2. Chapter 2
Chapter 2
Abigail
T he kitchen smells divine, like melted chocolate and butter swirling together in the warm air. Layla’s perched on a stool at the counter, her little hands deep in a bowl of flour. She’s got it everywhere—on her cheeks, her jumper, even a streak across her nose. She looks up at me with a proud grin, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Careful, love,” I say, trying to sound stern but failing miserably. “We’re making muffins, not a flour bomb.”
“Don’t pretend you don’t love the chaos,” Nancy pipes up from the kitchen table, sipping her tea like she’s queen of the Yorkshire Dales.
I shoot her a look. “You’re one to talk, Miss ‘Two Left Feet,’ who knocked an entire tray of cupcakes onto the floor last Christmas.”
Nancy grins. “That was an accident. Besides, if I’d known you were gonna hold it over me forever, I’d have claimed it was performance art.”
Layla giggles, sprinkling a handful of chocolate chips into the batter. Most of them actually make it in, which I take as a win .
“Nice work, chef,” I say, giving her a wink.
Nancy sets her mug down, her grin turning sly. “So, when are you going to stop hiding behind muffins and start dating again?”
I freeze for half a second, whisk in mid-air. “I’m not hiding,” I say, a little too quickly, then pour the batter into the muffin cases. “I’m just... busy.”
“Busy? Abby, you’re running a B&B in the middle of nowhere, not MI5.” She leans forward, folding her arms on the table. “It’s been, what, four years since—?”
“Nance,” I cut her off gently, my back to her as I pop the tray into the oven. The heat rushes out, warming my face as I close the door and set the timer. “I’m happy as I am. I’ve got Layla, the B&B, my guests. Life’s good.”
Nancy doesn’t let up. She’s got that big-sister look about her, the one that says she’s not buying a word of it. “You deserve more than ‘good,’ Abby. You deserve someone who makes your cheeks go pink and your heart race like a teenager’s.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “My cheeks are already pink, thanks to the oven. And I’m not interested in being swept off my feet. I’ve got my hands full as it is.”
Nancy sighs, coming over to rest her hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay to move on, you know. It doesn’t mean forgetting him. You are forty-one. He wouldn’t want you to be alone for the rest of your life.”
I swallow hard, glancing out the window. The Dales stretch out in front of me, soft and endless, the late afternoon sun lighting up the fields like something out of a painting. It’s beautiful here, peaceful. I remind myself to be grateful for that, even if her words sting more than I want to admit .
“I know,” I say softly, turning back to Layla. “What do you think, love? Time to lick the spoon?”
Layla’s eyes light up. “Yes!” she squeals, holding up her flour-covered hands for me to pass it over. I hand her the spoon, watching her face light up with pure joy as she licks the chocolate batter. It’s moments like this that remind me what really matters.
“Besides, I’m not the only one who is single. What about you?” I challenge her.
“Hey, I date. As much as the limited population of St. Claire allows. I’m kind of running out of prospects but do not fear, I have a plan to attract new blood to the area,” she giggles.
As hoped, this gets her off my back and onto her new venture. Some rambling club she is planning to set up. Nancy is the sporty person in our family. Me and my curves don’t enjoy endless walks through the hills. I'd rather look at them from the distance.
The crunch of gravel outside snaps me out of my thoughts. I wipe my hands on a tea towel and glance out the window. A car has just pulled up, the sun bouncing off the windscreen so I can’t see who’s inside.
“That’ll be your mystery guest,” Nancy says, setting her tea down with an exaggerated flourish. “Three weeks in this quaint little slice of nowhere. I’m calling it now—he’s either hiding from the law, writing the next great novel, or nursing a broken heart.”
I roll my eyes, tying my apron back into place. “Or, and hear me out, maybe he’s just someone who wanted a quiet getaway? ”
Nancy waves me off dramatically. “No, no, it’s always more exciting than that. What’s his name again? Tell me his name has potential.”
I smirk, pulling my phone from the counter where I’d left it earlier. “Jon Peterson,” I read from the booking confirmation.
Nancy gasps, clutching her chest like she’s just heard the lead in a period drama announced. “Jon Peterson? That’s not just a name—it’s a character. A brooding artist! Or a secret spy! Or... wait, what if he’s a soldier come home to find peace after the horrors of war?”
“Good grief, Nancy,” I say, shaking my head. “He could also just be an accountant from Derby.”
Layla giggles from her stool, chocolate smeared on her cheek. “Maybe he’s a wizard!” she says, her voice high and excited. “Like Merlin!”
Nancy gasps in delight, playing along. “Oh, I like that one! What if he’s come here because there’s a magical portal in the Dales? He needs to bake muffins with your mum to power his wand.”
