Romantic Hero

Prologue

There is a strange man on my sofa.

A cowboy.

A shirtless cowboy, no less – thick, sun-burnished muscles on full display, marked with bruises and what look to be smudges of charcoal.

I don’t scream. I always thought I’d scream in a scenario such as this (i.e.

home intrusion, sudden appearance of cowboy in living room, possible upcoming murder of self).

Instead, I grab hold of the nearest thing I can to cover my own nakedness.

Of course, it’s the red spider beret I just purchased from Mrs Casablancas.

One of the spindly pipe cleaner spider legs stabs my inner thigh. Ow.

‘Get out, please,’ I say to the stranger, my trembling voice a good two octaves higher than usual. ‘I … I don’t know what you’re doing in my house, what you came here for, but you’re in the wrong place and you need to leave right now.’

How did he even get in here? I glance at the front door, closed and locked from the inside, as always. The window is open, but my flat is on the fourth floor of the building. Did … did he scale the wall?

The man’s eyes meet mine, unreadable beneath the shadow of his Stetson. He blinks like he just woke up, quickly averting his gaze from my naked form, which strikes me as an unusually respectful move for a home intruder with murder in mind. Maybe he’s not a murderer … perhaps he’s a burglar?

‘If-if you’re a burglar then you’d have much better pickings about a mile down the road,’ I blurt, my words tripping over each other.

‘I’m just a writer. Everything of value that I own is purely sentimental.

’ I point at my TV. ‘You can have my television if you like? It’s pretty old, though.

No OLED capabilities. They probably have much higher-spec electrical equipment at the houses over in Marylebone.

Lots of jewellery too, I bet. Silver tableware, genuine Birkins, if that’s what you’re after.

There’s this one very fancy looking house on—’

I clamp my mouth shut as it occurs to me that this is not the time or the situation to try to be the most helpful person in the room.

The cowboy stares down at his dusty boots, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. He rubs a hand across his stubbled jaw and I can’t help but notice that it’s an excellent jaw, as jaws go.

Get it together, Gertie.

‘If you leave right now, I promise I won’t call the police,’ I try, my voice attempting and failing to hold some degree of gravitas.

I’m totally lying. I definitely will be calling the police. At the very least the residents of Marylebone now need to be warned to double-lock their doors.

The man stands up from the sofa, conker-brown Stetson almost grazing the ceiling.

He takes a step forward.

‘Please don’t murder me!’ I yelp. ‘I might not have much to live for right now, but I don’t want to die.’

I get a brief vision of my funeral. Would Henry cry if I died? He’d definitely cry. Right?

The cowboy keeps his gaze trained on the floor as he reaches up and slowly tips his hat in my direction.

‘Ma’am,’ he says, his voice an unfeasibly deep American rumble. ‘I have no plans to murder you.’ He peers across towards my open window, eyes narrowing in confusion. ‘But I’m gonna need you to tell me right now – where the sweet hell am I?’