‘Are you OK?’

Twisting away from my canine face wash, I spotted a pair of sand-gritted feet by my head. ‘I’m fine,’ I tried to say, but my teeth were chattering like wind-up novelty gnashers and the words didn’t quite make it out.

‘Christ, you must be freezing.’ As soon as he said it, I became shiveringly aware of my half-naked state, having stripped to my bra and jeans, both of which were clinging like a second skin.

‘The boy…’ I pushed myself upright and scanned the frothing sea, as if he might still be out there.

‘It’s OK, he’s fine.’ Behind me, the man’s voice had a touch of urgency. ‘Here, put this on.’

Before I could process what was happening, the view disappeared in a shroud of navy, musk-scented wool, and I began to struggle as though I was being taken hostage. ‘It’s my sweater,’ the man said, and the view reappeared as my head popped through the neck-hole, my dripping hair clinging to my cheeks. I shoved my arms in the sleeves and hugged my waist, shudders rippling through me. ‘Where is he?’

‘Over there.’

Twisting round, I saw the boy chasing the dog back up the beach, a man-sized jacket dwarfing his frame, as if he hadn’t been on the verge of drowning minutes earlier. I’d half-expected a crowd to have gathered, or paramedics to be rushing over with foil blankets, but apart from a distant dog walker the beach was still deserted, and it was doubtful we’d have been seen from the café, unless someone had been on the terrace.

The whole episode already felt dreamlike.

‘Thank god he’s all right,’ I said, pushing awkwardly to my feet. A wave of dizziness overtook me and I stumbled against the man.

‘Take it easy, you’re probably in shock.’

For a moment, I leaned against a solid wall of chest while a pair of strong hands rubbed my arms, as if trying to get my circulation going. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d placed my head on a man’s chest, apart from my dad’s when I was little, which meant he was taller than me. His skin felt warm through his T-shirt, and I could hear his heart, thumping as hard as mine was.

‘You saved my son’s life.’ His voice rumbled through me, and I recognised a soft, Home Counties accent – Hampshire, perhaps. Not Made in Chelsea posh, but well educated. ‘If you hadn’t been here, and I hadn’t just happened to look out of the window…’ A convulsion ran through him. ‘I don’t think he even realises—’

‘Why was he running about on the beach on his own?’ A shot of anger propelled me backwards, and I looked at him properly for the first time, noting that I had to tilt my head. Wow. OK, so he was attractive: rumpled dark-blond hair, a matching, close-cut beard and eyes the colour of swimming pools. He was in his late-thirties, maybe older; it was hard to tell when his face was creased with anguish. ‘Your son could have died!’

‘Don’t you think I know that?’ A frown cut between his eyebrows. ‘It was because of the dog. He must have got out somehow.’ He was wearing black jeans, fitted around strong thighs. ‘I must have left the back door open.’ I dragged my gaze up to his face. ‘Jack would never have come out, otherwise. I thought he was still in the bath.’ At least that explained the towel – now pooled around his feet – and why the boy had only been wearing pants.

‘Do you know how many people die trying to save their dogs from drowning?’

‘I—’

‘It was a rhetorical question,’ I snapped. ‘Nine times out of ten the dog survives and the owner dies.’

He ran both hands through his hair. ‘Please don’t keep saying those words.’

‘What words?’

‘Drowning. Dying.’

I stared in disbelief. ‘Well, I’m sorry for pointing out that rushing into the sea in December, after your badly-behaved dog, is a recipe for death.’

‘Please, stop.’ His voice had lowered and I saw the boy – Jack – approaching, his hair almost dry already and curling around his neck. He was probably six or seven, skinny-limbed, ribs showing beneath the too-big leather jacket. ‘I don’t want you to scare him.’

‘He should be scared.’ I wished my teeth would stop chattering as I turned to look at the boy. ‘You know you could have drowned out there?’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’ Despite his big, scared eyes – a shade darker than his dad’s – his tone was resolute. ‘I could have easily got back on my own.’ I could see he desperately wanted to believe it, but keen to drive my point home I pulled my head back and jabbed a finger to where a couple of rocks were sticking up out of the water. ‘You were being carried out to sea. You could have been knocked unconscious.’ I made a slapstick performance of bashing my head and sinking underwater, my eyelids fluttering shut.

