‘It gets a bit stuck. The cold weather warps the wood. It’s a thing,’ Drew said as he started bumping his shoulder into the sage green cottage door. Even in the dark I could see this place was pretty. Quaint. Homely even. Two false grass balls were hooked on either side of a canopy and were swinging wildly in the wind. I dodged them a few times to avoid concussion. ‘I really must take them down. It’s on my to-do list along with about a million other things.’

‘Are you doing all this by yourself?’ I asked, looking over at just how big his job was. He’d parked the car outside the cottage, but on the way I’d seen the roof of the barn conversions I’d seen in the pictures from the brochure and they were huge. There was no way he could run this place by himself.

‘Kind of. I get a lot of help from people who live on the island. It’s a bit of an I’ll scratch your back if you scratch mine mentality here. One of the farmers helps me with some roofing work and I help him fix his fences. I have hired people in. I’m not Superman. I know my limitations. Allegedly.’ He finally pushed the door open. ‘Right, now we’re in. I wouldn’t leave because you’ll never get that door open without my help.’

‘Great!’ I replied. ‘I’m a prisoner in my own rented home. Don’t go telling Gerry; he’ll expect a completed manuscript by the end of the week.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’ He pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it over. ‘My details are on this. If, by any chance, you do get stuck, give me a call. I’ll come and rescue you.’ I took it from him and tapped it against my mouth. He watched, dropping his eyes when he caught my smile. He flicked a switch and suddenly we were bathed in light. The cottage was so pretty I wanted to cry. ‘You OK?’ he asked, looking at me with concern, hands held out tentatively to cuddle me if I needed it. God, he was cute.

‘I love it. It’s perfect. I wanted it to feel homely because it’s my first Christmas away from home and…Oh, God. Never mind.’ I wiped my sleeve across my nose and did that weird thing where you laugh through a sob despite wanting to have a good cry.

‘You miss your family, right?’ I nodded. ‘You love them, yes?’ I nodded again. ‘But…you’re spending Christmas here, without them?’ I did that weird laughing, sobbing thing again. He passed me a tissue that was conveniently placed on the sideboard in a decorative cosy. So cute. The man thought of everything.

‘It’s fine,’ I said, wafting my hands to really make the point. ‘My mum and dad are going on a cruise round the Bahamas until after New Year.’

‘How lovely and Christmassy. So traditional. So English.’

I half-laughed as I wiped my nose on my sleeve again. ‘It’s their first Christmas without my grandad. He died a few months ago. Reached the grand old age of one hundred, bless him.’

‘Go, grandad,’ he replied. ‘What an amazing achievement.’

‘He was a wonderful man. He’d been ill for a while and they put their lives on hold. They didn’t go on holiday for years because they were afraid to fly out in case something happened to him when they were away. Every Christmas, Mum would cook the turkey on Christmas Eve and my brother and I would get in the car, each of us with a saucepan of raw potatoes or brussels sprouts balanced on our laps. She’d cook the Christmas dinner when we got to his house.’

‘That’s the most adorable story I’ve ever heard.’

I smiled. ‘This year, with my advance, I paid for them to go away over Christmas so they could enjoy themselves, be somewhere completely different. Not at home wallowing and thinking about all the Christmases that went before.’

‘That’s amazing,’ he said, his eyes fixed on mine. ‘Such a lovely thing to do.’

‘Thanks,’ I snuffled.

‘But where does that leave you?’

‘Sorry?’

‘You were part of those traditional Christmases. Is that why you came here? To be somewhere completely different? Not wallowing at home and thinking about all the Christmases that went before?’ He repeated my words and suddenly I was very aware that I was going to be spending my Christmas alone. But just as quickly, I thought back to my parents, how selfless they’d been over the years and shook off the images of Bridget Jones singing ‘All by Myself’ in her pyjamas before replying to Drew’s question.

‘Sometimes you have to be selfless,’ I shrugged. ‘And preferably write a novel while you’re doing it.’

‘The epitome of selfless,’ he replied, backing towards another room. ‘You are the dictionary definition.’

My eyes followed the broad expanse of his back and shoulders. Heavenly. Shoulders always did it for me. Good arms too. A flex and vein. Oy. If only I could see under his weather-appropriate fleece. ‘Is it me or is it getting hot in here? Oooph.’ I started pulling my roll-up away from my neck and flapping my on-trend batwing.

