Drew walked me back to the cottage. It was nudging late afternoon and he seemed overly concerned that I would be left sitting on the bench in the dark with only my Louis Vuitton blanket for shelter. I was just happy that I could watch his bum move and flex as he navigated the chalk path, occasionally holding out his hand to help me. Electricity was a word I’d read countless times in romance novels. I found it overdone and chose to stop using it in my writing, hoping to find another way of describing that fiery connection between two characters in the buildup to the critical first sex scene. But when I held his hand, I couldn’t deny there was a definite buzz. A vibration. A fizz and hiss that grew in intensity every time our fingers brushed. A jolt of lightning through the touch, travelling up our arms, through our bodies. Sparks. Full voltage. I repeated the word all the way down, Electricity, electricity, electricity, until we got back to the cottage and I could jot it down in my notebook. One word underlined three times.

‘You’re quiet,’ Drew said as I handed him the key and he thrust the door open with his upper body.

‘Thinking,’ I replied as I wrote down, Sparks, major sparks.

I followed him through like it was the most natural thing in the world. A picture of domestication, more like two people who had known each other years rather than hours. He started the log burner, turned on the lights and checked that the radiators were warming nicely.

‘I need to take you shopping soon. That lasagna isn’t going to last you much longer.’

I checked my watch. ‘Is there anywhere open now?’ I hadn’t been out of the gates of Karensa since I arrived, but remembered passing a farm shop and convenience store on the way from the airport.

‘It’s Sunday. Everywhere will be closed, but I can take you tomorrow. Sorry. Time ran away with me.’

‘Not gonna help me now, Drew,’ I replied as I broke into a smile.

He stepped back, clearing his throat. ‘Well, I’m about to roast a chicken, throw in some potatoes and veg. Nothing fancy. There’s plenty if you’d…erm.’ He was thinking through what he wanted to say next. Something weighed heavily on his mind, but at the same time, I could see that he was conflicted. Finally he spoke, and it was good, or a step in a good direction at least. ‘Would you like to join me?’

I leant against the wall, hoping it would hold me up and keep me steady. ‘Sunday dinner? How could I say no to that?’

He met my gaze and smiled. ‘Do you want to come over at say, six-ish?’

‘Six-ish is perfect. I’ll try to get some words in before I come over,’ I replied, heart hammering but inbuilt manners coming through. ‘Do you want me to bring anything?’

‘A bottle would be great,’ he said with an amused voice.

‘Erm…right,’ I replied, scrunching up my nose when I started to wonder where the bloody fuck I was going to get a bottle.

‘I’m running low on shampoo anyway,’ he replied. I grabbed my hat and threw it at his back as he chuckled towards the door. He left me in the living room, collapsed against the wall, my arms wrapped around myself in comfort, wondering if I should treat this as a friend offering dinner because I didn’t have a tin of baked beans in the cupboard or if I should treat this as…a date.

I didn’t get any words down. Instead, I spent the time between Drew leaving and me sauntering to his door with a bottle of shampoo in one hand and a shake in the other deciding what to wear. I didn’t know how to dress for a neighbourly roast chicken dinner. It wasn’t like I’d packed my little black date dress or my fail-safe lace bra-let top and black cigarette pants. Hiking boots and a cute pair of jeans were my only choices. I went with classic. A black polo neck sweater, skinny jeans and my Prada boots created a casual yet I-made-a-great-deal-of-effort look. Before I left, I tied the ribbon with the little gold bell from the tiny Christmas tree Drew had left on my desk around the neck of the shampoo bottle. I took a cleansing breath, spritzed some mouth spray, and winked at myself in the hallway mirror. You can do this. No expectations. Just friends having dinner together.

His front door opened before I had chance to knock. My hand wasn’t even a hair’s breadth away and I was still holding it up, fist ready as he laughed, ducking for added comedic effect. ‘I heard you grappling with your door,’ he said, trying to reason his way out of why he’d been waiting for me. He was wearing a white t-shirt and black joggers. His hair was still wet from the shower and it looked like he had ruffled it dry with a towel and decided that was enough styling for the day. Archie was trying to fight his way through. I patted him, extending my hand through Drew’s legs before realising I was dangerously close to Drew’s nethers.

