Lover’s Eyes – more Mumford & Sons, I know, but whenever I hear this song, I think of Patrick. Which is hardly a bad thing. 🙂
The green track beneath his wheels improved Patrick’s mood with each passing minute. Biking in Spain had been challenging, but the brown, dusty trails weren’t a patch on his familiar route across the common and down through woods. It had to be the only good thing about coming home.
Get the cat back.
It wasn’t a lot to ask, but at six o’clock after he’d informed Lynda that Boadicea was moderately stable, Grace reluctantly admitted that Olivia Wilde wouldn’t answer her calls. Irritated, he kept an eye on Maggie’s cottage, planning to ask for Hyssop back himself, but he saw no sign of Zoë or her friend. In the end, he’d gone home to an empty house. And it sucked.
Patrick stood up on his pedals, punishing himself up the hill towards the woods, but already smiling in anticipation of the next descent – the best downhill for miles around. Pedalling hard, he turned into the woods, his knees soaking up every bump in the track. He flew over a bank, turning hard right to avoid a vast Douglas Fir. He still had it. The first time he’d taken the jump, he’d ploughed straight into the trunk, dislocating his shoulder, but never again.
Trees flew past. He ducked to avoid a low branch, but kept his eye on the track, lining up the next bend, spotting the apex, mentally preparing for a brief burst of effort before a huge rolling left–
Someone was on the track.
He yelled as he swerved, but his back wheel clipped the runner and Patrick slammed into a branch. The bike fell away and he slid down the hill, dirt and stones dragging against his bare arms and legs.
Winded, he sat up, the skin on his arms and legs stinging, but looked for the runner. She was lying under a tree, holding her right leg in the air. He ignored the stabbing pain in his knee as he jogged up the hill, hoping she wasn’t badly hurt.
‘Are you okay?’ He crouched next to her, waiting for his sunglasses to react to the dim light in the shade of the tree.
‘I think I’ve twisted my ankle, nothing serious.’ Not a local girl. She sounded posh, not upper-class posh, but well-spoken. She touched her face, flinching.
Finally, his sunglasses adjusted and he turned her chin, examining the graze on her cheek. Was this Olivia Wilde?