Forty Things to Do Before You're Forty Read Online Free PDF Page B

could do was follow them to the cottage and hope Jake Sinclair would quickly grasp the message that he really wasn’t welcome.
    As a babbling Sophie led him over the lawn towards the gatehouse, with Pip licking every square centimetre of his face, Jake bit back a smile. This was like a comedy sketch – with Annie playing the lead role. He stifled a gurgle of laughter as he recalled how funny she’d looked in that helmet, brandishing the sword. By the colour of her cheeks, she’d obviously been mortified by the incident. And was no doubt desperate to get away from him. But how could he have refused little Sophie? Not only was the child leading him, quite authoritatively, by the elbow, but she was also completely adorable: the image of her mother with her riot of honey-blonde curls and sparkling emerald-green eyes. Still, it really wasn’t fair of him. He risked a look at Annie over his shoulder. She trailed miserably behind, staring at the ground. He felt a niggle of guilt that he’d lied to her about his surname. He hadn’t intended to. It had been a knee-jerk reaction by his self-preservation instinct, ever wary of the transparency of the internet. Oh well, he mused, as he swung his head back around and Pip stuck his tongue in his ear, it didn’t really matter. So long as he wasn’t a burglar, Annie Richards probably didn’t give a monkey’s who he was. And it wasn’t as if he intended launching himself on village society. He would keep himself to himself. Which was exactly what he should be doing now. So, once at the cottage, he’d make some excuse and beat a hasty retreat.
    Following Jake and her daughter across the lawn to the cottage, Annie tried desperately to keep her gaze on the ground and not let it wander to Jake’s rear, showcased perfectly in those low-slung blue jeans. What was wrong with her? She’d never been fixated with a man’s behind before. Heavens. Maybe Portia was right. Maybe she had been without a man in her bed for too long. She normally didn’t give sex a second thought these days. She was far too busy. And frankly, what was the point in thinking about it when she had no intention of engaging in it? So why, then, was she focusing on Jake Sinclair’s buttocks? She was tired, that could be the only explanation. She’d run five miles today. No mean feat and the longest she’d run in her entire life. No wonder she felt light-headed. And she was disorientated because her nerves had been on edge. She had, after all, been prepared to confront an armed burglar. Yes – that was it. She knew there must be a logical explanation somewhere for her illogical behaviour. It wasn’t Jake Sinclair who’d set her head spinning, her stomach churning and her nerves aflutter, it was a combination of the aforementioned external factors. So, now that she’d established that fact, why did she desperately hope she had no underwear drying about the place and that she’d tidied up? Because, she quickly reasoned, Jake Sinclair probably lived in some minimalist designer pad with hot and cold running champagne, gleaming stainless steel surfaces, and an army of uniformed cleaners. Well, tough. He would have to take her and Sophie as they came. And if he didn’t like the cottage, he need never visit it again. Come to think of it, it would be better if the place was a complete tip and he ran a mile. Because she really didn’t want the man in her house. Or any man in her house.
    By the time Annie reached the cottage, she found Jake leaning against the kitchen bench, looking, just as she’d predicted, completely out of place. His presence seemed to fill the room, sucking out all the oxygen. Sophie was nowhere to be seen.
    At a loss as to what to do, Annie hovered in the doorway. ‘Would, you, er, like a glass of wine? Or something?’ she asked, her attempt at a light-hearted tone failing miserably.
    â€˜Um, no,