He coughed and stepped back.

‘How was the journey? Hope it didn’t take you too long to get here,’ he smirked as I offered him the shampoo bottle. ‘Great vintage.’ He took it from me, brushing his finger across the back of my hand and there were those sparks again. Electricity. There was no other word for it.

‘It’s good manners to bring a bottle when you’re invited to dinner.’ He stood back, inviting me through to his home. Or was it? He’d previously said something about the cottage being a place he was staying at the moment. At the time, he hadn’t given me the impression that he felt this was his home.

The living room was warm, the effect of a log burner crackling in the corner. It was bigger than my cottage and the colours were slightly different. Instead of the greys and light greens of mine, it was greys and various shades of yellow, light and dark, lemon and pastel. A vase on the windowsill caught my eye, dark yellow with three stripy bees crawling up the side.

‘I love the colours. Did you design the cottages yourself?’ I noticed a black and white photo of a young boy wearing a pilot’s cap that was much too big for him. A man was standing behind him, a look of adoration that only a father could have for a son he cherished. Drew and his father. A photo to the side was of a beautiful woman sitting on the beach. She had Drew’s brown eyes. Warm and gentle.

‘I had some help,’ he replied before handing me a glass of wine. ‘Meghan was good at designing. She always seemed to know what colours would work together.’

‘Was Karensa her idea?’ I asked.

‘Not exactly, no.’ He sat down on the opposite sofa. It was a baggy grey affair that had an adorable lived-in look, but was probably brand new and had a hefty designer price tag. I knew because there was a very similar one back at my flat in London.

‘Tell me your stories,’ I said, taking a sip, lifting my eyes over the rim.

‘I thought you were the storyteller.’ I watched him swallow. Take a breath.

‘Yours seem more interesting than mine,’ I said, sweeping a droplet of wine from my glass with my little finger. He followed it with his gaze and parted his mouth, leaning forward, about to say something.

And then the oven timer started to beep.

Of course it did.

He dropped his eyes and mouthed fuck silently.

‘I’ll be back in a sec,’ he said, his voice low. I watched as he disappeared into the kitchen, the push and pull of the muscles in his back clearly outlined through his t-shirt, making my spine do this unfathomable thing of vibrating softly with want. It was relaxing and maddening, yet still I didn’t want it to stop.

I found myself drawn to the corner of his living room. His bookshelves. Hubba Hubba. Drew reads good books. His shelves were full. Viagra for the bookworm. I saw the well-thumbed classics that belonged to his mother. Brontë, Austen, Shakespeare. I wondered if she’d passed on her romantic heart to him. Bookshelves tell you a lot about a person. Their likes, interests, personality, life goals…compatibility. Wait, what? Cal, stop being ridiculous. Refocus. What does Drew read? I ran my finger across the spines. Thrillers mainly. I spotted The Girl on the Train. Harry Potter nestled in between Stephen King and Thomas Harris. In fact, Hannibal Lector featured heavily. I spotted a cookbook and wondered if we were having human sweetbread for dinner.

‘Find anything interesting?’ I gasped out and turned to find Drew. I was utterly startled like he’d caught me folding down a corner of a page. I braced myself against the bookcase, a Dennis Lehane digging me in the back.

‘Oh…yes.’ I quickly took another glance to try and ground myself. I squealed when I saw the title that meant so much to me. ‘I spy Dickens. Oh, wow. A Christmas Carol. I always read it on Christmas Eve. A nightcap before the big day.’

‘Traditions,’ he replied.

‘Yep. I have to keep some. So many others have fallen away.’ He handed the book to me and I pressed it to my chest, cuddling it and nodding thank you before reaching for a book that toppled over as he removed this one. ‘Be still my beating heart. Romeo and Juliet. You have an eclectic mix of literature. I’m impressed. Do you take in a few scenes of the greatest love story of our time just after Hannibal asked for his Chianti?’

