‘It’s artistic.’
He tried to suppress a smile. ‘Move over.’
‘What?’
