Page 67 of The Key to the Last House Before the Sea

‘Are you worried that I’m lonely?’ asked Gabriel, raising an eyebrow.

Rosie’s cheeks flushed when she nodded. ‘Maybe just a little. Anyway, I’ll let you make up your mind.’

When she’d gone, Gabriel sat down heavily on the stone window ledge. To be honest, he was lonely here, in the depths of Devon on his own. But he felt ashamed that Rosie had noticed – as though he’d shown weakness and let himself down.

But he had been working solidly and he was tired. He didn’t allow himself to think about how tired Nessa must be right now.

Before he could change his mind, he texted his father: Will be offline for a few hours. Am going to check out situation at Sorrel Cove cottage.

That was all true, as far as it went. It was probably best not to mention that he was going to be there with a gang of people doing renovation work. What his father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him – or, in turn, Gabriel himself.

Nessa swung round and her eyes opened wide when she saw Rosie and Liam coming into the cottage.

‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d both be working.’

‘We thought we’d bunk off for a bit to give you a hand,’ said Liam, Rosie’s farmer fiancé whom they’d made a detour into Heaven’s Cove to pick up.

He and Rosie waved at a red-haired woman who was painting the ceiling with a roller attached to a pole, and she gave them a wide grin.

Liam dumped the armful of building supplies he’d brought with him onto the floor as Nessa’s eyes slid past her two friends and met Gabriel’s gaze. Her hand flew to her throat.

‘Why are you here too?’

‘Don’t worry. He’s here to help out, or not. Whatever he wants,’ said Rosie, taking off her jacket, rolling it into a ball and throwing it into a corner. ‘He’s taking a break from work. Isn’t that right?’

Gabriel nodded, wishing he’d stayed at Driftwood House with his laptop.

‘What needs doing?’ asked Rosie, grinning at the pinpricks of white paint that were scattered across the red-haired woman’s shoulders, like dandruff. ‘Gabriel, this is Lettie, by the way. Lettie, Gabriel.’

Lettie stopped pushing the roller across the ceiling and rubbed the back of her hand across her nose. ‘You’re the man who wants to knock down this cottage, even though it means so much to Nessa.’

‘It’s nothing personal. It’s purely a business decision,’ said Gabriel, spotting a dark-haired man through the window. ‘Who’s that outside?’

‘That’s Corey, my boyfriend,’ said Lettie. ‘He’s repairing the back wall of the cottage.’

‘Has he done the front yet?’ asked Rosie and, when Nessa shook her head, she pushed a brush into Gabriel’s hands.

‘There you go. You can check out the condition of the front wall. It faces the sea so it cops the worst of the weather.’

Lettie went back to painting the ceiling. ‘Corey’s got cement to fill in any gaps in the stone,’ she said, over her shoulder. ‘Give him a shout when you get outside.’

When Gabriel didn’t move, Liam picked up a trowel and handed it to him. ‘You’d better get on with it, mate. If Rosie reckons you need to help, that’s what’s going to happen.’

He ducked and laughed as Rosie swiped him with the cloth she was carrying, and Gabriel envied them their easy familiarity.

It had never been that easy with Seraphina. If he teased her, she sulked for hours. He was happier without her, he knew that. But he still missed her physical presence in his bed at night.

He’d had plenty of offers of company since – it was amazing how attractive being a successful businessman made him. But one-night stands weren’t his thing. He needed something more authentic. He needed… He glanced at Nessa, who was trying to prise the lid off a tin of varnish with a screwdriver.

Underneath your fusty exterior, you’re just an old romantic trying to get out.

That’s what Seraphina had said to him once, after he’d surprised her with a dozen pink roses. Shortly before she’d moaned that they weren’t red so wouldn’t look as good in the photograph that she’d immediately Instagrammed to the world.

He’d worried about the word ‘fusty’ for ages. Was he really an old fogey at such a young age? But it was what was expected at work: an old head on young shoulders.

Sometimes he felt like yelling ‘That’s not me at all!’. But it was him. Or he’d thought so, until he’d come to this strange place and met an infuriating single mother who knew what she wanted out of life.

He suddenly had a vision of tedious property deals stretching into his future and shook his head. No, right now, rather than think, he’d do something practical and help to repair this old cottage.

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