Serena reached behind her, pulled half the pillow over her head and groaned as a phone alarm ripped her from her dream kitchen where she’d been on the verge of creating some sort of chocolatey-concoction never tasted before. The aromatic scent of melted chocolate replaced with the tinny twangs of… Greensleeves?
What the hell?
Speaking of what the hell… what was that poking into the small of her back? And why was a lead weight encircling her waist?
She scooted her hand under the blankets and blindly investigated. The weight was Ritchie’s arm, which meant the pokey thing was…
Serena lifted Ritchie’s arm off her waist and placed it by his side, then shuffled to the far side of the bed. Sure, it was morning. Sure, all men apparently woke up feeling happy. But she didn’t need to feel that happiness. She didn’t want Ritchie to think she was interested in feeling his happiness either.
They’d found friendly footing and she wanted to keep it that way.
‘Ritchie,’ she hissed. ‘Wake up. And turn that damn phone off.’
Ritchie flung his arm towards the mobile. His hand grappled for it, and succeeded in knocking it off the bedside table and onto the wooden floor with an echoing clunk.
‘Bloody hell, Ritchie. You’ll wake the house. And who has Greensleeves as their alarm tone? Why couldn’t you have, I don’t know, a beep-beep alarm like the rest of us?’
Ritchie’s eyes glinted in the early morning gloom. ‘Because it turns out, as I’ve discovered since I’ve become a faux-farmer, that I don’t like to be woken with a fright. Greensleeves soothes me out of sleep. Anyway, enough chit chat.’ He sat bolt upright and swung his legs out of bed. ‘I’ve got to milk the cows. Want to come?’
Serena rolled out of bed, shivering as her bare feet hit the freezing floor. ‘I’ll head up towards the parlour with you, but not to milk the cows. I’ve something else I need to do out there. Just got to grab an axe from the shed first.’
‘An axe? Sounds ominous. I’m glad we’re on good terms or I’d be worried.’ Ritchie flicked the bedside lamp on and pulled on socks, boots and his age-worn black denim jeans.
Serena turned to tell Ritchie he’d better stay on her good side or he would have something to worry about, but stopped as her heart stuttered. Ritchie was framed by the soft orange glow of the lamp, his head dipped as he did his boots up, and the waves of his hair caressing his razor-sharp cheekbones. The sight of him taking her back to the moment she’d first seen him on stage. He’d finished a song and turned to the bass player, a grin on his face, his aura confident and cocky. And she knew at that second that she wanted that face close to hers, those plush lips, taut with success, upon hers. She wanted to wake up to that lean body, clad in tight leather pants and a t-shirt that clung to his muscular chest.
Then he’d turned to her, his lips stretching even further as he clocked her appreciation, and she’d been lost. Game over. Her breath caught in her chest, just as it had now.
Damn it. She was meant to be over Ritchie, not ogling him. And she wasn’t a teenager anymore. She was nearly thirty and he was just a good-looking man. One whose path couldn’t possibly be the same as hers. Not anymore. So, despite their getting on, and despite the way her heart had spent the last six months missing him until it felt parched, shrivelled with starvation, there was no point going down this road.
‘You alright there, Serena?’ Ritchie stood and stretched as he shrugged on a long-sleeved t-shirt covering up the tantalising hints of his v-line. Two trails that led to somewhere she knew for a fact delivered much pleasure.
Serena swallowed, searching for moisture. Without that she wasn’t going to get two words out, and she needed to make something up fast, because Ritchie’s grin was growing by the second.
‘Oh, um.’ She coughed into her hand. ‘Just tired. Eyes still adjusting to the light, that’s all. Who knew that lamp was so bright?’
‘You’re babbling, Serena. And you only babble when you’ve been caught out doing something you think you shouldn’t.’
Serena jammed her hands in her jeans pockets and let out a mock-huff of irritation. ‘Fine. I was appreciating your face. It doesn’t mean anything. For a second there I was reminded of when we first met.’
Ritchie moved towards Serena and threaded his arm through hers. ‘Well I’m glad I’ve kept my youthful good looks, and I’m even more glad you’re still capable of noticing them. Now, come on, the girls will be getting desperate and that Daisy cow of yours has taken to letting off some hair-singing farts if I’m not on time. I swear she holds them in.’
Serena laughed, grateful that Ritchie had let her off easy, and hadn’t pressed her buttons for being caught mid-fib. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised. That’s why I like her. That cow won’t take crap from anybody.’
