Free Polly by Freya North Page A

dilating visibly. If they were (they were), he was too well mannered to acknowledge it.
    The house was all but finished by four o’clock. The roof was slatted and watertight. There were no side walls at the moment as Jojo, predictably, had run out of money. However, even in its skeletal state it was stunning. It was obvious what a gorgeous home it was going to be when complete; occupying this spectacular position in the lie of Hubbardtons, overlooking the main cluster of houses of Hubbardtons and just a twenty-minute walk for Jojo to her classes at Hubbardtons.
    The little architect started a round of applause when the job was done, which was followed by liberal high-fiving and unabashed hugging. The men then jumped from the structure and stood back to look on it, nodding and congratulating each other and themselves. They finished the last of the beans and made another inroad into the batch of pies before disappearing to their pick-ups and returning with fiddles. They played until dusk. Polly counted seven violins as she tapped her toes with her mouth agape. There were two bonfires. She sat by Kate at the smaller. Mikey McCabe was playing his fiddle around the other; jigging and twisting, turning and stamping. He had jeans on. But Polly could clearly see his legs beneath them. She really couldn’t take her eyes off him. She couldn’t really. He was magnificent.
    Polly ate little at supper for she was still full from lunch. She washed up diligently and made tea for Kate, Clinton and Charle(s).
    â€˜I have a slight headache,’ she said, swiping her brow with the back of her hand so that she covered her eyes as she spoke, ‘I think I’ll take a stroll.’
    â€˜You want to wait till I’ve finished my tea?’ offered Kate.
    â€˜I think I’ll go right now if you don’t mind,’ Polly declined politely, ‘I must nip it in the bud.’
    A headache? A stroll? But Polly is positively stomping along Main Street, forking right, then right again. Springing through the petticoats then climbing up on to the skirts of Hubbardtons.
    No moon. No need.
    I must nip it in the bud.
    Turn right.
    The house, pale yellow-pink in night light, still smelling divine.
    â€˜Hey! You came.’
    â€˜Mikey.’
    â€˜You came.’
    â€˜I can’t do this.’
    â€˜You’re here.’
    Mikey was leaning against one of the corner posts of the house. Polly climbed on to the platform and walked over to him. He was still in jeans and now wore a polarfleece top to ward off the chill of the September night. He had her locked into his eyes. She could not get away. Not even if she had tried.
    â€˜I,’ Polly said, as Mikey straightened up and walked over to meet her, bang in the centre of the house, ‘can’t do this.’
    â€˜Do what?’ he asked softly, his lips parted and damp. ‘Do this?’ he enquired as he stroked her hair and brought her hand to touch his. ‘Or this?’ he asked, pulling her closer and breathing a kiss on to her forehead. ‘Or is it this,’ he wondered aloud as he tipped up her chin and lowered his face over hers, ‘that you can’t do?’ Their lips were less than an inch apart. She could feel his breath over her cheek. His eyes were so close, so dark and deep. She could hardly breathe. ‘Is it this that you can’t do,’ he said, without the question mark, as he sank his lips against hers. He flicked his tongue. It was surprisingly cold against her top lip. She really could not breathe. As she gasped for air, he plunged his tongue deep into her mouth where it immediately leapt about, sweeping across the underside of her teeth, pressing at the roof of her mouth, searching out her tongue and pulling it into a frantic dance with his. Her arms were about his shoulders.
    How did they get there?
    She was kissing with a hunger that umpteen apple pies could not diminish. Mikey pulled away and placed his hands