Millie's Game Plan Read Online Free PDF Page B

Vonnie Marshal. You’re not new to the village, are you?’ She looked troubled, as if I might have moved in without anybody telling her.
    ‘No, no. Just a visitor. My name’s Millie.’
    ‘Well, hello Millie. Would you like a cuppa?’
    Arabella who, I discovered, was Vonnie’s daughter, eagerly informed her of my photography project.
    ‘How marvellous. And Arabella, how lovely for you. Arabella wants to be a fashion photographer, don’t you, darling?’
    Arabella blushed. She was tall with an elfin-like beauty; she could probably have worked on the other side of the lens. ‘Well, I’m not sure, exactly. Fashion or celebrities, maybe even sports personalities.’ She smiled at me, perhaps wondering if she’d found a kindred spirit.
    After eating three very welcome ham sandwiches (crusts still on) and a butterfly cake, I thanked Vonnie and excused myself, as there were a few more shots I wanted to get. ‘In the early evening light,’ I explained. In reality, I was gagging to catch a few more shots of the Golden Batsman.
    Arabella was about to follow me, when her mother steered her towards the washing up, poor kid. Still, it left me free to continue, unobserved.
    I wandered round the field, snapping the village pub, the cottages and a line of trees, which led to a rustic gate into the churchyard. Then I came back to set up on the other side of the pavilion for some group shots. Another cheer rang out, and a couple of chaps leapt into the air in celebration. I glanced up, just in time to see the ball heading straight at me. Instinctively, I held up my hand and it whacked me so hard I squealed.
    ‘Fffuckinell!’ I spluttered. Pretty restrained, I think, under the circumstances.
    Doubling up over my hand, which surprisingly was still attached to my wrist, the stinging ache brought a lump to my throat. Around me I could hear voices of concern and even one saying, ‘Pity she didn’t catch it, we could use her at Deep Square Leg.’
    But in spite of the pain and humiliation, I still had enough wits about me to register My Man loping athletically across the field – heading in my direction.
    Whilst the look on my face was not what I had practised – it could have been considered memorable. All the same, I felt a complete prat for drawing attention to myself. This just wasn’t the scenario I’d planned.
    I stared at the palm of my hand, now scarlet, and blew on it. A small group had gathered round me but parted to let My Man through.
    ‘I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?’ His voice was perfect – mellow, slightly husky and intimately directed at me. There was a warm waft of hot, clean linen and subtle cologne coming off him as he lowered his head to search my face for signs of distress. I could have whooped with delight when I noticed his eyes were, indeed, blue; proper blue, not grey or sage but blue like cornflowers, with a fine lacework of silver threaded through them.
    Oh. He was waiting for an answer. What was the question?
    ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, genuine concern in his voice.
    I managed to whisper, ‘Good,’ and swallowed, before repeating, ‘Very good. Thank you.’
    He held out his hand to support the back of my wrist, and asked if I could flex my fingers. Feeling stupid, I tried, uncomfortably aware of the suggestive groping gesture they made and the quickening throb that was baking my palm. The heat from his hand transferred to my wrist and was mainlining through my arterial system, straight down to my solar plexus.
    Unlike me, he still had the mental agility to structure a proper sentence. ‘It looks okay, I think. Probably be a bit bruised for a day or two, though. You might want to get it checked out.’
    I shook my head. ‘No. S’fine. Don’t worry.’
    ‘Sure?’ Those eyes, so clear and open and totally unaware of the future I had planned for him, were fixed on mine. I gathered my senses and decided now would be a good time to hit him with my alluring smile. Actually, I’m not quite