Jack, bending to bank up the fire, indicated she should sit on the sofa. When he'd finished, he said, "I'll warm up some soup." Then he left her alone to stare at the welcome flames.
As she began to thaw, Abby gave in to her overwhelming tiredness and sank into the soft brown leather with a sigh. When Jack came back in with a tray of soup and toast, she was curled up with her legs tucked under her, half asleep. Sensing his presence, she opened her eyes.
"Sorry," she mumbled, struggling to sit up. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." He put the tray down on the coffee table in front of her. "I need to sort out a few e-mails, if that's okay."
Abby nodded and reached for the tray. She thought she was too tired to eat, but once she'd tasted the soup and discovered it was homemade, she made more of an effort. Jack strode to the huge picture window at the far end of the room, where his laptop sat on a large table surrounded by teetering piles of letters and papers and books and old mugs. Abby raised an eyebrow at the mess. No wonder the man needed help, if that was the way he worked! She ate while he worked in silence, hypnotised by the flames and the tapping of his keyboard.
When she'd finished her supper and her head was beginning to droop again, Jack rose from his desk and strolled back over.
"Come on, sleepyhead. Bed for you."
Abby's eyes would hardly stay open. She was aware he towered over her; that his jumper was thick and warm as she brushed against it when she stood; that he led her up to the room where her bags waited for her. When had he brought those in? Maybe while the soup was heating. She had no idea and didn't care. When he closed the door behind her, all she unpacked was her toothbrush and nightwear. Once her teeth were done, she simply stepped out of her clothes, leaving them on the floor where they landed, pulled on her pyjamas, climbed into the comfortable bed and immediately fell asleep.
****
Jack was up early the next morning. He hadn't slept well, and felt even worse when he opened his bedroom curtains to see the thick blanket of snow muffling the world outside. He shook his head. Typical British weather. It had been mild and rainy over the entire Christmas period when a little snow would have complemented the festive season. Now it was nearly March and spring was just around the corner, here they were in a winter wonderland, knee-deep in snow. It seemed last night's unsolvable problems would have to remain so for a while yet.
When a long, hot shower failed to revive him, he headed downstairs to make coffee and sat nursing it at the kitchen table while he gathered his thoughts together.
What he'd expected was an old dear to replace his previous old dear, Mrs Macintosh. What he'd got was Abby, and he was still getting over the shock that she was at least thirty years younger than he'd expected.
When Mrs Macintosh had reluctantly let him down at such short notice, he was already caught up in planning his new novel and couldn't face a delay. In a panic, he'd phoned his editor in London and explained the problem. Ted was sympathetic but had nobody to spare — certainly no-one he could send up north for several weeks. He suggested a temping agency, but Jack had baulked at the idea. It wasn't as though he could have just anybody coming to stay in his house and work on his manuscript with him. But Ted had persuaded him that the agency he used in London from time to time was excellent and only dealt with elite positions.
"Leave it to me," he'd said. And since Jack had a deadline, he'd done just that.
When Ted phoned back, it was to tell him his trusted London agency had apologetically explained that with the weather so bad in the north, they weren't willing to send anyone such a long way. Instead, they had contacted their northern branch — equally fastidious in their selection process — and their manager, Casey Summers, would be in touch with Jack shortly.
Miss Summers had duly spoken to him, reassuring him with her sympathy and professional efficiency. He explained all about Mrs Macintosh — how he needed someone with just the same qualities — and she thoroughly recommended Abby. She'd known her for years, she told him. Jack assumed that meant Abby would be middle-aged or beyond, but now he realised all it meant was that they must have known each other since pre-school or something.
Maybe he hadn't been concentrating; he had a habit of drifting when he was starting on a new book. Now, he was regretting not finding out more, or at least thinking it through more carefully. It simply hadn't occurred to him that another person would be much different from Mrs Macintosh — only a change of name and face.
Then Abby had shown up on his doorstep. She'd been quite a sight with her hat jammed low on her head, her face muffled in a woollen scarf and her coat covered in snow — like a miniature abominable snowman. But then she'd taken off that coat, revealing a shapely body clad in figure-hugging jeans and a soft jumper not quite baggy enough to hide the curves it clung to. The hat had come off next, allowing tousled, flame-like hair to fall around her face. And finally the scarf was unwound from a full mouth and sea-green eyes.
No grey hair. No frumpy tweeds. No hint of middle-aged-to-elderly. Far, far from it. He was aware he'd stared at her and could only hope it hadn't come across as a bewildered leer.
It wasn't that he minded Abby being young and
