Perfect (Love in Yorkshire #1)

One

perfect

adjective

Having all the required or desirable elements, qualities, or characteristics; as good as it is possible to be.

The tight feeling in my throat had developed into an actual lump that no amount of forced coughing would clear. I twisted the cap back on the bottle of water I’d been devouring in a poor attempt to dislodge it.

It was warm with a sticky element circling the carriage, and the early signs of cramp had set in.

I’d considered stretching my legs with a trip to the loo but had been warned about the facilities on trains, and let’s face it, I just wasn’t in the mood to be faced with anything grotty.

The motion of the carriage as it rattled along the rails was anything but calming. I released a puff of frustration as the man in the seat opposite continued to stare at me like he was contemplating something. It made me feel like I had something on my face. I silently willed him to refocus on his boring-looking book. My eyes narrowed suspiciously; he also had a remnant of ‘I don’t know what’, at the corner of his mouth. Possibly a bit of sandwich that must have been there for at least the past hour. Nasty. I scowled as my insides twisted, turning away to look out at the passing countryside, forcing my mind elsewhere.

I felt exhausted; my last few weeks of exams had zoomed by, and I still couldn’t shake that feeling of anxiety. Those nervous knots about the thought of seeing my father tightening in my stomach again. We hadn’t spoken over the last few months, hence the probable reason for said lump. Being train bound and on my way to spend the summer with him was encouraging all sorts of crazy inside me.

After my parents separated a couple of years ago my dad had moved to Yorkshire, to the arse end of nowhere. He still lived in the arse end of nowhere but now with his new wife, Rachel. Brutal right ?

I still found it hard to swallow as throughout my childhood, my family had seemed perfect to me. My father was my hero, and I was Daddy’s little girl. I was an only child and shared him with no one. He would check for monsters under my bed, clean me up when I got cuts and scrapes and be there when I fell out with my friends. Dad was my rock; the one I went to if I needed something fixing. When he left, I felt lost. A void had appeared in my life, and the only substance I had to fill it with was schoolwork. I’d adjusted, eventually. I’d had to for the sake of my exams at the time.

Of course, people break up, 'I do', is not necessarily forever. But it still stings, especially as the child on the outside looking in. It takes time to get your head around something like that—and then there are the added complications. Breakups were never straightforward.

My father now lived on a farm. A farm of all places, w ith cows and shit! He came from a family of Northern landowners, and when things had broken down with my mother, he had decided to return to his roots. He now owned over two hundred acres of rustic farmland.

I was nervous. Rural countryside and I was an untested relationship. I didn’t even own a pair of wellies; I would be so out of my comfort zone. I’d never even been camping; country life just wasn’t me. I was an indoor girl and I liked to surround myself with nice stuff; essential comforts. The house I shared with my mum in London was in the thick of everything; school, friends, family, and shops. It was handy, and I liked handy.

When my dad left, everything became even more complicated, especially after he re-married; the new Mrs had baggage of her own, you see. And unfortunately, it, or should I say he , was rather nice to look at.

I had met Rachel and her son once, and they were not people I had particularly warmed to, especially the boy. I still didn’t understand how someone so physically gifted could be such a sarcastic, condescending dickhead.

I attempted to ward off a wave of bitterness as my belly flip-flopped at the thought of my stepbrother, Connor. I knew I should push the image away, far from my mind, to stop it from fuelling my angst, but it was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, his face was there; contaminating my emotions. It made me want to bleach my brain .

To my misfortune, Connor Barratt ticked every physical man-preference box I never knew I had.

My jaw clenched. I hated that rotating thought that 'he' would also be there all summer. A boulder the size of London sat in my stomach. Connor would try and come between my dad and me, I just knew it. Dad had explained in one of his emails how Connor had started working full-time on the farm. He must have rambled on over several paragraphs about how they had ‘hit it off’ and ‘understood’ each other. The jealousy I had experienced after digesting that unwelcome news had almost pushed me towards a full-on tantrum. I hadn’t experienced one of those since my earlier teens. But I suppose jealousy does that to a person.