The boy giggled. ‘You’re funny.’

My eyes snapped open. His response was so unexpected, I couldn’t think of a single response before he’d turned his attention back to the prancing dog. ‘C’mon, Digby.’ They ran off once more, the dog tail-waggingly unaware of the drama he’d caused.

‘I’m sorry about that.’ The man bent to scoop up the soggy towel. ‘Get your things and come back to the house to dry off. The least I can do is fix you a hot drink.’ Straightening, he extended a hand. ‘Seth Donovan.’

‘Tilly Campbell,’ I said automatically, ignoring his hand. ‘He needs to take this seriously.’ I gestured at the sea. ‘You both do.’

Seth’s arm dropped back to his side. ‘Believe me, I do,’ he said with a grimace. ‘We both do, and I’ll make sure nothing like this ever happens again. It’s… Jack’s…’ He shook his head, as if the right words wouldn’t come. ‘It’s complicated.’ His tightly muscled arms were pimpled with gooseflesh and his jaw looked clenched, as if he was trying to stop his own teeth from chattering. Divested of his jacket and jumper, his T-shirt was no match for the wind, which seemed to have gathered strength, and his jeans were soaked to the knees where he’d run into the sea. ‘Please, come back with me,’ he urged. ‘We’re just up there.’ He pointed to the path worn into the rocky hillside, the grey-stone cottage at the top stamped against the rise of another hill. ‘You can’t go home in that state.’

I glanced down at my sea-sodden jeans, then at my boots discarded on the sand, my sweatshirt, T-shirt and jacket nearby. I could easily grab them and leg it up to the café car park, drive home and leap under a hot shower; fix myself some drinking chocolate and hunker down on the sofa with my duvet for the rest of the day.

But home – our solid house, designed by Dad, with its elegantly proportioned rooms and sturdy walls – wasn’t the same now Bridget was back with her two-year-old daughter, and right now, I felt… what? Looking at the heaving sea, pushing closer as the tide crept in – nothing like the flat expanse of silky, turquoise water I’d floated around in during the summer – I remembered striking out towards the boy. It had been ages since I’d swum like that, and although it had been frantic and frightening, it had also been… exhilarating. The whole thing had been over in a matter of minutes, but I felt different; and not just because I couldn’t feel my legs any more.

‘OK,’ I said, my anger deflating as I retrieved my clothes and boots, hugging them to my chest, desperate now to get my sopping jeans off. ‘I could definitely do with a hot drink.’ My few hours at the café, and my chat with Rufus seemed ages ago. I wondered if he was home now, practising his best man’s speech for his brother’s wedding.

‘Me too,’ said Seth – I’d never met a Seth before – just as it began to rain. Not the soft light rain that south-west Devon was known for, but rain like needles of ice that made me squint unglamorously as we began a lumbering run towards the path. Jack and the dog had already vanished, presumably into the cottage, and the part of my brain that hadn’t gone frigid with cold was curious to look inside. There’d been some gossip about the new owner, but I’d been too sidetracked by my sister’s recent return home to take it in. Hopefully, Seth wasn’t a suspected serial killer, posing as a loving dad. I wasn’t getting that vibe from him, but a psychopath could appear charming and charismatic on the surface. Not that I thought Seth was either on first appearance, but the circumstances had been exceptional.

He turned back suddenly, tenting the towel over his head, then held out a hand as if to help me, but I had my arms full and quickly scrambled past him. I was used to rough terrain – admittedly not in wet socks – and didn’t need the hand of a man who hadn’t realised his son wasn’t in the house, until it was nearly too late. What had he been doing that was more important than keeping an eye on him?

We finally reached the top of the hill, feet squelching through puddled mud, and then we were on the stony stretch of path outside the cottage. I fleetingly registered that the powder-blue paint was peeling off the front door, before Seth led me inside a low-ceilinged hallway criss-crossed with old oak beams. It was only when he’d reached past me to close the door that I realised how noisy it had been outside, with the rain and wind, the crashing waves, and the wailing cry of seagulls.

