Should she knock on the window and acknowledge him? Offer him a cup of tea? What was the etiquette for finding the local landowner, who was also your sworn nemesis, doing chores in your grandmother’s back garden?
Before she could formulate any kind of game plan, Sam looked up and caught her staring. He turned the mower off, ran a hand through his rather unkempt golden hair and nodded awkwardly in Amy’s direction. He thrust his hands into his pockets and took a breath deep enough that she could see the air go in and out of him, swelling and then loosening his chest, from several metres away. Then he came towards the back door, seeming to have settled an argument with himself.
Amy unlocked and opened the door and Bertie scampered out to greet Sam, who immediately laughed and leaned down to pat him.
‘Hi,’ he said, when he was upright again. He was flushed, though it wasn’t particularly warm outside– and this, coupled with his ruffled hair and scruffy clothing, unsettled her. He looked too normal. Too earthy. Too …real.
‘Hi,’ Amy said back, becoming aware a moment too late that she was gawking at him.
The stripes of colour lighting up Sam’s cheekbones brightened. With a jolt, Amy realised he was embarrassed.
‘I … I’m sorry to intrude like this,’ he said, sounding sincere. ‘I did knock, and when no one answered I thought now would be a good time to see to the lawn. I try to pop by when I won’t disturb Grace. Or you, now. I have a key to the side gate and one for the shed.’
Amy nodded.
‘Can I get you anything? Tea? Water?’
‘No, thanks,’ Sam said with an anaemic smile. ‘I’m almost done. Don’t trouble yourself– I’ll lock everything up and let myself out once I’m finished.’
‘OK,’ Amy told him. ‘If you’re sure.’
‘I am,’ he confirmed.
Amy coaxed Bertie back into the house with the promise of a dog treat, then closed the door behind them. She sat at the kitchen table, deliberately placing her back to the windows so she wouldn’t be tempted to look out. She also turned up the volume on Spotify’s latest ‘Made For You’ playlist in a bid to prevent herself from listening for the slam of the shed door, or the scrape of a key in a lock.
She’d set herself the task of finding out everything she could about Philippa Fotheringham in advance of their meeting this Friday, and before long she’d fallen down an online wormhole into what felt like an alternate universe: a place with its own celebrities, superfans and even its own lexicon. Apparently, ‘HEA’ stood for ‘happy ever after’, while ‘HFN’ meant the protagonist of a novel obtained ‘happiness for now’ by its final page. Amy also discovered that a ‘cinnamon roll’ was not merely a tasty baked treat, but a well-known term for a romantic hero who was ‘super sweet’. Her mind boggled.
Meanwhile, every blog and book review she read further strengthened Amy’s confidence that Philippa could be relied upon to produce what her audience called ‘autobuys’– books they would always purchase because they had total trust in her to satisfy them. From a professional standpoint, this was exciting– a far cry from her usual experiences with authors who might be critically acclaimed, but struggled to entertain readers en masse.
Only when Gran came home and put the kettle on did Amy return to the here and now. ‘Ah! Sam’s been, then. Did you see him?’ Grace asked, glancing through the window at the freshly trimmed grass.
‘Briefly,’ Amy confirmed, feigning nonchalance.
‘He’s a good lad,’ Grace said, mostly to herself. ‘Nothing like his father, thank heavens. Insisted on helping me out with the pruning and such when he heard about my accident– said he remembered from years back how precious I am about the garden.’
Amy merely hummed in acknowledgement of this, not trusting herself to ask questions or pass comment.
It was much later that she realised an obvious query– and one she could easily have needled Sam with– had completely passed her by. The whole business with Hugh and his parcel of posh gifts had clearly knocked her off her game.
Any other time she’d have demanded to know why Sam was mowing the lawn himself– making a show of performing manual labour when surely the estate had someone on the payroll he could have sent instead. Today she’d simply ogled him, then offered him a cuppa.
Chapter 11
Amy’s first impression ofAnd So We Meet Again– Philippa Fotheringham’s latest five-star-rated novel– was not good. Its cover showed a bosomy woman staring up into the smouldering eyes of a tall, dark man with a jawline so sharp it could be used to chop logs.
She needed to read the book before meeting the woman herself tomorrow lunchtime, and she’d been putting off the task all week– but with just over twenty-four hours until their appointment, Amy had run out of excuses.
She supposed the book’s appeal must be the strong sense of inevitability that hung over the characters from the opening pages, rather than any doubt as to whether Voluptuous Vamp would eventually enjoy a tryst with Chiselled Chin Man. From the looks on the faces of its cover stars, it seemed pretty clear what was going to happen when the people in this story ‘met again’.
Yet several hours after first picking up her Kindle, Amy was still engrossed in the tale of Lady Sarah Bamford and handsome but wholly unsuitable Thomas Montgomery, her recently deceased father’s estate manager. Bertie, curled up next to Amy on the sofa, grumbled in his sleep as she reached for a biscuit from the tin on the side table.
I have dreamt of Thomas Montgomery often since leaving my family’s estate for my husband’s,Amy read, her eyes skipping across her e-reader’s screen at speed.In sleep and awake I have pictured his face: dark eyes, plush lips and that angular jaw I so often wanted to press my lips to. I’ve imagined his broad shoulders, thought of his clever and capable hands. I’ve recalled the contained strength of his body, revealed fleetingly in brief movements: the mounting of a horse; the lifting of a heavy trunk; the push to open a stiff, unyielding door.And now he is with me, and we are alone at last …
‘EARTH TO AMY?’ Grace boomed, at a volume loud enough to finally reach her. ‘I’ve asked you three times now if you’d like a cup of tea.’
‘Oh,’ Amy murmured, ‘sorry. Yes, please.’
‘What are you reading?’ Grace asked, cocking an eyebrow. ‘You’ve been buried in it all morning. It must be good.’