Placing the bottle of water on the table in front of me, I regretted my decision to ride backwards as the train raced through a tunnel, bouncing shadows around the carriage.

To distract myself, I pulled out my iPhone and scanned through my messages, rolling my eyes at yet another text from my mother.

Everything OK sweetie?

I sent her a thumbs-up and a kiss. My mum was a worrier who would call my phone on a loop if she didn’t receive a reply within a nanosecond.

She started to type again, responding with a winking face, a fist bump, and a duck for some weird reason. Mum really hadn’t grasped the concept of emojis just yet.

Poor mum, she still wasn’t over my father’s ‘betrayal’ as she called it. She didn’t say it aloud, but it oozed from her. My mother doesn’t know the meaning of poker face and is an open book, although not a very comprehensive book. Eleanor Williams only possesses two main loves in life. Eating lunch with her friends and a bottle of vodka. The rest she just makes up as she goes along. I do love her though. She does try to be a good mum, in her own way.

The carriage shook again as the train left the tunnel and I took a deep breath as my stress levels jumped up a notch. What I wouldn’t give for a quick squirt of Rescue Remedy or some sweets: a sugar coma would be a great distraction.

Thinking back to the last time I saw my father at his anniversary party, I shoved my head back against the seat and rested my eyes.

My dad and Rachel had hired a function room last year in a local pub. It had been a quiet, low-key event and nothing like the other parties I had been to. I’d arrived overdressed and had immediately felt out of place. What could I say, I liked to look nice; strappy dress and heels all the way for me. But I’d been stared at, and not in a good way.

My being there had also felt a little odd, considering the occasion was to celebrate my dad being with another woman.

I recall he'd been so pleased by my presence, beaming at me during the entire event. Smiling was not something I had seen him do when he was with my mother. The change was uplifting.

That ugly jealousy I’d felt was doused by the truth that Daddy was happy.

It was also refreshing to learn that I hadn’t been replaced; at least not by a stupid boy. The thought of Connor taking my place in my father’s affections had been on my mind, I’m not going to lie.

And for the record, my concerns had nothing to do with inheritance rubbish. I wasn’t that sort of girl.

My father had showered me with affection saying how much he missed me and I’d felt loved and wanted. Family meant everything to me. I couldn’t care less about money. My friend Lisa said my attitude towards money was because I had always had it. I’d told her to mind her own business.

The anniversary party (if you could call it a party) was pretty basic, which, under the circumstances, it should have been really. year together was certainly not a milestone. Just an excuse for a ‘do’ had been my thinking, and what did one wear to a ‘do’? Party dresses. Or so I had thought. I still felt annoyed by getting that one wrong.

Rachel had seemed pleasant enough. She was taller than me, which wasn’t difficult considering my five-foot-two height, and she had mousey hair and clear blue eyes. She was younger than my mum and I was relieved to see that she possessed her own boobs, standard skin tone, and regular-sized lips. My mother’s description of Rachel had conjured up the ‘caked-in-it’ clichéd WAG. Daddy wasn’t a footballer or a celebrity, but he was well off, and wealth encouraged the wrong type of woman .

Rachel had been sweet and kind and paid attention to me. She asked interesting questions and encouraged me about my aspirations. Irrespective of my friends saying I’d never need to work, I wanted to. I had plans; ones that didn’t rely on my parents' wealth. My conversation with Rachel had given me a confidence boost. It felt nice that someone wanted to listen to my dreams about my future.

During the hard times when my parents were fighting, I didn't feel like I had much of a voice. Rachel had listened, like really listened and after the party, I decided that her presence in my father's life should be considered a positive thing. For both my dad and me.

Her son, however, conjured up an entirely different response.

Connor James Barratt was the main reason I’d had second thoughts about spending the summer at the farm. He was my go-to thought when I felt shitty about the whole idea. I’d really wrestled with my decision.