‘I thought Fifty Shades was the greatest love story of our time,’ he replied.

‘One of many,’ I said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Stop deflecting and answer my question.’

‘I read Romeo and Juliet in school. English Lit.’

‘Oh, so that’s why you still have a copy…umm. Twenty years later,’ I replied, tapping my mouth.

‘It belonged to Meghan.’

‘Oh.’ I pushed it back into place with my finger as he retreated to the kitchen.

‘Need help?’ I shouted once the colour had left my cheeks. I joined him and thankfully the ex-girlfriend tension was soon forgotten because something else was creating the best kind of tension. The flex of his arm as he held a roasting tin full of everything that made my mouth water was an altogether different kind of arm porn. The protruding vein I was becoming extraordinarily attached to was all the more delicious when he was holding something that was going to feed me and feed me well.

‘You can set out the plates for me. Cupboard by the fridge.’

I found them and put them side by side on the kitchen worktop. There was something comforting about that. I hadn’t set out side-by-side plates for months. A year, maybe. Dating hadn’t been my priority. Writing had. ‘I saw your photos. The little boy in the pilot’s cap killed me. So cute.’

‘I was a heartbreaker, right?’ He started carving the chicken, completely in control of the knife, not hacking at it like I would. Archie appeared, the chicken calling him. He sat down, tall and straight in classic dog begging pose.

‘How long has this gorgeous creature been in your life?’

‘He belonged to a friend. Sadly, he passed away last year. Archie was a farm dog and I took him in. Couldn’t bear to see him leave the place. He’s good company.’

‘I’m sorry about your friend.’

‘Thanks. He had a heart attack. Collapsed in one of his fields.’

‘That’s terrible,’ I gasped.

‘Yeah. My dad went that way too. Bad heart. We didn’t know.’

‘Is that your dad with you in the photo?’ I asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘Was he a pilot too?’

‘My dad and my grandfather. It’s in the bloodline.’

‘Really,’ I replied, in awe at the family link but confused as to why he broke it. ‘Now, I’m wondering why you walked away.’

He put down the knife and turned to wash his hands in the sink. ‘I made a choice,’ he replied, back still turned. ‘Look, I don’t want to give you the impression that I dropped everything because my girlfriend at the time clicked her fingers. I had lots of reasons to come here. Collectively they all stacked up to make sense.’

‘Tell me the reasons.’ He returned his attention to the plates and started spooning out the vegetables and potatoes. He narrowed his eyes playfully. ‘What? I’m genuinely interested.’

‘Nosy.’

‘Intrigued.’

‘This is turning heavy isn’t it?’ he said, half smiling.

‘It doesn’t have to. It’s normal to have a conversation when you’re enjoying dinner with someone, Drew. But the beauty is you’re in charge of how much you want to say.’ I watched his full smile appear, but his eyes still focused on the task at hand. Gravy. Yum.

‘It’s a legacy,’ he replied.

‘You mean Karensa?’

‘Yes.’

He picked up both plates and I followed him to the dining room. A table was already set with a yellow and white spotted tablecloth. There was a matching yellow glass with a candle in the middle of the table and my head screamed, It’s a date! before he looked at it cautiously, like he’d forgotten he’d lit it and quickly blew it out. He put the plates down and pulled out a chair, waiting for me to sit before he did the same. Damn his courtesy after snuffing out (literally) my hopes of this being a date.

‘My mum and her…partner…had a similar business,’ he said. I took a mouthful of the chicken and almost moaned. Drew knew his way around a moist chicken. This man was deadly. ‘Dad had a good life insurance package and after he died, she started thinking about her own life, her legacy. She didn’t want to waste a second.’

‘That’s a great mindset.’

He nodded. ‘She loved Cornwall and said she wanted to spend her last years by the sea. She saved the money, added to it and a couple of years later she bought a row of cottages and some adjacent land in Bude.’

‘Oh, I love it there! We used to go there when I was a kid.’

‘Yeah. It’s a beautiful place. Great for families.’ His face softened. ‘Mum and her partner set up the cottages as self-catering accommodation and eventually added a camping and caravan site. The business started flying.’

