Free Cold Comfort by Isobel Hart

bit.
    “Sure. But you don’t really need it with
your freaky long eyelashes. Some of us have to make a bit more effort to scrub
up okay.”
    “I need it,” I argued.
    “Sure,” she said again. She added some lip
gloss and pulled on her own dress; it was a sheer pink number that was, for
once, quite decent, merely suggesting at what lay beneath rather than
trumpeting it.
    “You look lovely,” I said, and meant it.
    “You look like a rock chick, with all that
dark hair and denim. Charles is going to blow his load when he gets a look at
you. Charles Taylor…” She whistled. “I didn’t know you had it in you. The boys
at school always said you were too geeky… too thin. They thought you were kind
of ugly. What happened to you this summer?” she asked, sounding irritated. “You
seem to have blossomed. It’s like you don’t even have to try to get the boys to
look at you now.”
    “Who do you like?” I asked, determined to
get her attention off me.
    “Well, given between you and Clarissa the two
best guys are already taken, I quite like Jamie.”
    “Was he the one you were on the shoulders
of in the pool?”
    “Yeah. He’s fit. Nice body. He’s a rower –
planning to go to Cambridge next term. He’s minted from what he was saying about
the holidays he goes on.” The poor guy didn’t stand a chance, I thought. “Shall
we go?” Emily asked. The mood between us was still a little awkward. I got the
feeling that me getting the attention she sought was not in her plan, and it
annoyed her, no matter how much I assured her I wasn’t looking for it. “Don’t
forget the guitar,” she reminded me. I grabbed it from the bed and followed her
down the stairs.
    The smell of roasting meat wafted towards
us as we approached the pool area. A huge barbecue had been set up, and in
addition there was a whole baby pig on a spit roast. These guys sure liked
their meat – there was enough being cooked to feed a small army. The beers
were flowing, and several people already looked the worse for wear after what
they’d put away this afternoon. I had a feeling the night was going to get
messy.
    The evening was drawing in, and a rosy hue
lit the sky promising more fine weather the next day. Charles was directing
people to build a bonfire. “Delilah, can you help me get some more wood?” I
heard a voice behind me ask. It was Hardy.
    “Sure,” I said with a shrug. I put my
guitar down and followed him through the garden until we reached a barn. Inside
there was a log pile big enough to keep them going for about the next ten
years.
    “Mind out for spiders,” he warned me.
    “I’m not bothered by them,” I told him,
reaching for some logs.
    “Here, let me load you up,” he said. “Put
your arms out.” I did as he asked, and he began layering logs into my arms. “Let
me know when it gets too heavy,” he instructed. I nodded, silenced by the
dizzying effect of his presence. “You’re strong,” he remarked when my arms were
full of logs and I’d still not said anything. He began to grab some logs of his
own to carry back. “You always were a tough little thing.” He smiled, looking
at me. “I remember when you fell off that swing and bashed your eye; you never
made a peep. Keep your arms up, so you don’t drop them,” he said, looking at
the logs tilting in my arms as I lost focus on my task, caught up in the
tractor beam of his gaze.
    “And I remember you were always bossy. Always
telling me what to do,” I bit back, embarrassed. He grinned, and I smiled back,
feeling a warm glow when I saw he still had those dimples. “It’s still there,”
I said.
    “What is?”
    “The treehouse. It’s still there. I spent
hours in there playing the guitar. I still do. The trapeze bust a few years ago,
though. I never got around to fixing it.”
    “I can’t believe it’s still standing,” he said
with a laugh as we turned and walked back up to the designated bonfire area. “And
I can’t believe you