I grin. “So you’re not a biscuit person.”
“I never even sit down at meetings.” Alex looks abashed. “It drives everyone mad. And I can’t deal with conflict. I can’t manage people. It bores me. It gets in the way of ideas. And that’s why I shouldn’t be a boss.” He sighs, gazing out of the window at the passing landscape. “Every promotion requires you to do less of the thing you originally wanted to do. Don’t you find?”
“No,” I say bluntly. “If I got a promotion I’d do more of the thing I want to do. But, then, I’m at the opposite end from you.”
Alex winces. “That makes me sound ancient.”
“You are ancient. In prodigy years.”
“Prodigy years?” Alex starts to laugh. “Is that like dog years? Anyway, who says I’m a prodigy?”
“You came up with Whenty when you were twenty-one,” I remind him.
“Oh yeah,” he says, as though he’d half-forgotten. “Well, that was just…you know. Luck.” He comes to. “Shall I get that gate?”
I watch as he unhooks the gate, then drive through and wait for him to close it and hop back in. The engine’s still running, but for a moment I don’t move. We’re in a kind of limbo-land here, and I want to broach something with Alex, while I have the chance.
“Was it really luck?” I say tentatively. “Or do you think maybe you were trying to impress your father?”
I want to add: Is that why you can’t stand conflict? But let’s not turn into Freud.
Alex is silent for a few minutes, and I can see thoughts buzzing round his eyes.
“Probably,” he says at last. “Probably still am.” Then he turns to me, with a wry acknowledging smile. “Will you stop being right?”
I grin back—touché—and start driving on again. I sense that Alex might carry on unburdening himself, and, sure enough, after a few moments he draws breath.
“Sometimes I worry my ideas might dry up,” he says, an odd tone to his voice. “I’m not sure who I’d be without them. Sometimes I think I’m really just an empty vessel floating about, downloading ideas and not much else.”
“You’re a funny, gorgeous, sexy guy,” I say at once, and he smiles at me as though I’m joking. I can tell he’s not pretending: He really feels this. I can’t believe I need to bolster Alex Astalis.
“What would you do,” I say impulsively, “if you weren’t rushing round the world, creating award-winning branding concepts?”
“Good question.” Alex’s face lights up. “Live on a farm. Drive the Defender. That was the best fun I’ve had in years. Eat Biddy’s scones.” We come to a halt in the yard, and Alex twines his fingers around mine on the steering wheel. “Kiss a beautiful girl every day.”
“You’d have to find a farm with a beautiful girl on it,” I point out.
“Don’t they all come with beautiful girls?” His dark eyes glow at me. “This one does.”
Beautiful. That word again. I want to take it away in my hands and keep it in a jar forever. But instead I smile easily back, as if perhaps I didn’t even hear him, and say, “Not all of them, no.”
“I’d put it in the search engine, then. En suite bathroom, fields of sheep, beautiful girl with freckles like stardust.” He touches my nose. “Actually, I think there is only one of those.”
He leans over to kiss me—and there he is again. The sweet, gentle Alex that’s been such a surprise. The truth is, I’m falling for this guy, and I can’t find a single reason in my brain not to, except for Demeter’s voice running through my mind: Any woman who got involved with Alex Astalis would have to be insane.
Why insane? I need to talk to her.
“Maybe you shouldn’t be a boss anymore,” I say as we finally draw apart, my head buzzing a little. “I’m not sure it’s making you happy.”
“Maybe you’re right.” He nods, his eyes absent—then suddenly focuses on me. “Whereas you, Katie, should be a boss. You will be, one day. I know it. You’ll be a big boss.”
“What?” I stare at him in disbelief.
“Oh yes.” He nods matter-of-factly. “You’ve got what it takes. Stuff I haven’t got. You’ve got a way with people. I watched you just now, managing your cleaner. You know what you want and you make it happen and nothing gets broken. There’s a skill in that.”
I gaze back at Alex, feeling a bit overcome. No one’s ever said anything like that to me before, and my insecure, defensive hackles can’t help rising: Is he just being kind? But he doesn’t look like he’s trying to do me a favor. There’s not one patronizing note in his voice—he sounds like he’s saying it as he sees it.
“Come on.” He opens the door. “I can’t put off the evil moment anymore. Let’s see if Demeter’s back.”
—
I’m half-hoping Demeter will be at the farmhouse already, will greet us with her old Demeter panache and stride around on her long legs with some story about how she’s fixed everything and spoken to Adrian and it’s all marvelous now. But there’s no sign of her.
The afternoon’s golden glow has ebbed away, and Dad’s already got a campfire going at the center of the yurt village. On Tuesday nights we always have a campfire, sausages, toasted marshmallows, and a singsong. Everyone loves a fire and a singsong after a few beers—even though the actual songs we sing depend on who the glampers are. (One time we had a guy staying who’d been a backing singer for Sting. That was amazing. But last week we had the I-know-all-of-Queen’s-repertoire-listen-to-me! dad. That was bad.)