I took a breath, amazed at the story of a woman who knew exactly what she wanted and made it happen. ‘You come from a family of risk takers. That’s an amazing story.’

‘She was one of a kind,’ he said softly. ‘I helped out a lot before I started my pilot training and then made it back whenever I could. There was always such an eclectic set of people there. Families and couples, hippies and adventurers. The memories I have of music around the campfire, water fights, pink sunsets. God, I loved it.’

‘What happened to the business when she passed?’

‘Good question,’ he replied, putting down his knife and fork like he’d just lost his appetite.

‘I’m sensing it’s another sore subject. You have quite a stack of those, Drew.’ I smiled and he lifted his eyes before wiping his mouth on a napkin as he braced himself to continue, both hands fixed on the table.

‘Mum left it to me in her will, but I made the decision to sell,’ he replied, eyes on his hands. ‘I handed it over as a working business.’ He took a drink from his wine glass. ‘She was still running it with her partner when she became ill. He was younger than her, but didn’t want to take it on alone when she passed. I bought him a house from the sale. Wasn’t that kind of me?’ He shook his head and took another drink.

‘I’m sure he was grateful.’

‘Not grateful enough,’ he replied taking another slug.

‘There’s a story there,’ I said narrowing my eyes. ‘You’re giving me the impression that you didn’t like him.’

‘I wouldn’t say he’s my favourite person, no.’

‘What happened between you two?’ I asked.

‘Cal—’

‘Sorry,’ I said regretfully.

He finished his wine, tipping his head back, getting every last drop. ‘I didn’t expect to be talking about this over dinner.’

‘Sometimes you need to let it all out. It can turn ugly if you don’t.’

‘It’s already ugly,’ he replied drawing circles in the tablecloth with his finger.

‘There’s a lot you’ve stored away,’ I said, tapping the side of my head. He looked at me puzzled. ‘We store difficult memories. Keep them safely tucked away, but after a while you run out of storage. They get squeezed until…pop, they spill. Or explode, depending how big they are.’ He glanced up, not entirely with me. It was evident that his memories were talking. He cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. Despite the nervous body language, I could sense that he wanted to talk.

‘I was living in America when Mum passed away. Selling the business made sense at the time,’ he replied, trancelike, staring at the table until finally, he met my eyes. ‘I regretted it the moment I landed back at JFK.’

‘Was it too late to stop the sale?’

He nodded. ‘It was a done deal. Signed, sealed, delivered.’

‘That must have been hard. I’m sorry.’

He sighed. ‘It was. It ate away at me. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d let her down. Trashed her memory. The business was everything to her. She built it up from scratch. It gave her life purpose again after dad died and I sold it, just like that.’ He clicked his fingers, sat back and ran his hands through his hair.

I could feel his sadness.

‘If it’s any consolation, I understand your decision. You were living in another country. Had a successful career over there. She would have understood.’ He lifted his eyebrows in silent acknowledgement showing me that he didn’t believe a word of what I’d said.

‘After the sale, it made me view the world differently. Every part of it.’

‘How?’

‘I started to hate flying. I would walk into the cockpit with a feeling of dread. The passion had gone. I felt helpless. Before, flying was a privilege. Awe-inspiring. But suddenly I found myself realising how little of the world I was actually seeing. I would be scheduled to fly, go straight to a hotel and do it all again in the morning. The expanse that had once been amazing to me was turning into something terrifying. I knew I couldn’t possibly see it all and do it justice. My desire to seek it out left and something else settled in. I wanted to be in one place, to ground myself in a part of the world I love. I want to leave a legacy. Like, Mum. The one I threw away like it was nothing.’

‘You’re being hard on yourself,’ I said, taking hold of his hand. ‘Your mum’s legacy continues. The new owners took it on as a business, right? I’m guessing they picked up the amazing work your mum put into it and carried on.’

‘As far as I know. I’ve not been able to go back. Too hard.’

