Career Girl in the Country. Fiona Lowe

      He stood on the other side of the bench, his hair still slightly damp and rumpled from the shower, the ends brushing the collar of his open-necked shirt. His long fingers tackled the last few buttons and his tanned and toned chest fast disappeared under the placket. His wedding ring glinted in the sunshine through the window and when he raised his gaze, the Kelly green in his shirt lightened his dark eyes but the shadows remained, and fatigue hung over him like a threatening cloud.

       What are you doing? Get yourself under control; he’s married, off limits, and even if he wasn’t he’s too damn moody and you’ve sworn off men for all time.

      The moody man spoke. ‘Did you sleep?’

      His question sounded almost accusatory. ‘I did, thank you.’ But you don’t look like you did.

      He seemed to be staring at her suit and she thought she detected relief in his eyes, which made no sense whatsoever so she was probably totally wrong. She had no clue why she was letting Matt Albright unnerve her. If anyone unnerved her it was usually other women. Men she understood because she worked in a man’s world but the whole women and friendship thing she’d always found challenging and unfathomable, and that dated back to primary school.

       You’re conveniently forgetting Steven, are you?

       He didn’t unnerve me, he just broke my heart.

       And now you avoid men.

       I work with men all the time!

       That’s not what I mean and you know it.

      To distract herself she picked up a cloth and started to wipe down the bench. ‘No one else up yet?’

      ‘You don’t have to do that.’ He swooped, his fingers brushing her skin as he tugged the cloth out of her hand.

      Trails of desire shot through her. This was crazy on so many levels and she had to act. ‘Look, Matt, I’m sorry I had to prevail on your family for a bed, although you were the one who offered. Obviously me being here is a problem and I’d like to apologise to your wife for the inconvenience.’

      He lowered the dishcloth onto the sink, the action slow and deliberate. When he raised his head she experienced a chill.

      ‘My wife isn’t here.’

      And you’re an incredibly gorgeous guy that women viscerally react to even when they’re sensible and know they shouldn’t. ‘And she’s not OK with me being here. I get it.’

      He grimaced. ‘No, you don’t get it at all, Poppy.’ The ping of the kettle sounded bright and cheery, in sharp contrast to the strain in his voice and the emptiness in his eyes. ‘She died.’