Layla squeals with laughter, clapping her hands together and nearly sending the chocolate chips flying, of course completely oblivious to the double meaning of Nancy’s words. “Mum, we have to bake him a magic muffin!”
I can’t help but laugh. “Layla, I think Mr Peterson’s going to need normal food, not wizard snacks.”
Nancy ignores me, her imagination running wild. “No, no, he’s definitely tortured. Maybe he’s working through heartbreak. His fiancée left him at the altar, and now he’s come to the Yorkshire Dales to find himself... or maybe to find love again. ”
“Nance, you’ve got to stop reading those romance novels,” I say, though I’m trying not to laugh.
“Don’t crush my dreams, Abby! What if Jon Peterson is the one for you? Imagine it—he stumbles into your kitchen, rain-soaked and apologetic, only to find you baking muffins with flour on your nose. He realises instantly that you’re the one who can heal his broken heart.”
“Let me guess,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Then I hand him a muffin, our fingers touch, and we fall madly in love?”
“Yes!” Nancy says, clapping her hands. “You get it! And then there’s a moment with the power out and just a single candle lighting the room—”
“I think I’ve heard enough, thank you,” I say, laughing as I swat at her with the tea towel.
Layla pipes up, grinning from ear to ear. “Can I be in the story too? I’ll make him magic potions!”
“Absolutely,” Nancy says, winking at her niece.
She's still grinning as I head to the door, but her antics leave me with a faint twist of nerves. It’s ridiculous, really—Jon Peterson is just another guest. Still, something about his three-week booking has me curious.
I push open the door and step outside, the late afternoon sun warm on my face.
The driver’s side door opens, and out steps a man—tall, dark hair, glasses perched on his nose. He’s dressed casually, but there’s something about the way he carries himself that feels… different. Calm, but distant. His gaze scans the cottage, his face unreadable, and for a moment, he doesn’t notice me.
I clear my throat, smiling as I step forward. “Hello! Welcome to Sunshine Cottage. ”
He turns, his eyes landing on me, and I catch the faintest flicker of something in his expression—surprise, maybe, or hesitation. Up close, I notice the stubble on his jaw, the tired set of his shoulders. He nods, stepping toward me with a measured stride.
“Yes,” he says, his voice deep and quiet. “Jon Peterson.”
My brain does a little double take. Of course, Nancy’s words from earlier come rushing back in vivid detail, and for some ridiculous reason, my cheeks feel warm.
“Welcome, Mr Peterson,” I manage, keeping my voice steady. “I’m Abigail, Abigail Carter.”
He nods again, polite but distant.
“You’ve come on a good day,” I add, gesturing to the warm sunlight overhead. “Weather like this isn’t always guaranteed in Yorkshire.”
There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t quite make it to a smile. “Lucky, then.”
“Shall I help with your bags?” I ask, stepping toward the boot.
He shakes his head quickly, almost too quickly. “No need. I’ve got it.”
His tone isn’t rude, exactly, but it’s clipped, leaving little room for further conversation. I step back as he opens the boot, retrieving a large suitcase and a smaller bag.
“Well, let me show you to your room then,” I say, forcing my usual cheerfulness. “It’s got a lovely view of the hills. And if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”
“Thanks,” he replies simply, falling into step behind me as I lead the way toward the cottage.
I steal a quick glance at him over my shoulder. He does have an air of sadness about him. Stop it, Abby , I scold myself. Just because he’s not chatty doesn’t mean you need to start imagining tragic backstories.
“Mind your step,” I say as we enter the cottage. “The floor can be a bit uneven. Old houses have their quirks, don’t they?”
Jon doesn’t reply, but he nods slightly, his gaze drifting over the cosy interior. When his eyes land on the stone fireplace, his expression softens just a little.
“It’s nice,” he says quietly.
“Glad you like it,” I reply, leading him up the narrow staircase. “Your room’s just at the top. There are plenty of spare blankets in the cupboard—it can get chilly even in summer. Oh, and the Wi-Fi password is on the little card on the dresser.”
I push open the door and let him step past me. I’ve given him the largest room I have. Mrs Thornburry, who’ll be back next weekend, usually has it, but I thought with Jon staying so long, he should have the extra space.
Jon . I like that name.
He sets his bags down and glances around the small room I have taken him too, his expression unreadable. “Thanks, Ms Carter.”
“Well, I’ll leave you to it. Oh, and please call me Abigail… or Abby.” I give him a big smile.
“Abigail,” he repeats. I like how my name sounds when he says it. Fuck me, I will kill Nancy because she brainwashed me into these ridiculous thoughts.
As I head back downstairs, I let out a small breath of relief. He’s quiet, yes, maybe even a bit grumpy, but not unkind. Still, I can’t help but feel a little flustered, there is something to him that puts me on edge… in a good way.