‘A bit like her favourite human.’ Ritchie opened the bedroom door and indicated for Serena to go first.
‘Oh no, you go first. You’re in a hurry. I’ll trail along after you.’
‘No. You go first. You ogled my face, now I’m going to ogle your bum.’
Serena rolled her eyes before stepping into the hall, but she wasn’t really annoyed. In fact, part of her glowed with a hazy, and a tad worrying, happiness.
***
‘What’s this then?’ Marjorie looked up from the morning newspaper as Serena dragged a freshly-cut fir tree into the kitchen. ‘And you’d better clean up that wet mess you’re leaving on the floor once you’re finished with whatever it is you’re up to.’
‘It’s a Christmas tree, Mum. Chopped it down myself. I figured we might decorate it tonight, after dinner. It’s been a long time…’ Serena pulled the fir up so it was vertical next to her. It towered a little over her head, and its damp branches soaked into her puffer jacket and neon green jeans, but all the wet in the world couldn’t erase the warmth that flowed through her veins when her mother stood up and brought Serena into a cuddle.
‘Excellent idea, Serena,’ she whispered into her ear, giving her a squeeze. ‘I’ll do lamb shanks. And steamed pud.’
‘My other favourites.’ Serena returned the cuddle.
Serena looked over her mother’s shoulder as Ritchie dragged in another, smaller, tree. ‘God, Serena,’ he puffed. ‘How’d you carry that so fast? This little beggar’s got my lungs about ready to burst.’
‘Lifting industrial sized bags of ingredients will do that to a girl.’ Serena lifted her arm and curled it tight. ‘I’ve got muscles. Wanna feel?’
‘Maybe another time. When I’m not cold and hungry. I’m off for a shower.’
Serena ignored the pang of disappointment as he braced the tree against the bench and swept out of the kitchen without a second glance. The swoon may have gone, but part of her still wanted his touch. Well she was going to have to get over that.
Ritchie couldn’t stay here. She couldn’t be relegated to rock wife again. She’d just have to focus on friendship. Ritchie would be gone after Christmas and she could go back to carving out a place for herself in Rabbits Leap. And maybe one day she’d meet someone who made her heart sing the way Ritchie did. Had, she amended. The way Ritchie had.
‘You two stay up long after we went to bed?’ Marjorie sank back into her chair and scanned the front page of the paper.
‘A bit. We talked. Sorted things out.’ Serena sat down in the chair next to her and fished out the entertainment section. All one page of it.
‘And was that bed of yours warm enough?’ Marjorie picked up her tea and took a sip.
Shit. She’d forgotten to turn off the electric blanket her mother would have certainly switched on, seeing as she’d switched Ritchie’s on too. Thank God it hadn’t burnt the house down.
‘Yeah, it was great. Cosy. Thanks for putting on the electric blanket, Mum. That was kind of you.’
‘My pleasure, dear, except I didn’t. Didn’t think I’d need to.’ Marjorie attempted to hide her smile as she took another mouthful of tea, but the glint in her eyes gave her away.
Serena ducked her head, as embarrassment flamed hot across her face. All this time away from home, yet her mother knew her so well. ‘Oh, bloody hell.’ The heat raced from her face as quickly as it had arrived.
‘Serena, no swearing at the table. And besides, there’s nothing wrong with you sleeping in the same room as Ritchie. You’re still technically married.’
‘Not that, Mum. It’s this.’ Serena picked up the paper and flipped it around to face her mother. ‘Ritchie’s not going to be happy.’
‘Oh dear.’ Marjorie nodded and set her tea down. ‘Who blabbed, I wonder? Not Shirley, she loves that her son can come home with a guarantee he won’t be bothered. More than anyone, she appreciates that we keep things private when we need to.’
Anger pumped through Serena’s veins as she spied the by-line. ‘Tiffany bloody Brown. Of course, she’d be the one to blab. Always thought of herself as hot stuff. Probably hated that someone hotter was in town. How dare she try to further her own career by using Ritchie! And how dare her father let her?’
‘Now, now, Serena.’ Marjorie placed her hand over Serena’s and brought it down to the table, but it wasn’t enough to stop the shaking that caused the paper to rustle on the dining table. ‘Her father wouldn’t have had anything to do with this. He’s the clerk, which means he’d have too much to lose. And I remember him talking about entrusting her with the daily running of the paper. This is all her doing. No one else’s.’