‘I understand,’ I replied thinking back to my lovely grandad we lost a few months ago. ‘My parents sold my grandad’s house to a neighbour’s son. He ripped it apart inside, modernised the whole place. They asked us if we would like to see what he’d done, but we all said no. It would be strange to see it changed so much. Memories should stay as they are, not be clouded with ones that wouldn’t relate to the original.’

‘You’re great with words,’ he said.

‘Thanks,’ I whispered, wishing I could believe him as he got up and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned a few seconds later with more potatoes. I almost laughed. We didn’t need more potatoes, we needed more wine, anything to help Drew’s sadness dissipate and the healing begin. ‘Is the need to leave a legacy another reason why you came here? Is this all in dedication to your mum?’

‘It’s not just about Karensa and building a legacy here. It’s about leaving a legacy of memories. Making people happy. Being part of their wedding day, one of the most important moments of their lives that will be talked about and remembered forever.’

I was stunned at his confession. A little in awe. A little lost, wondering about my legacy, what footprint I would leave on the world. My books were the obvious answer, but would readers still pull my books from the shelves in years to come for a comforting reread or introduce them to the next generation because they couldn’t bear to think of them as being forgotten and ignored? I sat back in the chair and blew out a long breath.

He pushed my wine glass closer to me.

‘Told you we were getting into heavy territory,’ he said. ‘Let’s lighten the mood. Shall we play charades?’ I giggled against the back of my hand as he fiddled with the stem of his glass and we fell into silence again. ‘What do you think your legacy will be?’ he asked before lifting his eyes to mine.

I thought for a second but returned to the obvious. ‘My books. I love the idea of them being passed on from generation to generation.’

‘I’m looking forward to reading them,’ he said. ‘Didn’t you say you would send me a copy?’

‘I did.’

‘Still waiting, Cal,’ he replied, tipping his head.

‘You really want to read them?’ I was waiting for a deadpan delivery or one of his classic one-liners.

‘Absolutely. I’ll put them on the shelf next to Hannibal.’ There it was.

‘They’ll look fine next to Thomas Harris,’ I replied, trying not to sound offended. ‘I’ll get you a copy of each book from the series. You can choose where you want to start.’

‘You choose for me. What’s your best work?’

‘I haven’t written it yet,’ I replied with a smile.

‘Great answer,’ he said, getting up to clear the plates. ‘I’m sure the next one will be great. Look at the inspiration all around you.’ I was looking. Looking at him. ‘You should spend every day sitting up there on the bench and jotting down notes. I guarantee you’ll have a novel in no time.’

‘I’m glad you have such faith in me.’

‘Don’t you?’

‘Nope. Not in the least.’

‘Did you feel this way when you wrote your other books?’ he asked.

I put my head on the table and heard his laughter rumble. ‘I’m not normally like this. Usually, I believe in my words. I’m good at what I do. Mostly. There was an anthology story that I rushed out and used the word moist.’ I pretended to shudder.

‘Moist?’

‘To describe her arousal,’ I said, shielding my mouth with my hand.

‘Oh,’ he replied, wide-eyed. ‘Moist doesn’t seem like a…sexy word.’

‘Not at all. Imagine reading about her moist flaps.’

‘Fuck.’

‘Moist should be banned along with flaps, folds and weird names for penis,’ I replied.

‘Like?’

I pressed my finger to my mouth in thought. ‘Molten member. Love’s sweet arrow. Sexual spear.’

‘I’m learning so many new things from you,’ he replied, rubbing his forehead and shaking his head. ‘Christ. You use those terms?’ Disbelief threaded through his words.

‘No!’ I gasped. ‘Of course not. I need to get you a copy so you can see for yourself. It’s the first thing I’ll do when I get back to the cottage.’

‘Can’t wait,’ he deadpanned.

‘Have you read a contemporary romance novel before?’

‘All the time. I can’t get enough.’ I rolled my eyes as he grinned.

‘You’re a secret romantic, aren’t you?’ I asked, resting my head on my hands. ‘You’ve read your mum’s classics cover to cover.’

‘I don’t believe in romance,’ he replied simply.

I sat up, my mouth parted in shock at his confession. ‘You don’t?’

