Before the Rain (3 page)

“Ms. Mostyn, I presume?”

The woman’s brow went up and she cocked an arm to her hip. “
Ia
, what can I do you for?”

“I’m Zoe Chantilly, Lucy’s sister. I’m sure she told you I was coming. I’m using the time she had left on her one-year lease.”

She shook her head. “I dunno. No one mentioned anything of the sort, so it goes.”

“I’m certain all this was arranged, and I have the printed-out email a Mr. Dylan Mostyn sent to confirm.” Zoe produced the paper from her purse and presented it to the woman. “See.”

Ms. Mostyn waved the paper away. “I’m sure you’re right. But Dylan will be home shortly, we’ll wait for him.”

“Wait? How long will he be?”

“He won’t be long.”

“I’ve been in Dolgellau for several hours now, and y’all are giving me the runaround. All I want is a hot bath and a hot meal.”

The woman sniggered. “Dol-gel-laa? I think you mean Doch-ell-aye, lass. The locals will tear you to bits if they hear you call the village Dol-gel-laa.”

The plump, scowling woman poked her chubby index finger through a curl dangling over her eyebrow and pulled on it. The tendril bounced right back then bobbed with every syllable she spoke.

“Is that so?”

“Yes. Now, use your tongue when you’re pronouncing Welsh. Stick it on the roof of your mouth and round out those vowels. Try it. Go on.”

Zoe twiddled the perfume bottle between her fingers, patience sliced thin. Not that she planned to spray the woman. Not yet, anyway. “Do you have the keys for me, or did I travel all day for nothing?”

“Calm down. I meant no harm.” Her smirk told a different story.

“Ma’am, I’m real tired, and I’m pretty darn close to losing my cool.”

Ms. Mostyn tsked. “Your sister was rude, too.”

And Lucy said you were cagey.

Zoe rolled her shoulders to release muscle knots that had been tightening ever since arriving in Wales. So much for a relaxing break. But she realized she’d been less than patient with the woman. “I’m sorry for my bad manners. It’s been a super long day and I really am exhausted.”

“Of course, I wish I could give you the keys. Only Dylan knows where they are.” Ms. Mostyn gazed toward the front gate of the property and beamed. “Perfect timing, here he is now.”

Zoe clenched the little bottle in her pocket and craned her neck to see who approached.

The pickup not worth a shit pulled up around the side and out jumped the Welshman.

Dylan Mostyn, she presumed. Great.

What had Lucy gotten her into?

“Right on time. Dylan will get you sorted out.”

Mr. Mostyn strode to the door, all catalogue model-esque with his height and muscular body.

The muddy black-and-white dog skidded from the side of the house, and the man’s face softened. A smile crept over his face.

The scruffy animal raced to Mr. Mostyn’s feet, then matched his stride while barking out his greeting.

“
Helo
. Dylan. What’s occurring with the cottage? This young girl here says she’s Lucy’s sister and that she’s here for a few months and what have you.”

“That’s right, Aunty.” He patted the dog on the head, and the animal bounced up his step. “So you found the place, Chantilly. Brilliant.”

“You didn’t tell me we had a tenant for the cottage, Dylan.” Betty shook her head. “I’d have been more welcoming. Where are the keys?”

“Hanging by the coat rack in the kitchen. Where we always keep them.”

Ms. Mostyn smirked. “Oh yeah, I forgot so I did. I’ll go get them. Just a tick.” Betty scurried off.

Zoe turned to him. “Yes, you might’ve mentioned something, Mr. Mostyn.”

“To who? You or Betty?”

“Me.”

“Yeah, what should I have said?” He raked his thick fingers through his mop, brushed his bangs to the side, and sighed. “I only agreed to let you stay at the cottage because we couldn’t afford to buy Lucy out. Maybe you’d like to hear directions to a hotel in the village square?”

Her posture stiffened, and she scrunched her face. “Oh, I’ve upset you?”

He dragged his teeth over his top lip, then pulled his mouth into a thin line and glanced over her shoulder.

Throwing her arms out, she sighed.

“Sorry, I guess all the traveling has really gotten to me. Oh, my stars. All I want is to be in a bed with my feet up and to have a mug of hot coffee.”

“Yes, yes, of course you want to be on your back in bed. But don’t drag me into that scenario.”

He drew a long breath. The sheepdog barked and nudged at his owner’s leg then tugged at the jeans with his teeth, trying to pull him into the house.

