After eating two more pastries and dipping my finger in the chocolate spread more times than I cared to admit, I finally settled at the little wooden table with a fabulous view and opened my laptop. Staring at the screen had started to become a pastime. Unfortunately, clicking off the word document and searching through Facebook had become a staple part of my writing process. Distraction. A complete diversion tactic. I didn’t fully understand what had changed. Usually, once I closed off social media and started writing, my ideas flowed out. My fingers would start tapping with more speed across the keys until that feeling of…euphoria…began to trickle through my conscious mind and allow the voices to tell me, You can do this! Keep going! Before I knew it, the whole day had passed without me glancing at the clock or making myself a cup of tea. I loved that feeling. I wished I could bottle it and sell it to other authors who were struggling to piece a manuscript together or had lost their way with a tricky plot.

I could have taken a sip myself, just to get the juices flowing.

By lunchtime, I had a what could only be described as a sketchy outline. Plenty of plot holes and an undefined male protagonist. At one stage he was a pilot with a strong work ethic, apart from when he was transfixed by the blonde author who took the red-eye to America every month to meet with her international publishing house. His work ethic was aborted when he was bending said author over the drinks trolley. Urgh. So cheesy. Stereotypical. Done a million times before. I deleted the whole thing and started again.

The next idea was a virile young farmer who was taken out of his comfort zone when he agreed to be the muse for a blonde author writing a book about, wait for it, a virile young farmer. I’d decided that she needed to do some research to make her book more believable. Virile young farmer is then flown to author’s penthouse in New York for a Q&A session. Cue hilarious scenes where the virile young farmer is completely out of his comfort zone in her palatial home full of luxuries. I dropped my forehead to the table. What is this crap? An author’s palatial penthouse in New York? One, that was totally unbelievable. Two, it was a crap idea.

Despite it being early December, there was a sheet of light coming through the window, cutting across the screen of my laptop and making the words I’d written difficult to see. I got up and pulled the curtain slightly, but rather than going back to typing, I found myself climbing onto the table, sitting up on my knees and taking in more of the view. Earlier, I’d noticed a bench in the distance and my wandering brain started thinking about it. How long had it been there? Who put it on top of a hill, desolate and alone? What conversations had taken place there, thoughts unravelled, plans for the future made? Kneeling on the desk, my knees creaking against the wood, I decided to take Gerry’s advice, Get out there, take in the views, be inspired by the place. Cornwall is magical; you can feel it becoming part of you.

Surely a good place to start for inspiration would be exploring the place? But what difference would there be from sitting at my desk in London to sitting at a desk here? I climbed down and collected everything I needed. An extra sweater, scarf, gloves, hat and coat. When I told Melissa that I’d be spending the next month on an island off the coast of Cornwall, she had joked that my preference for wearing heels would be compromised. I scoffed and told her fashion came before practicality but changed my mind at the last minute and bought some hiking boots. They were black with red laces, reminding me of the sole of a Louboutin and therefore ticking the practical yet fashionable box. I pulled them on, lacing them tight and wriggling my toes. The two pairs of thermal socks my mum insisted I bring with me were restricting the easy movement, but I decided I would forfeit easy movement to stop the likely possibility of frostbite. I slipped my phone (in case I fell and broke my leg and needed to ring for an air ambulance), a notepad, and a pencil into my pocket and headed out the door.

After a shove, I was out, and although it was cold, the sun still blanketed the sky, creating the illusion of a beautiful day. Drew’s car was parked outside his cottage, but there was no sign of him in the outhouse where he had been storing the wood he’d chopped from earlier. I peeked in and saw a quad bike, a golf cart with ‘Karensa’ printed in gold lettering across the front and wooden shelves packed with logs, all uniform and tidy like a firewood jigsaw or something you would find next to a blazing fire in a designer living room.

I followed the driveway from the cottages and found it sweeping up the hill towards the barns. I couldn’t deny that the place was impressive. Silver posts with balls of light lined both sides of the drive and I imagined the large wooden troughs that followed them would look beautiful full of bright flowers in the summer. Team that with the backdrop of sweeping hills and rocky coastline and it would be a fantastic welcome for any wedding party or holiday maker.

Holding my hand up over my eyes I squinted into the distance, trying to get my bearings and keeping the bench as my point of reference. I could make out what looked like a white chalk path and I headed for it, passing the barns and trying to ignore how out of breath I was as the track got steeper.

