Stripping the beds and setting the washing machine going, I move on to tackle the bathrooms. I’m scrubbing my third toilet of the day when my phone buzzes.
It’s probably Amy. I’ve been dealing with a Spanish Inquisition from her all morning. She can’t seem to accept that Finn and I are just friends, that I don’t want to take things further. I’m not even surehewould, given half the chance. My life is messy and complicated and I’m not the same girl I was a year ago. Who would want to get caught up inthat?
Despite my protestations, my heart leaps when I pull out my phone and see that the message is from him: ‘Coffee break?’
Smiling, I tap back: ‘I’m at my parents’ place.’
‘I know. Open the door,’ he replies.
I rush downstairs, grinning at the sight of him standing on the doorstep with two takeaway coffee cups in his hands.
‘Where did you get those?’ I ask with delight.
‘Café next to Seaglass.’
‘You’re so lovely. Thank you.’
‘Can I come in?’
I step back, disconcerted by the way my insides have lit up.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, accepting a coffee.
‘I wondered if you wanted any help.’
‘Don’t you have anything better to do?’
‘Not really.’
I smile and lead the way into the kitchen. Of course, in reality, the sun only streams through the window in the afternoon; my imagination conjured up something impossible when I pictured that happy family of four eating breakfast. It’s a tendency I’ve always had, leaning towards the things that feed my pain.
‘This is such a cool room,’ Finn says, looking around at the extension.
He saw it in the aftermath of my parents’ deaths, but that was hardly the time to appreciate it.
‘Have you done much to the house to get it ready for rentals?’ he asks.
‘You want a tour?’
‘I’d love one.’
We carry our coffees with us as I show him the spare room, which is tucked around the corner of the stairs and has awindow facing onto the street, and point out the laundry and cloakroom, which open up onto a second hallway and a side door that accesses the garden and driveway.
The main hallway used to be the living room in the original cottage and it still has a fireplace, but it’s no longer in use and my piano is backed up against it.
Finn runs his fingers across the keys.
‘Do you play?’ I ask, pausing.
He nods. ‘Only self-taught, though. I bet you did grade exams, didn’t you?’ he asks with a smirk.
‘Yes,’ I admit.
‘How far did you get?’
‘Eight.’ I stopped taking lessons when I was fifteen, when Gran died.
‘Play me something.’