The concept of spending my entire summer with someone so obnoxious had forced me to unpack and repack my case several times over the last week. When I first met a boy close to my own age, they turned into drooling idiots but Connor had been unfazed. To the point where he was actually mean to me.

The fact that I found him so physically attractive only added to my torment. And I had never chased a boy, ever! Why would I? I usually had to bat them off. His indifference was extremely aggravating.

I half-heartedly scanned a text from my friend Lisa as I recalled how awkward I’d felt in his company. He’d been flagrantly indifferent, and I wasn’t used to that response from members of the opposite sex. Bizarre doesn’t even come close.

I also hadn’t realised who he was, at first, and so had been sickeningly unprepared. Yes, Dad had told me that Rachel had a son but his use of the word ‘child’ had conjured up something entirely different in my head.

The word ‘child’ should never be used to describe someone like that. As everybody sat down to dinner, he was seated at the opposite end of the long table. Yes, I had noticed him as a fitty but had assumed that one of the whiny kids sitting closer to Rachel would have been hers. Not the guy placed so far away. After I had heard him speak, or should I say grunt, I silently applauded the seating plan. Thank goodness they had put him so far away. The guy clearly had social issues. Connor rarely commented during dinner. He had watched me with a brooding expression and never returned any of my smiles, his face a hateful mask of relaxed indifference. His attitude screamed, 'I really couldn't give a shit.'

After the main meal, I’d found him leaning against the bar like he was posing for a photo shoot, a bottle of beer in his hand. I remember approaching him fairly confidently until that punch of heat hit me in the stomach, like an actual fist. Or at least how I imagined that would feel. It knocked me out of my comfort zone. I had the hots for my new stepbrother and that made me nervous.

As I’d walked shyly towards him and came closer to his sinfully handsome face, I admitted that he was one of the hottest guys I had ever seen. Clichéd, I know, but frustratingly true nonetheless.

Connor Barratt oozed masculine confidence, his expression switching in and out of a bored, ‘anywhere but here’ look.

Tall and broad-shouldered with black hair sticking out in all the right directions, he was major-league hot. The guy had it in spades; his perfect male model-like features, deep dark eyes, and a strong masculine jaw. It was an almost beautiful face, yet it boasted one of those autocratic straight noses and high haughty cheekbones. Connor was borderline pretty. Not that I would have said that to his face, of course. He was also well-muscled, and I had imagined that he would possess impressive abs beneath the T-shirt he had been wearing. The boy would appeal to anyone over the age of fifteen.

Connor had towered over me, over six foot plus tall with the body of a definite gym goer. His skin was also naturally tanned, which he must have inherited from his dad’s side. Either that or it was due to him spending so much time in the outdoors. His mum was whiter than Lisa, and being so ruggedly male, he certainly wasn’t the sunbed type like my friend Niall. Niall didn’t go anywhere without a quick thirty-minute top-up and was constantly golden.

My stepbrother was seriously hot, and let’s be honest, I’d seen attractive men before, but he made even the most macho, sporty guys at school look like first years.

Once Dad spotted me lingering by the bar, he briefly introduced us before dashing off to help Rachel with her mother.

Remorse flooded me as I remembered standing before him, the silence circling us like a shark’s fin. You could almost taste the brooding intensity that surrounded him. Connor had stared down his perfectly straight nose at me; an unimpressed look on his face.

The pull I’d felt was strong, yet he was nothing like the usual type of boy that attracted me. My ex-boyfriend Andrew had been tall and beanpole-like, with hair and skin whiter than mine. Connor was the opposite of that. Tall, dark, and dangerous and unbelievably sexy. The type of brooding male to make most girl's lady parts flutter.

“Hi, good to meet you,” I’d said, filling that painful silence.

Connor had tilted his head to one side, watching me intently before taking an insolent mouthful of his beer. He’d been in no rush to reply to my friendly greeting. I remember watching his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed and that strong, tanned column of his throat.

“Is it? Shame I can’t say the same,” he replied with a careless smirk. It was like a slap in the face. My new stepbrother was obviously fluent in sarcasm.