Bloody hell. I needed to up my fitness game. Yoga and Pilates were not cutting it. I had to stop and take a breath. I doubled over, panting like a bulldog on a morning walk. As I turned, I was able to see down into what was described in the Karensa brochure as the atrium. It connected the two main barns like a courtyard underneath a glass sky. I could see trails of greenery hanging down from crisscross beams that created a magical fairy garden effect. I closed my eyes and imagined a pixie of a woman, purple hair, flowers knotted together to form a crown and wearing a flowing gown, almost translucent. Her feet were bare and she was holding hands with a guy who looked like a Viking with a man bun and sleeves pushed up to his elbows, a navy waistcoat pulling the look together. They were smiling, watchful, so in love.

A knocking sound pulled me from my daydream, and my gaze was drawn towards Drew who was standing on the roof of what looked like a storage hold. The ladder against the wall was catching the light, like a lighthouse illuminating the dark. Drew was on his knees using a hammer to attach what looked like a tile to the roof. Around his waist was a tool belt, hanging low over his groin and clipped together at his bum, a black strap hanging between the globes of his glorious cheeks. I pulled my notepad and pen out of my pocket and wrote, Tool belts are sexy. Make sure you use that somewhere. He could be a grumpy builder who only cheers up when he sees the nymph next door.

The break had given me my breath back, so I continued along the path, following it in the hope it would eventually lead me to the bench. When I finally reached it, I threw my arms in the air, whooping loudly, Rocky style. Weirdly, I felt a huge sense of accomplishment, and I couldn’t explain why. I’d only followed a path and climbed a hill, but as I looked across the views, saw the sea to the side of me and took a long, deep breath, I felt a ping of something that had been missing for so long. Inspiration.

Sitting down, I found myself smiling. With my notebook in one hand, my pen in the other—I wanted to write. I finally wanted to write. Descriptions and narrative started to fill the pages, a depiction of the breathtaking landscape, a story starting to build around it.

The land was destined to connect the lonely and the lost, push together the love-struck and infatuated. The hills could be their guide, sweeping over the peninsula, the charming cottages framed in stone and dotted with greens and purples, the contrast of the mainland, man-made, before sweeping into the natural beauty of the rolling sea. Fall in love here. How could you not?

‘Hey,’ I looked up to find Drew. Clasping my chest, I gasped in shock. How much time had passed? I looked at my watch and twenty minutes had gone by. ‘Thought I’d join you, I haven’t been up here in ages.’

‘How did you know I was here?’ I said, suddenly lost for breath again.

‘I was fixing the roof and heard a loud whooping noise.’

I started giggling before covering my mouth with my hand. ‘I was so happy I made it to the top I did my Rocky moves.’

‘That’s what it was,’ he said, sitting beside me. ‘I wasn’t sure—thought I’d better check. I am a first-aider.’ He smirked.

‘Of course you are.’

‘On-hand to give mouth-to-mouth at any time,’ he replied as I slowly opened my mouth in shock. He took a quick glance, flashing a grin when he realised I was laughing. He shook his head. ‘I have no idea why I said that.’

‘It’s good that you know the technique. Handy. For a first-aider,’ I said, enjoying Drew’s blushes.

‘One of my many talents.’

‘You have quite a list,’ I replied. ‘I’ve only been here a day. Imagine how many more I can find out about before I leave?’

He nodded towards the notebook in my hand, completely ignoring my attempt at flirting. ‘I thought typewriters were old fashioned. If you’re writing the book freehand it’s going to take you more than a month.’

‘I’m doing an outline. Plotting and planning,’ I replied, slightly bashful.

‘Want to talk through some ideas with me?’ he asked.

I scoffed, turning to him with wide eyes. ‘Do you have a lot of reading experience in the contemporary romance genre?’

‘Not exactly, but how hard can it be? Couple meets, gets naughty. The end.’

Drew saying the word naughty stirred something inside me, I couldn’t hide my giddiness, so I clamped my teeth into my lip.

‘I can write sex scenes till the cows come home. It’s getting them there. All the bits in between and what happens after is what I’m finding hard.’

‘Oh,’ he said, grinning.

‘Stitching it together, Drew. I need help.’

‘What are your other books about?’ he asked, wrapping his arms around himself as the chill in the wind turned up a notch.

‘My first book was about a twenty-three-year-old virgin.’

‘Not a lot of scope for naughty shenanigans,’ he replied.

‘Plenty of scope. She soon found her sexual stride,’ I said, dropping my shoulders and huddling up to him. He didn’t move away and that was fabulous. ‘Don’t tell anyone, but she’s based on me.’ I put my finger to my lips in a shhh motion and when I glanced up and saw him licking his, I almost gasped.

‘I…should read it,’ he replied.

‘I’ll make sure I get a copy sent to you.’

‘Paperback. So I can make notes,’ he smirked.

‘Ha! You’ll want to take notes. I’ve always said men should read contemporary romance.’

‘You could gift a copy on first dates,’ he said. ‘If you’re single that is?’

