“Uh-huh,” Will says, dragging the sound out. “That’s what Jon said when he first went up there. Remember? Claimed he was just taking a break. Now he’s practically a Yorkshireman. Has a vegetable patch and everything.”
I snort. “I’ll pass on the vegetables.”
“You say that now.”
“Will, I’m not moving to the Dales.”
“Give it time,” he says. “The place has a way of getting under your skin. Fresh air, proper pints, people who actually say good morning. You’ll see.”
I shake my head, though he can’t see me. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re predictable,” he says. “Go on, prove me wrong.”
“Fine. I’ll take the fresh air and the pints, but I’m coming back to London once I’ve remembered how to sleep through the night.”
“Good man. Still—don’t be surprised if Sunshine Cottage works its magic.”
“Pretty sure I’m immune to magic,” I say, watching the rain ease into mist.
He chuckles softly. “That’s what Jon said too. Speak to you later.”
The line crackles, then goes quiet. I grip the steering wheel a little tighter, half smiling despite myself.
Sunshine Cottage. Ridiculous name, really. But it’s somewhere to start.
By the time I pull into the gravel drive outside Jon and Abby’s B&B the sky has given up pretending to be daylight. It’s a dull, washed-out grey, merging with the dull winter landscape in the distance.
The wind’s howling straight off the hills, driving the rain sideways. I grab my jacket, take one look at the boot, and decide the bags can wait. The plan is simple: sprint to the door, say hello to Jon, then come back for the luggage once I can feel my fingers again.
I make a dash for it, the wind lashing my face from every direction. By the time I reach the porch, I’m half-blind from the drizzle and cursing under my breath.
The door opens before I can knock.
Jon stands there, mug in hand, hair sticking up like he didn’t find his brush this morning. He grins when he sees me. “You picked a lovely day for it.”
“Couldn’t resist,” I say, stamping the water off my boots. “Thought I’d start as I mean to go on—cold, wet, and questioning my life choices. Good to see you, Jon.”
“You too, mate. Come in before you freeze solid.”
Warm air hits me as soon as I step inside, carrying the smell of butter and sugar. Somewhere in the back, a child’s voice is singing.
Jon grins. “Abby and Layla are in the kitchen. They’ve been making muffins for you. Chocolate chip, if my little sunshine gets her way.”
“Smart kid,” I chuckle.
He leads the way through to the kitchen, and sure enough, Abby’s there with Layla perched on a stool beside her, wooden spoon in hand, both dusted in flour.
Abby looks up, smiling warmly. “Aaron! You made it. I was just saying to Layla you’d be here soon.”
“Looks like I’ve arrived in time for dessert.” I nod toward the mixing bowl.
“Tea first,” she says, laughing, already reaching for another mug.
Layla grins at me. “Do you like chocolate chips, Mr Aaron?”
“Best kind,” I tell her.
“Good,” she says seriously. “Because I put loads in.”