“Sammy, no. Down, boy.”

Her hands tightened. “Is everything I say going to be taken as something else?”

Red flared across his cheeks. “Just making it clear where we stand.”

“I can tell you where we stand, Mr. Mostyn.” She loosened her grip on the spray bottle. “Where we stand is that you’re not my type.”

“Good, and you’re not mine.”

“Got it. Now, moving on,” she said, narrowing her eyes on him.

Ms. Mostyn trundled between them. “Here you go, love. The keys to the cottage.” She passed them to Zoe, then jabbed Dylan. “Don’t mind him. He’s annoyed we have to rent out the cottage. It’s nothing personal.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”
Nothing personal, my ass.

An unsettled night had awarded her time to hatch a plan. And at six a.m. (eleven a.m. back home) on her first morning in Wales, she’d made a call to her ex-boss, editor-in-chief of the
Georgia Times
.

This was it, her last chance to prove herself. If she convinced Rachel to give her an actual full-time writing gig, her life would be back on track.

“So, how was your first night in the cottage?” Rachel asked.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Zoe offered, “the place is comfy enough, cozy in the no-room-to-throw-a-bag sense. But I couldn’t sleep.”

“Overtired from the journey?”

“Maybe.”

“Is the place really pretty? I bet it is, like with rolling hills and sheep everywhere.”

“Pretty is the perfect word to describe Rose Farm. Rose-patterned rugs, rose-patterned curtains and sofas, and everything else is either white or cream. All spotless, and it smells of fresh paint. Very Laura Ashley with a dash of Vera Bradley, but—”

“And the bed, is it big enough for two?”

Zoe tsked. “I’m here to write, not to share my bed.”

She heard Rachel tapping her always well-manicured nails on her desk.
Tap. Tap. Tap
. “You should make time to play, too.”

“I’ll be working the whole time. Actually, talking of work….”

“Yes.”

“If I send you some pages, will you read them?”

“You used to be our best weekend girl, Zoe. No one writes a dating column like you. The twist with the astrology signs in your cutesy chick-lit style was adorable. But your advice soured with every ditched-fiancé disaster until, finally, you had no more love in you to give.”

“But I’m over it now.”

“Please tell me it’s not a relationship thing you’re going to pitch. If it is, I can’t help you.” Rachel’s tone was light and breezy, and Zoe sensed excitement simmering.

“No, no. It’s not a column. And it’s not love related. I’m over love. Love done. Loved out. Love—”

“I get it. No more love. Okay, so tell me more.”

“Have I got what it takes to be an in-house writer?”

Silence blanketed the conversation for a second or two, but it felt like ten or twenty.

“Wait. Don’t say no. Not yet. Let me try. Please?” she pleaded.

“We have no vacancies for in-house writers right now.”

“Please, Rachel?”

The woman hemmed and hawed. “Okay. I know how I can swing this. I want a full-page article with pictures. The whole deal. Do that and I’ll see what I can do. I can’t promise anything, though. And I want it about you and Wales with a Saturday edition in mind. I want edgy. I want fun. I want it to be full of the Zoe zing, got it?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You have a digital camera with you, right?”

“Yes, and Rachel?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t regret it.”

“I know. Now, turn your mobile off and go enjoy your work vacation, gosh darn it.”

She wrangled out some details with Rachel while buzzing about the new opportunity to prove herself, then hung up and made a cup of instant coffee. Gross, but instant coffee and a packet of cream sandwich cookies called custard creams were all she found in the kitchen. Probably something her sister’s boyfriend had left behind. That was totally his thing. He was always eating Oreos, every flavor available if he could get his hands on them.

Not the breakfast of a would-be journalist. She needed a trip into the village. A.S.A.P. Well, as soon as the stores opened anyway.

A yawn escaped her, and she stretched her arms above her head.

Okay, so the bed was too soft and too short. And, sure, she’d stressed about work.

Still, the real reason she’d had a restless night was because of one man. Not the one who dumped her at the altar on Christmas Eve at her own bidding. No, she wouldn’t give that train wreck one more second of her time. He’d been the husband version of a hockey mom and wanted more than she could give. Pushing him away on the morning of their wedding was for the best. No matter her achievements, he’d always want more from her.

Dylan Mostyn acted like she was the devil herself, yet his hungry gaze made her quiver.

