‘I’m between places.’

Huh, another non-committal answer. Tabitha pursed her lips and covered her discomfort of a conversation that kept hitting a brick wall with another mouthful of food. But, then again, the more she asked and found out about him, the more involved she became and vice versa. Keeping a distance could only be a good thing.

‘But home for me, at least, has always been the UK,’ Raff eventually said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. ‘London, to be more specific, although I’ve travelled a lot. I’ve got itchy feet.’

Tabitha met his gaze across the table. ‘You and me both.’

Raff finished his last bit of sandwich and folded his arms. ‘You’re a professional pet sitter?’

Tabitha noticed the underlying smirk. She also noticed how he seemed happy to turn the conversation from himself to her.

‘No, I’m a professional songwriter who house sits pets. There’s a difference.’

‘Have you written anything I’d know?’

Tabitha thought back to the Foo Fighters T-shirt he’d been wearing the night before and wrinkled her nose. ‘I’ve written songs for well-known pop stars, but it might not be the sort of music you listen to.’

‘Huh.’ His nod suggested he thought she might be right. ‘But it’s how you earn a living?’

‘It is.’

‘Seems a sweet gig, travelling around and working while looking after pets. I take it there’s nothing keeping you in one place?’

She met his steady gaze. ‘No, nothing.’

Tabitha stopped herself from asking the same question. She could guess the answer and, once again, she didn’t want to get drawn in, to him or his life, whatever was going on. House and pet sitting was straightforward because beyond the pets there were no attachment issues. It was an easy, clean break after a short stay somewhere. In Paris, she’d flirted with an attractive barista in a local coffee shop and when she’d been writing music with a young up-and-coming pop star in LA earlier in the year, there’d been occasional hellos with the handsome neighbour in the swanky apartment building she’d stayed in, but an uninvited visitor, albeit an incredibly good-looking one, was on a whole other level.

Tabitha was aware of the silence that had grown between them. ‘The songs I write for myself are different to the songs I write commercially,’ she said to fill the silence. ‘I think of it as two different strands. One satisfies me creatively, the other is my bread and butter and enables me to live my life.’

‘Which you want to spend travelling around house sitting for other people and their pets…’

‘For the time being, yes.’ The same way he seemed reluctant to go into great depth about his life, she was as reluctant to share too much with him. Tabitha popped the last bit of bread into her mouth and wiped her fingers on a napkin. ‘Thank you, that was lush. It’s been a long time since someone else cooked for me.’

The look of interest on his face made her wish she’d swallowed her words. The last person to cook for her, beyond Christmas spent at her parents’, was Lewis. She hadn’t meant to compare Raff to him.

Raff nodded but didn’t comment. ‘I’ll clear away; the least I can do. I’m sure you’ve got work to get on with.’ He scooped up their plates and was off towards the kitchen before she could say, ‘no, it’s okay, you should really get going…’ or something along those lines.

Raff was one of those guys, much like his dad, who were aware of their good looks and oozed confidence. He seemed at ease turning an awkward situation into one he was comfortably in control of – at least on the outside. He filled the place with his presence and he was noticeable for both his looks and attitude. As she remained sitting at the table, staring in the direction he’d gone, it didn’t feel right to ask him to leave, and yet wasn’t the alternative worse? She’d floundered all morning knowing that he was in the villa, that the space wasn’t hers and hers alone; she hadn’t been able to concentrate and she didn’t feel able to get on and work. Somehow he’d managed to infiltrate her quiet time on Madeira and she was at a loss for how to deal with the situation. Or him.

7

Tabitha did what she did best and escaped. With Raff tidying the kitchen, she took the opportunity to grab her guitar and head down the garden. Not dealing with the situation felt like the easiest option for the time being. Perhaps Raff would see her working and be more inclined to leave of his own accord.

She sat cross-legged on the rattan sofa, her fingers hovering over the guitar strings. It was as if her mind had been emptied of everything except for one thing. Or, rather, one person. When she thought about it, of course Raff was in her thoughts. His arrival had been dramatic and his presence dominated her refuge. She strummed a chord, the sound blending with the drone of a bee. Maybe she could use the emotion of the last few hours and turn it into a positive. Not that she wanted to write a song about Raff, but there was a hidden story there, she was sure.

Thinking time was as helpful as actual writing time, allowing the space for melodies to take shape, for words to form, ideas to develop and blend into something coherent. Travelling had helped with all of that. Constantly being in different places kept the ideas flowing; nothing felt stale and she was free to play around with ideas as she explored. And then she’d move on and new ideas would capture her imagination. Sitting outside a pavement cafe on a street in Paris or Barcelona had been one of her favourite things. People-watching was pure joy and she always found inspiration, whether it was by watching a young couple attempting to contain a whispered argument, or the twenty-something on her own, head down reading a book trying to hide the tears trickling down her cheeks. Tabitha was fascinated by strangers and their stories, which was why, she reasoned, she was intrigued by Raff.

Bailey and Fudge jumping up from their slumber at her feet brought Tabitha back to the present. They rushed towards Raff as he strolled into sight.

‘You’ve found a good spot to work then,’ he said, glancing at her guitar.

‘Yes. It’s about time I did some,’ she said pointedly. Now would be a good time to say goodbye… but the words faltered on her lips.

He rammed his hands in his jeans pockets, which accentuated his muscles. The ink on his bicep was bold in the sunshine, an intricate pattern that Tabitha couldn’t quite make out. She failed miserably at tearing her eyes away from him.

Raff gazed down the garden. ‘There used to be a hammock down there between those trees; would be a good place for you to write. Wonder why they took it down?’ There it was again, that bitter tone. ‘Maybe they still have it.’

Before Tabitha had a chance to say anything, he turned and paced back up the garden.