‘Hang on a sec,’ he shouted from another room, yet to be discovered. ‘The heating’s on but I wouldn’t describe it as Christmas cosy.’

‘You don’t feel the need to take off your jacket?’ I mumbled as I went through to where his voice was calling me like a mermaid siren and found him in the kitchen. It was more modern than I expected, and I found myself loving the eclectic mix of shabby chic and stainless steel.

‘Ooh, great kitchen,’ I said, trailing my finger down the mirror-speckled marble. Good choice.

‘Thanks, I put it in myself.’

‘Is there anything you can’t do?’ I said, elbows on the worktop, leaning in.

He pursed his lips dramatically, thinking for a second. ‘I’ve never been able to master a winged eyeliner.’

This man was more handsome than Mr Handsome of Cornwall 2018. Swoony in a hiking boot. But he had something else. I wasn’t fickle. I could put all the physical attributes aside, ignore his kitchen designing capabilities and his hot-as-fuck pilot licence, but what I couldn’t ignore, and what usually landed me in a whole heap of tangled-sheets trouble was a great sense of humour. When you’ve got a full house, well, let’s just say I was going to find it even harder to focus on writing my next romance novel.

Or was I?

Hot pilot, Drew sexpot was a nice guy behind the cockpit, helpful, could fit a kitchen in an hour. But after hours, sexpot Drew rocked the world of a down-and-out author, unable to find her words until he found her g-spot. Top Gun? Hot son of a gun.

‘You OK? Cal?’

‘Yes. Sorry. I was just struck with…inspiration.’

‘Great start,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Let me show you around and then you can stick your pencil behind your ear and whip out your typewriter.’

‘Typewriter? What generation are you living in?’ I lifted my laptop bag. ‘MacBook Pro all the way.’

‘Ah. That’s what the cool kids are using,’ he replied, flashing me that pilot smile. Ding.

‘Typewriters are hard to carry around. Not easy on your back, would you believe, and there isn’t a fashionable yet functional typewriter bag on the market. I can’t get on board. Sorry.’

‘You should totally get on to that. Designing a fashionable yet functional typewriter bag could be a way of earning some money while you fight writer’s block.’ I followed him through to the living room, almost grabbing hold of a fistful of his fleece just to play a friendly game of conga. To the bedroom…

‘I’ll make a note,’ I said, smiling as he turned, getting lost in his brown eyes again. Lashes that fluttered. Crap, I was done for.

‘I’ve set this up for you. Hope it’s OK.’ He stepped aside to reveal a wooden desk, painted the perfect shabby chic grey. There were two little drawers with hearts on either side and a matching chair with a cushion striped pink, green and cream sitting on the seat. A small Christmas tree with a foil star was sitting on top. It was so thoughtful; it stole my breath away. ‘You have a great view of the fields and if you stand on the desk…in some heels…and lean your body to the right, you might be able to see the sea.’

I covered my mouth with my hands. ‘It’s perfect. Really. Thank you.’ I leant over the desk to try to look out the window, but it was too dark to see anything outside. Breathtaking views would have to wait until tomorrow, however, inspiration was already immersed in this room, flowing freely through the air, or more specifically, standing right behind me.

‘I’ll start the log burner before I go,’ he said, bending down and opening the front, poking a few charred logs with a brass instrument that looked like an overgrown fork. His bum was a globe of awesomeness. I could appreciate the stretch of denim as he made the squat look like nothing. Thighs were on point. EVERYTHING was on point. And I was pretty sure I’d never described a man as on point before. What is he doing to me? He took out pieces of wood from the basket next to the burner and placed them inside. With the strike of a match the room was immediately transformed into a picture-perfect Christmas-card setting. ‘There’s a folder in the kitchen; it tells you everything you need to know. The cottage has one bedroom upstairs so you should find it when you get there. I’ve put on fresh bed linen and there are extra blankets in the cupboard if you need them.’ It took everything in me not to say, Can you look after me forever?

‘That’s sweet of you, thanks.’ I cringed at my tone, sing-songy and sweet. Thanking him for doing something that he must do for all his guests, not just especially for me.