Inside, it was silent – almost too quiet – and I stood, dripping onto a carpet so densely patterned with tiny beige and green swirls it made me go cross-eyed.

‘There’s a lot needs doing,’ Seth said. ‘I mean, the building’s structurally sound but the decor leaves a lot to be desired.’ He sounded apologetic, anxious to explain why we appeared to have zipped back to the seventies.

‘It does have a retro look,’ I said, taking in the tobacco-coloured wallpaper, and a single swaying pendant light we’d have to duck to avoid. On my right was a steep wooden staircase, where pale light filtered down from a window on the landing, emphasising bare patches on the walls where pictures used to hang.

In spite of everything, I slid into design-mode, mentally planning the improvements I’d make if the place was mine: a mirror at the bottom of the stairs to bounce the light around; neutral walls to give the impression of space; a wooden floor (more hard-wearing than carpet) and touches of colour with a rug, some artwork, flowers – maybe a console table with drawers to store clutter, and a lamp on top for warmth.

‘Come through to the kitchen.’ Seth’s voice ruptured my thoughts. ‘It’s nicer in there.’

‘What about Jack?’ I couldn’t believe he didn’t seem interested in where his son was, or what he was doing. He’d almost drowned ten minutes ago – even if Jack had been in denial.

‘He’ll be in his bedroom. He won’t want me there.’ Seth had turned away so I couldn’t see his expression, but there was something in his voice – a sort of grim acceptance – that hinted at a troubled relationship.

‘Even so, he must be shaken up,’ I persisted, remembering the boy’s wide-eyed shock as I’d approached him in the water. ‘You should check he’s OK.’

‘I did and he is.’ Seth’s voice was curt. ‘He’d hardly have run all the way back here, otherwise.’

I supposed he had a point. Through the gloom, I noticed a set of smallish damp footprints on the bottom two stairs, and the tinny howl of an animal floated down – presumably (hopefully) from a computer game.

Slightly unsettled, I dropped my boots by the door and trailed Seth down the passageway, noticing a couple of wood-panelled doors on my left. One was open, and I glimpsed a room with a hardwood floor, empty apart from a mole-coloured sofa, and a wide-screen television hanging on the wall. It was obvious Seth and Jack hadn’t lived here long. There was no real sense of the occupants; not like at home, where every room reflected my parents’ tastes, and mingled scents of ironing, coffee and Mum’s favourite flowers wafted through the air. At least, they had before Bridget returned, and the smell of frustration and bad cooking had taken over.

There weren’t even any Christmas decorations that I could see, unlike our living room at home, which was like a (tasteful) Santa’s grotto – ostensibly for my niece’s benefit, but really because we loved Christmas.

The cottage was warm, but dusty, and I swallowed a sneeze as Seth pushed through a half-open door at the end of the hall and beckoned me inside.

The kitchen was nicer – old-fashioned but cosy, with a grey flagstone floor and a dark red Aga slumped against the far wall. An inglenook fireplace drew my eye, furnished with hooks for pans, conjuring images of toasting forks and marshmallows. Digby, curled on a stripy mat in front, completed the picture-book image and thumped his tail in greeting.

‘He must be shattered after his adventure,’ Seth said, bending to fuss him, before moving to the sink to fill a squat, copper kettle. After the dimness of the hallway, the kitchen felt interrogation-bright, light flooding through a sash window above the butler sink. ‘You should take your clothes off.’

‘Pardon?’

Seth turned, and I saw that his eyes were topped by a strong set of eyebrows, and put him in his late-thirties. ‘You’ll catch your death, as my gran used to say.’

‘Oh, right.’ I dropped my jacket, sweatshirt and T-shirt onto a polished oak table, next to a bowl of rosy-skinned apples. ‘I wouldn’t mind getting out of these wet jeans.’

His brows lifted a fraction. ‘Go upstairs and have a shower, while I make a drink,’ he said, grabbing a tea towel and rubbing his hair until it stood in peaks. ‘There’s plenty of hot water, and clean towels,’ he added. ‘I’ll find you something dry to wear, and then you can tell me how I can repay you for saving my son’s life.’