Lando and I are enjoying a walk through the wildflower meadows, soaking in the sight of the blooms swaying gently in the breeze, the bees and butterflies fluttering from one to the next, gathering up the sweet nectar, when the English weather does what it does best—changes. One moment we are appreciating the natural world while bathing in the sun’s delicious rays, the warmth caressing our exposed skin, and the next, clouds roll in, dousing the heat instantly, like someone flipped a switch. We exchange a look, then glance up. The clouds crowding towards us, carried on an increasingly powerful breeze, are thick ominous.
“Come on,” Lando says, with a doubtful peek at my creamy-white stilettos, “let’s head inside, before it starts to rain.”
We move from a stroll into a purposeful walk, but to no avail. We haven’t even made it to the edge of the field before the heavens open. The heavy, steel-grey clouds unleash their load, pelt it at us as if deliberately wanting to force us indoors.There’s nowhere to hide, not really. The torrent is so ferocious that we’d get wet under even the densest of tree canopies, the seemingly endless droplets finding their way through every gap and tumbling onto us. So we keep going, scurrying along as fast as my heels will allow, Lando gripping my hand tightly to steady me should I stumble. Caring for me, as he always does.
Despite the lashing I’m getting from the rain, I find I’m not actually that bothered. I’m not carrying anything on me that could be damaged or ruined—no phone, eReader, smut read books. I have only the clothes on my back and the shoes on my feet.They, and I, will dry—no harm done. Lando’s the same. The...
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Read all about the wonderful author: Lucy Felthouse