‘No problem. I’ll leave you to get settled in. I’m staying in the cottage opposite at the moment. You’re my only guest until early spring. Well, unless the writer’s block epidemic doesn’t improve.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t ask about your plans for Christmas,’ I said, wanting to know more about him and creating a diversion tactic to stop him from leaving. ‘Are your family coming to stay?’

‘No.’ It came out sharp, and I was taken aback by his change of tone. He read my body language immediately, stepping forward when he saw that I was shocked but stopping still, not coming closer as he shook his head. ‘Sorry. Sore subject.’ He smiled, but it didn’t meet his eyes and failed to come across as truthful. ‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘Yeah. I like to say it’s the writer in me, but perhaps I’m just nosy.’

He pulled in his lip like he was thinking about what he wanted to say or if he even wanted to speak at all. A deep sigh filled the silence. ‘I don’t have family. I mean I have some. A sister…but she lives in the States. We’ll be Skyping on the big day, but that’s about it.’

‘That’s sad.’

‘Isn’t it?’ he replied with the same false smile.

‘Look at us both. Spending Christmas alone.’

‘We’re tragic, Cal.’

‘What about your parents?’

‘Oh, Christ,’ he replied as his hand went to the back of his neck, rubbing through his hairline awkwardly. ‘Wait until you hear this. Tissues at the ready.’ I patted myself down and came up with nothing. He smiled before carrying on. ‘Dad died when I was young and Mum passed away a few years ago.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ I replied, kicking myself for asking the question in the first place. ‘I can’t imagine how hard it is to lose your parents.’

‘I was going to break out into the Elton John classic, ‘The Circle of Life,’ but I thought I might scare you with my warped sense of humour.’

‘Well, you scared me earlier when you mentioned typewriters. I’m not Charles-fucking-Dickens, Drew.’ He laughed before scrapping his hand down his face, the scratchy sound of stubble against skin breaking the silence. The sound of pure man. Help!

‘I’ll be over there,’ he said, pointing to a wall in the general direction of what I assumed to be the opposite cottage. It was so dark when we arrived that I had trouble identifying the hand that was attached to my own arm. ‘If you need anything, and my light is on, you’re welcome to ring the mobile number. If it’s off, don’t even think about contacting me. I don’t care if the microwave is on fire or you’ve sliced off your finger with a pizza cutter.’

‘Oh,’ I said, raising my eyebrow.

‘That is, of course, a joke. I thought we were on the same level, Cal. I was pretty sure you were on board with the humour I’ve got going on here.’

‘You’re weird.’

‘It probably won’t surprise you that I’ve been told that before,’ he replied as he wrestled with the front door again. After a tug, it opened. ‘Oh, and before I forget. I thought you might be hungry so I’ve left a lasagna in the fridge and there’s some Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer. Special Christmas edition. Smells of pine cones or something like that. Enjoy and goodnight.’

Was it possible to die from swooning? I felt like I was on my way out. He’d find me in a heap in the morning, lasagna untouched.

‘That’s thoughtful,’ I replied, itching to put my MacBook on that cute little desk and start typing out an outline about a handsome pilot, baggage handler, kitchen fitter, holiday home owner slash lasagna-making piece of perfection called Drew.

‘I can run you down to the shops to stock up tomorrow,’ he said.

‘That would be perfect. Thanks.’

‘I hope you get what you need out of your stay,’ he said, his eyes scanning me head to toe. A hesitant smile appeared again as his hand curved round the door. ‘Sleep well.’

I watched the door almost close. Then open again. Then almost close. His glorious face poked through. ‘You need to give it a good shove. I must be weak. I’ve not eaten since breakfast. I’m wobbly in the arms. I don’t know why I can’t seem to get it to—’ the door finally slammed shut and I tried to suppress my giggles behind my hand as a muffled voice shouted from behind it, ‘–shut. How smooth am I?’

Before taking advantage of the jolt of inspiration and starting work, I went through to the kitchen. Sitting on the mirror-flecked marble I loved so much was a bottle of wine, a glass, a box of handmade truffles and a note, which read, I hope you enjoy your stay.

Oh, my. The man was good. Unbelievably good. Romance-novel-worthy good.

As I poured myself a glass of wine and popped a chocolate in my mouth, my typing fingers started to twitch.