‘Ugh, she probably hopes the scoop on Ritchie’s whereabouts will increase the paper’s readership or something. Bottom feeder.’
‘Who’s a bottom feeder?’ Ritchie walked in, rubbing his damp curls dry with a towel. ‘And why do you have a face like a thunder cloud?’
‘This is why.’ Serena thrust the paper in Ritchie’s direction. ‘Rabbits Leap is about to go international. And the next thing you know paparazzi, will be crawling about the town, diving into our trash, turning our lives upside down.’
‘Well at least there’ll be more people to buy your chocolates.’ Ritchie’s face had taken on the pale tinge of someone about to be sick. ‘God, my manager will know where to find me. Then he’ll find out I haven’t written a single bloody song for my bloody next album, and then…’ he mimed his throat being cut.
‘Hold on…’ Serena narrowed her eyes suspiciously. ‘I thought Barry had given you time off, why would he be looking for you?’
Ritchie looked down at his feet. ‘Er… well, it may be possible that I just didn’t tell Barry about my time off…’
Serena glared at Ritchie knowingly.
Marjorie stepped between Ritchie and Serena. ‘Maybe we should hide Ritchie. Keep him safe.’
‘Hide him? Where? Up in the hills? In the cow shed? The milking parlour?’
‘I was thinking that shop of yours. It has the flat above, remember?’
‘Isn’t that the first place people will look?’
‘They could try.’ Marjorie pursed her lips, her eyes thoughtful. ‘But unless they’ve one of those flying camera things it’ll be hard for them to see into the upstairs window, especially if the curtains are closed.’
‘We could do that or Ritchie could go home to Malibu.’ Serena bit her lower lip the moment the words flew from her mouth. Damn it. It was a good idea, the sensible one. But not the solution she wanted, not when they were developing some kind of friendship.
Friendship. Yeah, right. That’s what it is. That’s why you don’t want him to leave. Serena squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled, the air hot and heavy as it blew out her nostrils. She didn’t need to be thinking about Ritchie as anything other than a friend, and she certainly didn’t need him to be sleeping in her quarters.
‘So that’s decided then.’ Marjorie gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘We’ll hide Ritchie in the back of the truck, sneak him in the back door under a blanket, then he’ll stay with you until this blows over. Ritchie, Roger will drive your car to the rental place, I’ll follow him and give him a ride home. That way it’ll look like you’ve left. Oh, and tonight, Serena, you’ll come here to decorate the tree. A family thing. If any journalist is poking around they’ll assume Tiffany was wrong, because if she was right, Ritchie here would be joining us.’
‘Man, Serena, your mum could run a military operation. It’s a good plan. I like it.’ Ritchie kissed Marjorie on the cheek. ‘Thanks, Ma.’
Marjorie grabbed her keys, her cheeks turning a brilliant shade of rosy red. ‘Great, we’ve got that sorted. We’d better get him in the car now, sunrise isn’t far off and darkness is our friend. Serena, get in your car and head home, get the back door opened and ready. Ritchie, grab your bag. I’ll warm up the truck.’ Marjorie spun on her heel and marched out the door, her shoulders squared in determination.
‘She even marches like a soldier.’ Ritchie grinned. ‘Are you cool with this?’
‘It’s not like I have an option to be anything but, does it?’ Serena shook her head. ‘There’s a couch that I can sleep—’
Ritchie put his hand up, stopping her in her tracks. ‘Don’t put yourself out. I’ll sleep on it. It’s kind of you to do this for me. I just hope Barry doesn’t read that article, come for me and demand to see the songs I’m meant to have written. Because if he does, Lord knows I’ll really be facing the music.’
Serena grabbed her bag, pulled out her mobile and checked the time. The shop was due to open in forty minutes and she didn’t want to open late on her second day. ‘If Barry comes I’ll find a way to keep him off your scent. Somehow. Now quick, get your bag. We’ve got to get a move on. Get you tucked away safely before the swarm arrives.’ She swung her own bag over her shoulder and stalked to the back door.
Ritchie went to the door, and then paused. ‘Look at you. Always looking out for me. Always saving me. I’m going to miss that.’
Serena watched Ritchie’s slumped shoulders fade into the depth of the unlit hallway, his usual swagger missing. He really was worried about this next album. She’d assumed he was being dramatic when he said he couldn’t write without her. Using it as an excuse to get her to return home. A knot formed deep in her gut. Perhaps he did need her after all. But could she help him without giving up all she had built, without losing her newly-discovered self?