Chapter 1
One
This is fine. Completely fine. People lock themselves out of their own businesses all the time.
Trish pressed her forehead against the glass of Prosecco the landlord keeps his cider in there.
He still rents out the upstairs flat for holidays, but people use the outside staircase.
’ My family’s flat once upon a time; where Gran lived, before everything changed.
‘Not anymore. I’ve rented the whole building for the summer. Once he shifts the cider, I’m turning the basement into a gym.’
He was already striding off, long-legged and efficient – like a man late for an appointment with a dumbbell.
Summer. So definitely a tourist, just an extended one.
Digital nomad type or something of the like.
The kind who could work anywhere with Wi-Fi and a sea view.
She felt a flicker of irritation. Sam owned her café and the old village stores – and yet had somehow forgotten to mention he’d rented the flat out for the entire summer? A little warning would’ve been nice.
The stranger returned with a wooden ladder that had seen better decades, shunting aside a couple of chairs on her terrace and set it against the wall. He paused, surveying the space with a slight frown. ‘How many does this seat?’ he asked, turning back to her.
She felt a flush of pride. ‘Thirty-two comfortably.’
‘You expanded it?’
‘Had to. The terrace is the heart of my business. The village is a popular tourist destination – my terrace is full most days April through October.’ She gestured to the narrow strip closest to the building.
‘It used to be tiny – barely room for four tables. Now it’s .
. .’ She walked to the far edge, counting under her breath. ‘Twelve steps? Thirteen?’
He nodded slowly, something unreadable crossing his face.
Hang on . . . She hesitated, studying him. How did he know she’d expanded the terrace? That had been done almost fifteen years ago. Who was this man, and why did he know so much about her village? ‘Do your parents live in Brambleton?’
‘No.’
He set the ladder against the wall and scaled it in one smooth run of movement. Trish, watching from below, registering the fit pull of muscle beneath his shirt as he tested the window from his new vantage point.
From below, shading her eyes against the climbing sun, Trish watched him work the window frame her breath shallow. ‘Can you get it open?’ she asked.
‘Probably.’ He produced something from his pocket – a multi-tool, because everyone carried a multi-tool while out jogging, they were as common as carrying a water bottle – and wedged it into the gap between the sashes. ‘This one has a broken latch.’
‘Yes, but—’
There was a scraping sound, wood on wood, and then the window slid up with a shriek of protest.
‘You’re in,’ he said, shimmying back down the ladder.
Trish stared at the narrow wooden ladder, then down at her wraparound dress. ‘Oh, this’ll be graceful,’ she muttered, tugging it tighter and briefly considering tucking the trailing hem out of the way into her pants before common sense – and dignity – intervened.
He turned away. ‘I’ll steady the ladder.’
‘Appreciated,’ she managed, edging up one rung at a time. The ladder creaked ominously, and her shoes slipped once, sending a puff of dust into the air and a strangled laugh out of her. ‘You’re not looking up, are you?’
‘Of course not,’ he said, a bit too quickly.
She slipped through the open window into her flat.
By the time her feet hit the floor, her pride was mostly restored, and she leaned back out of the window to see his mouth twitching in what might almost have been a smile.
She dashed through her flat, her eyes darting to the little velvet box on her dressing table which held her mum’s jewellery and she felt a flicker of comfort, as if a piece of her mother was cheering her on for solving the problem.
At the front door, Trish fumbled with the old lock. Somewhere outside, she heard the soft thump of the ladder being dragged away, the stranger’s footsteps light and quick.
She turned the key, swung the door open – and there he was arms crossed, expression unreadable once more.
‘You’re a miracle worker,’ she breathed.
Up close, he was unfairly attractive. Sharp jaw, a small scar through his right eyebrow, the kind of solemn face that looked like it didn’t smile often, which made her want to try to make that happen.
Don’t, she told herself firmly. He’s here for three months maximum, then back to his real life.
‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it. ‘Really. You’ve saved my entire morning. You knew exactly what to do.’ She grinned. ‘Hey, how long are you visiting?’
‘How do you know I’m visiting?’ The stranger looked faintly amused.
‘We are a very small village.’ She laughed, then, wanting to be friendly, added, ‘And I make it my business to know who’s new.’
She barely paused for breath. ‘You should come to something while you’re here.
We do a poetry night at the café on a Thursday – very low-pressure, mostly wine and people pretending they’re not talented – and I run a little writers’ workshop on Tuesdays.
And there’s a pot-luck supper this weekend, which you’ll be expected at now that you’ve helped rescue my morning. ’
She smiled, as if these plans were already a settled fact.
‘Not for me.’
Her smile rearranged itself. ‘Right,’ she said, her jolly tone straining slightly at the edges. ‘Well. It’s not for everyone.’ She brightened again. ‘Although it really is just a nice way to meet people, you know. Very casual. I think you’d enjoy it if you gave it a go.’
He glanced down, scuffing the toe of his trainer against the cobbles. ‘We’ll never know will we.’
OK then, Mr. Too-Important-for-the-Village.
Most people would have had the grace to at least pretend to consider it.
She pivoted neatly. ‘You clearly like historical buildings, you should visit Arlington Court while you’re here.
The National Trust has been doing wonderful work–they’ve rebuilt the Victorian conservatory using the original design.
The detail is exquisite.’ She warmed to her subject.
‘It was so wonderful to see them put in the work to bring it back to its original glory. Last year, a developer gutted a beautiful Georgian terrace on the waterfront in Barnstaple – ripped out all the original sash windows and put in plastic double-glazing without any thought for historical character.’
Something shifted in his expression. A wall erected.
‘Right,’ he said, his voice flat. ‘Character.’
The air between them felt suddenly charged, but not in a good way. Had she said something wrong?
‘Well,’ he continued, brushing imaginary dust from his hands, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Try not to lock yourself out again.’
‘I’ll hide a key under a rock, like a sensible person.’ Ridiculous, getting flustered by some self-important stranger, handsome though he was. ‘A key by any other name would still open the door – wait, that’s not right.’
Now he definitely almost smiled. ‘Not quite . . . Juliet. I think you’re looking for A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’
And he knows his Shakespeare too. She could feel herself warming to him again.
‘That’s the one. Words fail me before coffee.
’ She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, aware that she was a disaster of grass stains and morning panic.
He, meanwhile, looked like he’d stepped out of a sportswear catalogue.
‘Can I make you a coffee? Least I can do. I make a very good flat white, or there’s a caramel syrup—’
His nose wrinkled in disgust. ‘Not for me,’ he said. He exhaled through his nose, the kind of breath that said conversation over.
Of course he didn’t want coffee. Probably had some sort of optimized morning routine that didn’t include caffeine, like hot water laced with turmeric and ginger and a slug of self-righteousness.
‘Tea, then? I’ve got everything from builders’ to—’
‘I’m good.’ He was already stepping back, the distance between them growing. He couldn’t wait to get away from the dithery woman with her litany of hot beverages. ‘Neighbour helping neighbour. No payment necessary.’
But he hesitated, just for a second, his gaze traveling from her face down to where she was worrying the fabric of her skirt between her fingers, then back up. Something kindled in those grey eyes – awareness, interest – before he shuttered it away.
‘Well,’ she said brightly, aggressively cheerful in the face of his retreat. ‘Thank you, neighbour. I’m Trish, by the way. Trish Santos.’
‘Marcus.’ No surname offered. He raised one hand in a brief wave, then turned and jogged away, his stride as measured and controlled as everything else about him.
Trish stood in the doorway, the morning warming around her, and tried not to notice the way his shoulders moved under that tight fitting running shirt.
Absolutely not.
She had scones to bake, after all. And no time whatsoever for an arrogant grumpy, coffee-hating tourist with clever hands and sad grey eyes.