Clara had said that her cottage was on the edge of the village. Obviously Clara’s definition of ‘edge’ wasn’t the same as Georgie’s. Possibly neither was ‘village’: a pub, a church, a school, and a renovated courtyard of barns, which was apparently a farm shop and in whose car park she was now sitting as she tried to make sense of her bearings. How on earth was that a village?
Everything seemed to be firmly closed at seven o’clock on a Saturday evening—even the pub, which she could hardly believe—so she couldn’t ask anyone for directions. In London, her local shops were open before dawn and closed after midnight. Did that mean she’d have to drive for half an hour to get supplies if she ran out of milk?
According to the sign on the barns, they sold fruit, veg, award-winning dairy and meat. There was a bakery and a café, and local crafts and gifts.
All crammed into a few barns in the middle of nowhere.
This was starting to feel like a huge mistake rather than a fresh start. Saturdays shouldn’t be this difficult. And thank God she’d bought milk and coffee at the service station. The first thing she’d do when she got to her new house would be to put the kettle on and make double-strength coffee. Maybe treble.
OK. She’d make one last attempt to find the cottage; if that failed, she’d give in and call Clara and ask her just where the cottage was.
She drove up the narrow track as slowly as she could. And, this time, was it her imagination or was there a chink of light at the side of the road—something which might mean people? She drove even more slowly until she saw an opening that led into a yard, then carefully pulled in. There was a large four-wheel drive car already parked there, so obviously this wasn’t Clara’s cottage. But at least it looked as though there was someone in residence—someone who might know where Hayloft Cottage actually was and could give her directions.
She parked next to the other car, made her way to the door of the cottage and banged on it.
No answer.
But there was a deep woof. Definitely not Clara’s cottage, then, because Clara hadn’t said anything about a dog. A neighbour’s, then. She hoped the neighbour was friendly. In London, you hardly even saw your neighbours. Would it be different here?
She knocked again. More woofing. And this time the door was dragged open by a man who looked very fed-up indeed and was wearing nothing but a bath towel slung round his hips.
Her mouth went dry.
He had pale skin, grey eyes, slight stubble and wild, slightly over-long dark hair. Add in the light dusting of hair on his chest and his perfect six-pack, and he could’ve been the star of an action movie. He was the first man who’d made her mouth go dry like that since Charlie, and it put all her senses on full alert: this was dangerous.
‘What do you want?’ he snapped.
Oh, help. He had that lovely Scots accent too. The sort that melted your bones.
And her brain cells must have been temporarily scrambled from the long drive to make her focus on his unexpected gorgeousness instead of solving her problem. What on earth was wrong with her? The man must think she was some kind of tongue-tied idiot.
‘I—I’m sorry to bother you,’ she managed to get out finally, cross with herself for being so pathetic. ‘I’m a bit lost. My satnav has been telling me for the last five miles that I’ve already reached my destination, I’ve been on the road since nine o’clock this morning, and to be honest I’ve had enough. Could you please tell me where I can find Hayloft Cottage?’
‘Hayloft Cottage,’ he repeated. There was another woof behind him, and he turned to the dog. ‘Shh, Truffle, it’s all right,’ he said.
Was he scowling because he hadn’t heard of the cottage? Or maybe this place was like the village where her parents lived in Norfolk, where something had an official name but everyone local called it something completely different. ‘Clara Connolly lives there,’ she added, hoping it would help.
‘And you are...?’
‘Georgina Jones—Georgie.’
‘You,’ he said, ‘aren’t due to arrive until tomorrow.’
She couldn’t quite process this. What did he mean? ‘Tomorrow?’ she asked, confused.
‘Your job swap thing. Clara said you weren’t coming until tomorrow.’
‘You know Clara?’
‘Aye.’
The penny suddenly dropped. He knew Clara. He knew she was expected. So this had to be Hayloft Cottage. ‘Are you Clara’s friend? The one she said might be staying?’
For pity’s sake—he knew who she was, now. Couldn’t he just let her in so she could get a cup of coffee and warm up a bit?
She realised she’d spoken aloud when he raked a hand through his hair. ‘Yes. Of course. Sorry. I was in the shower. I’ll get something sorted out.’ His towel nearly slipped as he reached behind him to grab the dog’s collar, and Georgie’s pulse went up a notch. ‘This is Truffle. She’s a bit nervous, but she’s friendly when she gets to know you.’
‘Uh-huh,’ she said warily.
‘You’re not a dog person?’
‘I’d never hurt one,’ she said. ‘But, no, I’m not used to pets. And Clara didn’t tell me to expect a dog.’
‘I see.’ He paused. ‘Truffle’s a rescue dog, so she’s a wee bit shy with people she doesn’t know. Ignore her and she’ll come to say hello when she’s feeling brave enough. She won’t hurt you,’ he advised. ‘Though don’t leave shoes or cake lying around. They’ll be gone in three seconds. And please don’t leave chocolate anywhere, even if you think it’s out of her reach, because it won’t be and it’s poisonous to dogs.’
‘Noted,’ she said, slightly nettled by his tone. OK, so she wasn’t used to dogs, but it didn’t mean she was