How my heart had raced in my chest. I remember biting my tongue and feeling flummoxed as to how to respond. He’d struck a nerve. I wasn’t used to such nastiness off the bat.

When I look back, rude doesn’t even begin to describe it. I was astounded , having warded off attention from teenage boys since I’d first developed boobs at thirteen. And please believe me when I say I don’t consider myself overly vain, but I do tick some boxes.

I’m petite, with long natural wavy, white blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and an above-average complexion. Yes, I am a little on the slim/slight side but I have a pert bottom (so I’ve been told countless times) and small, firm breasts (most definitely the required handful).

I’m also kind, funny, fairly intelligent, and most importantly, I'm nice . What’s not to like? Boys usually buzz around me like bees to honey. I was considered to be one of the hottest girls in school. Even Mr. McShane, one of the younger PE teachers watched me when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Shaking off the indulgent thoughts, I pursed my lips, annoyed that I was now overthinking the subject. No matter how you slice it, Connor Barratt had blatantly decided that he had a problem with me before we’d even met, and in my opinion, there was nothing worse than judgy people .

Connor had been such a sarcastic dick after our initial introduction, making me feel like a silly little girl attempting to speak to her first crush. He had compared me to a doll, muttering something about Barbie and how being pretty does not give you the right to look down your nose at others. Like I ever treated people like that. Unless they asked for it of course.

I could be a mean girl and put people down if the situation called for it. My attempt at being a bitch never lasted long though and I always felt bad afterwards; I had a conscience the size of Surrey. Some of the girls at school thought me a spoilt brat and yes, I was a little spoiled but I wasn’t a brat. I was a nice girl.

Connor clearly hadn’t thought so. I remember how he had looked me up and down, contempt blazing in his eyes and his cold, heatless chuckle like it was yesterday.

“I suggest you piss off, find Daddy, and stop eye-fucking me across the room. You’re punching way above your weight with me, sunshine,” he’d said before turning his broad back on me and signalling the girl behind the bar.

How do you recover from something like that? No amount of flirting would work. I would probably have just ended up embarrassing myself further.

When I told my friends, Lisa thought it was hilarious that there was, at last , one boy out there around my age who didn’t fancy me.

'Guess what, guys? H's looks are already fading'. She had texted on our WhatsApp group. She posted that next to a picture of me where I did not look my best; one of those unfiltered shots taken when you're not ready. Not that I needed filters, of course. It had been an image of me after doing sports, something I sucked at. PE was my worst subject and I had dropped it as soon as I was allowed.

Lisa could be such a jealous bitch, but then again, so were most girls I met.

I blinked my way back to the present as the carriage shook and knocked my bottle of water over. Drat! I shot out a hand to catch the bottle a little too late as I felt the splash of dampness on my jeans. I was probably the clumsiest person on the planet. See, I accepted the fact that I had faults too.

The fussy woman in the seat next to me tutted. I murmured an apology and frantically dabbed the table with a spare napkin. After soaking up the carnage, I settled back into my seat, securing the cap back on the bottle, ensuring no further mishaps.

I’d already soured my relationship with the woman in aisle seat 13B after flicking a piece of ham from my sandwich at her only minutes after boarding. She had now gone back to reading her boring-looking book. The cover looked like it was one of those books people read to battle insomnia. Mrs. Lang spoke about them in English Literature all the time.

My phone pinged, yet another text from Lisa banging on about our school nemesis, Samantha, and how she’d thrown up in Matthew Mason’s lap at last night’s party.

I rolled my eyes. I'd had enough of high school. I just wished I didn’t have another year of exams to get through.

Samantha Jones was Primrose High’s very own Regina George and had made my last few months pretty shitty. Her boyfriend’s wandering eye had been the catalyst for that drama.

I shuffled back into my seat, staring again at my partially distorted reflection through the window of the train.

People seemed to view me as some type of genetic lottery winner but on the inside, I was just the same as any other high school girl; confused, flailing, and terrified about what to do with the rest of their life.