Every time she closed her eyes, she saw him. Always in the same pose—casually leaning against the Mini, all growl with plenty of bite. How in tarnation had his macho rudeness gotten under her skin and turned her into Miss Lusty Panties, and so darn quickly?

But no matter.

No men. That’s what this trip was all about. She had to get Dylan Mostyn’s Welsh growl out of her head and replace his image with fluffy bunnies, sunflowers, and wild horses galloping across the beaches of the Outer Banks.

Yet, even now, as she sat on a window seat sipping a mug of instant coffee, she was daydreaming about him.

“I need your help, love.”

He yanks his shirt over his head, lets it fall to the ground, and leans against the Mini. “I’m all muddy after working on the farm all day.”

Beads of moisture drip down the dips and curves of his six-pack and glisten in the afternoon sun. She licks her bottom lip then lies, “Yes, yes you are muddy.”

Flexing his muscles, he smoothes his hands over his sun-drenched skin then drags them down to his belt. “Up for the job, love?”

Her gaze falls to his package bulging beneath his jeans. “You betcha.”

“I must get out of these trousers.”

“Yes, yes you must.” Zoe steps out of the car and grabs his belt and drags him against her. “But, first, I will spread you on the hood of this car and take a look under your hood with my big tool and then…
.
”

He leans toward her, his breath warm, his gaze intense. “I’d kiss you, but someone’s knocking at the door.”

“Huh?”

Knock. Knock
.

Zoe snapped out of her fantasy, her ridiculous, full-on bodice-ripping fantasy.

Someone was banging at her door at six-thirty a.m. and hollering with a strong Welsh accent, “
Helo
.”

“Who is it?” Duh. She knew who it was. That farmer she couldn’t rid from her mind. What did he want with her?

She clunked her mug down and fastened the top buttons of her teddy bear pajamas. Her sister had packed them, insisting it might be cold. Well, she’d been right. The only source of heat in the tiny cottage was an electric fire in the living room, which warmed the open space living area but left out the bathroom and bedroom.

“
Bore da
.”

“Dylan, you can’t say good morning to her in Welsh. She won’t know what you mean,” someone with a higher-pitched voice quipped. A younger female, she guessed.

“Good morning, Zoe,” he hollered. She imagined his teeth gritting and his eyes rolling with his huffed-out greeting. “It’s Dylan and Rhiannon from Rose Farm. There are a few things we still need to go over.”

Darn it.

She pressed her back to the door, anchored her feet, and slid down until she hugged her knees against her chest. No way in hell would she let him in, not while she was dressed in teddy bear-decorated fleece pajamas, pre-makeup, and stuck up hair. Nope. Not even.

Lifting the letterbox slot in the door, she peered through. “I’ll come by the house later to discuss anything you’d like.”

“No need. I’m here now, so I am.” Keys jangled in the key lock.

Double darn it.

“Really, I’ll come by later,” she offered.

“Are you dressed?”

“You can’t ask her if she’s naked.” The young female giggled.

“Sort of,” Zoe replied, snapping to a stand and backing away from the door.

“Good, because I’m coming in, I am.” He barged in, and Sammy the dog scurried in after him. Dylan took one glance at her attire and snickered. “Yes, you’re definitely very different from your sister.”

She glanced down at herself then wrapped her arms across her chest and plastered on a smile. “I told you I wasn’t quite dressed. Now, is it normal for you to barge in here like this? I think not. I have rights.”

“Hey, I knocked first to make sure you were dressed. What more do you want?” He strode straight through the living room and into the kitchen area at the back of the cottage. The accommodation was open plan, except for the two rooms without heating. There was no way to block his entry.

Unloading his goodies atop the table for two sitting between the living room and kitchen area, he rambled on. “I forgot to stock up the fridge before your arrival.”

“I found your welcome party fine enough, Mr. Mostyn.” She brought her hand to her mouth and yawned before adding, “And there’s instant coffee. I plan on finding a grocery store later for everything else.”

Sammy sat at his master’s feet, in wait for his command. Patient little thing.

“Call me Dylan,” he offered.

A nice gesture, one she might have appreciated if he actually put some warmth into his words.

“And there’s no need. Not yet anyway. I’ve bacon and eggs, bread and coffee in here. There are plenty of stores in the village when you’re ready to explore. I marked out a map for you.” He grimaced, his frown scrunching his forehead.