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Authors: Henriette Gyland
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consequences, she quickly put on a tracksuit and a pair of trainers, found her way through the darkened, labyrinthine house, and out through the rose garden. She took no torch with her and had no intention of calling out ‘who’s there?’ as silly women always did in films. She intended to assess what was going on first before alerting anyone else.
Besides, the thought of going into Jonathan’s bedroom to shake him awake was enough to send her pulse racing. She imagined him lying tousle-haired among the sheets, his skin warm from sleep, a strong arm stretched out in front of him, cradling a pillow. An impossible heat rose in her face, and she blinked hard to dispel the image.
She found the outbuilding and was surprised by the level of security around it. Cordoned off by a razor wire fence, the building had CCTV cameras on every corner, as far as Hazel could see, as well as a keypad entry system on the fence gate.
Despite this, the gate stood open. After a moment’s hesitation, Hazel stepped through it, conscious of the camera right above the door which thankfully seemed to be angled away from her. The green light from the windows reflected eerily against the shiny leaves of the mature rhododendron bushes surrounding the building, but the windows were too high for Hazel to look through, and she glanced around for something to stand on. Finding a rickety crate, she climbed up, only to be disappointed. The glass was opaque and, although she could see movement inside and hear voices – male voices – she could discern nothing else.
Pressing her ear to the window, she hoped to catch something of what was being said, but the twisting movement, combined with her weight, was more than the old crate could take. Her foot went through the rotten wood with a loud crack, sending shooting pains up her shin.
Her heart jumped into her throat as the door was flung open, and she came face-to-face with one of the men in the shed. That the person was Jonathan should have made her feel relieved, but it didn’t. His expression was thunderous.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I, er ...’ Struggling to get her foot out of the broken crate, Hazel tumbled backwards and landed unceremoniously on her behind. Jonathan made no move to help her up, and the deliberate omission almost made tears well up in her eyes. This wasn’t the Jonathan she knew.
‘I saw the light,’ she explained in a small voice, when she got back on her feet. ‘George told me you keep expensive machines in here. I thought it was a burglar.’
‘And you thought you’d deal with this burglar on your own, did you?’ Jonathan’s expression was unreadable. ‘All eight stone of you?’
Hazel felt her cheeks heat up. ‘Hm, put like that, it does sound crazy.’
Jonathan’s lips were twitching, but he didn’t comment on that. Instead, he said, ‘What did you see?’
‘See?’
‘In the shed.’
‘I ... nothing. I couldn’t see anything through the glass.’
He nodded. ‘You have no business here, Hazel, even if you did suspect a burglary. Go back to bed.’ With that, he returned to the shed, sliding home a bolt on the inside.
Needing no further encouragement, Hazel ran back to the house, or rather stumbled because of her injured shin. When she got back to her flat, she threw herself on the bed and buried her face in a pillow, utterly mortified.
What must he think of me?
Forget the way their eyes often met, or the way her heart beat faster just thinking of him. Forget the notion that he might be warming to her, as she was to him. He’d seen her at her worst. A busybody, a meddler, someone who poked her nose into things which
Besides, the thought of going into Jonathan’s bedroom to shake him awake was enough to send her pulse racing. She imagined him lying tousle-haired among the sheets, his skin warm from sleep, a strong arm stretched out in front of him, cradling a pillow. An impossible heat rose in her face, and she blinked hard to dispel the image.
She found the outbuilding and was surprised by the level of security around it. Cordoned off by a razor wire fence, the building had CCTV cameras on every corner, as far as Hazel could see, as well as a keypad entry system on the fence gate.
Despite this, the gate stood open. After a moment’s hesitation, Hazel stepped through it, conscious of the camera right above the door which thankfully seemed to be angled away from her. The green light from the windows reflected eerily against the shiny leaves of the mature rhododendron bushes surrounding the building, but the windows were too high for Hazel to look through, and she glanced around for something to stand on. Finding a rickety crate, she climbed up, only to be disappointed. The glass was opaque and, although she could see movement inside and hear voices – male voices – she could discern nothing else.
Pressing her ear to the window, she hoped to catch something of what was being said, but the twisting movement, combined with her weight, was more than the old crate could take. Her foot went through the rotten wood with a loud crack, sending shooting pains up her shin.
Her heart jumped into her throat as the door was flung open, and she came face-to-face with one of the men in the shed. That the person was Jonathan should have made her feel relieved, but it didn’t. His expression was thunderous.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I, er ...’ Struggling to get her foot out of the broken crate, Hazel tumbled backwards and landed unceremoniously on her behind. Jonathan made no move to help her up, and the deliberate omission almost made tears well up in her eyes. This wasn’t the Jonathan she knew.
‘I saw the light,’ she explained in a small voice, when she got back on her feet. ‘George told me you keep expensive machines in here. I thought it was a burglar.’
‘And you thought you’d deal with this burglar on your own, did you?’ Jonathan’s expression was unreadable. ‘All eight stone of you?’
Hazel felt her cheeks heat up. ‘Hm, put like that, it does sound crazy.’
Jonathan’s lips were twitching, but he didn’t comment on that. Instead, he said, ‘What did you see?’
‘See?’
‘In the shed.’
‘I ... nothing. I couldn’t see anything through the glass.’
He nodded. ‘You have no business here, Hazel, even if you did suspect a burglary. Go back to bed.’ With that, he returned to the shed, sliding home a bolt on the inside.
Needing no further encouragement, Hazel ran back to the house, or rather stumbled because of her injured shin. When she got back to her flat, she threw herself on the bed and buried her face in a pillow, utterly mortified.
What must he think of me?
Forget the way their eyes often met, or the way her heart beat faster just thinking of him. Forget the notion that he might be warming to her, as she was to him. He’d seen her at her worst. A busybody, a meddler, someone who poked her nose into things which
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