Who Needs Mr Willoughby? by Katie Oliver Read Free Book Online Page A

floorboard aside and climbed in.
    With a reproachful look from Emily and a slight, bemused shake of the head from the driver, they set off.
    ***
    “I hope the police find my car,” Marianne said.
    “I wouldn’t bank on it,” he informed her. “Those lads – and your car – are probably long gone.”
    She turned to glare at him. “Thanks so much for your reassuring words of comfort.”
    He shrugged. “Better to face reality than believe in fairy tales, I always say.”
    “You would,” she retorted. “Listen…do you think you could take me to Hadleighshire instead? I don’t have enough money for a taxi back.”
    “Hadleighshire?” He let out a snort of disbelief. “But I’m not
going
to Hadleighshire. I’m not a taxi service, you know.”
    “It’s only sixteen kilometres. More or less.”
    “
Only
sixteen kilometers, she says!” He scowled. “Petrol’s expensive, in case you didn’t know. And I’ve got the dogs.” He reached out to ruffle the lamb’s ears. “And Emily.”
    “At least it’s stopped raining,” she pointed out. “The dogs can dry out on the way.”
    “And tell me – why should I go so far out of my way for you?”
    She glared at him. “Because you’re obviously such a kind, considerate person.”
    “If – and that’s a very big ‘if’ – I decide to take you there,” he said after a moment, “I’ll have to charge you.”
    Marianne’s eyes widened in outrage. “
Charge
me? Are you serious? Well, so much for north country hospitality.”
    “Twenty-five pounds. Take it or leave it.”
    She gasped. “Twenty-five
pounds
to drive me sixteen kilometres? That’s outrageous!” Furious, she reached for the door handle and flung the door open. “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”
    She slammed the door; she was certain he’d apologise, and tell her to get back in the truck.
    “Suit yourself.”
    And with a shifting of gears, he gave a shrug, and drove off.

Chapter 8
    Walking downhill on gravel in a pair of kitten heels was not, Marianne soon found, an easy thing to do.
    Nevertheless, her fury at farmer what’s-his-name propelled her onward. What an arsehole. What a rude, money-grubbing, inconsiderate arsehole.
    “‘Better to face reality than believe in fairy tales, I always say,’” she mimicked him under her breath. “Well, you’ve certainly helped me to face reality, you – you sheep-loving jackass!”
    She was nearly at the bottom of the hill when she heard it – the rumble of an approaching vehicle.
    Marianne walked faster. She hoped it was him. She hoped it
wasn’t
him. She never wanted to see that smirky, jaded face of his, ever again –
    The truck drew alongside of her. “Get in,” he said gruffly.
    She kept walking. “I won’t, thank you all the same. I can’t afford it.”
    “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t walk all the way to Hadleighshire in those – those faffy little Audrey Hepburn shoes.”
    “They’re not ‘faffy little shoes’. They’re brand new; I just bought them. And I’m surprised you even know who Audrey Hepburn is,” she retorted, and kept walking.
    “Who doesn’t? I’d have to live under a rock not to know who she is.”
    “I thought you
did
live under a rock, actually,” she shot back. “With all the rest of the gremlins and trolls.”
    “Trolls live under bridges.”
    “Whatever. Just go away.”
    “Fine,” he said grimly. “If that’s what you want, we’ll do this the hard way.”
    So saying, he cut the wheel sharply to the right, and she jumped back as the truck’s cab blocked her way. He reached out to fling the door open.
    “Now, stop acting like a dafty wench and get in,” he ordered.
    Marianne stared daggers at him. But her feet really, really hurt. And her brand new shoes were covered in mud. And she felt perilously close to tears.
    “Fine.” She spared him one more glare, then climbed back into the cab of the truck next to Emily and slammed the door. “Let’s go.”
    “Mind, it’ll still cost