‘No reason to,’ he said, holding out a piece of chicken to Archie. He devoured it and almost took a finger.

‘That’s so sad,’ I replied.

‘I haven’t had the best experience with love.’ He shrugged. ‘It clouds your view.’

‘Neither have I, but I make a living out of imagining what I’d like to experience. I may not have a love story worthy of being remembered in a romance novel, but it doesn’t stop me dreaming them up.’

‘Dreaming is a great way to earn a living,’ he replied. ‘Some would say I used to do the same.’

‘You miss hosting weddings?’ He nodded. ‘See, there’s a romantic soul in there somewhere,’ I replied, taking his hand. He pulled back. Hid them under the table.

‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to writing the best novel ever written?’ he said.

‘I should,’ I replied, unsure as to why he was directing me to leave. ‘Any tips?’

‘Stay away from the word moist and you’ll be fine,’ he joked, patting Archie’s head. ‘I’ll even let you name your next character after Archie as a way of starting you off. Get the ball rolling, so to speak.’

‘How about I write about a swoony ex-pilot planning highly romantic weddings in an inspirational setting?’

‘Swoony?’

I sat back, crossing my arms and biting my lip. ‘You’re pretty swoony.’

He blushed before disappearing into the kitchen like someone had shouted fire! My lip bite turned into a nervous scrape of teeth against flesh. The quietness swirled around the room. I could almost hear him breathing from the sink. A sound of a pan dropping to the floor made me jump and as he reappeared in the doorway, I knew it was time we called it a night.

‘I don’t have dessert tonight. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting to have a guest.’ He was skittish and a little sad.

‘That’s OK,’ I replied. ‘I overeat when I’m writing anyway. I always joke that I put on a stone as I’m piecing a book together and lose it again during release week.’ He nodded as he leant his elbow against the door. He wasn’t asking me to leave with his words, but his body language was screaming it.

‘It’s getting late and I have a few things to do,’ he said. ‘I hope you understand.’

‘Of course. I’ll go and make a start on the novel that’s going to change the world.’ I stood up and followed him to the front door. He handed my coat to me before crossing his arms, and the whole awkwardness of the situation cried out for something to make it lighthearted. ‘Something tells me you want me to leave. Give me a final push out of the door just to make it really clear.’

He laughed lightly, stroking his hand across his chin. ‘It’s nothing personal, Cal. I go to bed at 9:29. That’s my time.’

‘Very specific,’ I replied.

‘I’m rigid with routines,’ he said, smiling to make it obvious that he was being sarcastic.

‘I’m sorry if I pushed too hard with all the questions. Mum describes me as a bull in a china shop once I start.’

‘You do like to talk,’ he replied, putting his hands in his pockets.

I nodded. ‘Good night then. Thanks for the meal.’

‘I’ll take you shopping tomorrow,’ he said quickly. ‘Stock up so that I don’t need to feed you anymore.’

‘Ouch,’ I replied. ‘I didn’t ask you to feed me. If I remember rightly, you invited me tonight.’ The blanket of darkness outside helped me be nothing but honest. I had a habit of clinging on to humour when a situation became awkward, or a direct response needed taming to make it seem less of a blow. I wasn’t afraid to say what was on my mind, but a detour was sometimes required. ‘You don’t need to worry about me while I’m here. The breakfast baskets and lasagna are lovely, and if you want to bring me something tasty like ice-cream or chocolate, I won’t ever say no, but honestly, I don’t expect to be waited on.’

‘That’s sorted then,’ he replied, looking anywhere but at me. ‘I’ll let you know what time I’m ready to take you shopping tomorrow and you can take it from there.’

‘Oh. Thanks. That’s great,’ I replied, disappointed at the turn we had taken.

‘It’s cold, Cal. Get inside.’

It certainly was cold as I backed away and walked the short distance to the cottage opposite. But not as cold as the man still watching me walk away despite making it clear that he was more than ready for me to leave. I glanced over my shoulder as I fumbled with my keys to find him still there, leaning against the wall, waiting for me to go safely inside before he would even consider closing his door.