‘I am and you’re a genius,’ I replied, writing in capital letters, GIFT A BOOK ON FIRST DATES. THEN YOU MIGHT MAKE IT TO A SECOND. He laughed and took the pencil from my hand, underlining it twice.

‘Are all your books about you?’ His voice was low and sexy, and I swear he shifted closer. I wanted him to drape his arm across my shoulders and pull me in tightly against him, but that was weird, right? I’d only known him for twenty-four hours.

Ping! I had my trope. Insta-love. Insta-fucking-love.

‘No. Not all about me…because that would be weird. The second book is about second-chance love,’ I said, doodling. ‘A mouthy spit-fire who meets her soulmate, but circumstances pull them apart.’

‘Ah, plot twist,’ he replied.

‘Huge plot twist.’ There was a pause, like he wanted to say something but was spending some time thinking it all through. I broke the silence. ‘To be honest, the first book was written on a whim. I hated the job I was in, wasn’t sure what I wanted to do next, but I was a huge reader and the more indie books I read, the more I started to think I could do it. I self-published the first book, got signed up with Jackson’s by the third, and the books took off.’

‘Fantastic,’ he said.

‘It was at first, but then they started wanting more and at a much faster pace than I’m used to. I couldn’t keep up with the demand.’ I blew out a breath. Admitting the truth was hard.

‘And now you’re here,’ he said.

I scanned the view, my breath getting caught in my throat. ‘Yeah. With no ideas. No muse and no words.’

‘Where would you normally start?’ he asked.

I thought about it for a second. I wasn’t sure. Ideas always seemed to just come and I’d build them from something that could be tiny, a line on a notebook or a few paragraphs in my notes app.

‘I usually just get an idea,’ I said. ‘Ping.’

‘But not this time?’ I shook my head and shrugged at the hopelessness of it all. ‘It will.’

‘Something always comes, but will it be original enough? Or received well?’

‘So, what’s popular in the contemporary romance world?’ he asked.

‘I wish I knew.’

‘Can’t you just write another virgin book?’

‘Virgins have been done to death. Pardon the pun.’ I could feel his shoulders shaking lightly against mine. ‘I need to find a niche market, something that hasn’t been done. E. L. James got the timing just right.’

‘Who’s he?’

‘She!’ I turned to him, my mouth open. He pulled in his lips as he shrugged. ‘Fifty Shades of Grey.’

‘Oh! Bondage and that uncomfortable Irish guy.’

‘He was great.’

‘Forgive me, but he had a look of anxiety that didn’t fit with a dominant. After flogging his sub he shouldn’t be throwing apologetic stares,’ he said.

‘Do you know a lot about the kink scene?’ I raised an eyebrow.

‘My ex made me watch it. She had a thing for Ana’s step-dad. Loved Due South, apparently.’

‘Oh,’ I replied, not understanding the reference and wanting to take this conversation further. ‘Quite a few women credit Fifty Shades for improving their sex life.’

‘Really.’

‘Mmm hmm. So…did you get inspired by Mr Grey? Are you hiding a secret rope fetish?’ I asked, pushing him.

‘No. Nope. No. My ex didn’t like to feel…confined,’ he replied with a look of mischief like if she’d suggested using the dressing gown cord to hold her wrists in place, he would have gone for it.

‘I tried once. Research purposes.’

‘What else,’ he deadpanned.

‘He wasn’t great with knots,’ I said crossing my wrists. ‘They kept coming undone.’

‘What a disappointment,’ he said. ‘Research ruined. You’ll never be the next E. L. James, Queen of Bondage.’

‘No one can be the next E. L. James. She paved the way for indie authors. Even if you don’t care for her books she’s still given tremendous respect for what she’s achieved. She’s a hero in my tribe.’

He made the sign of the cross and an uncontrolled burst of noise left my chest. His smile broadened and I felt his leg press against mine. ‘So, you need to find that niche market then,’ he said once the laughter died down. ‘Surely that’s easy.’

‘If only it were.’ I was disappointed with myself. Drew had given me the perfect opportunity to press him about his relationship status. He’d mentioned his ex and I’d thrown away the moment with jokes about bondage. I pressed my finger to my chin and glanced at him. When he smiled, I went for it. ‘You mentioned your ex. Where is she now?’

‘Bloody hell,’ he spluttered. ‘Going right in there, Cal.’

‘Sorry. It’s a habit. I’ll stop.’

He scratched his forehead with his finger and blew out a frustrated breath. ‘She’s in America.’

I nodded my head, trying to blanket the awkwardness and not knowing what to say next as that frustrated breath told me he wasn’t sure he wanted the conversation to go any further. ‘So…back to nipple clamps and spanking.’ He laughed and we were back on course with easy and light until he threw in a curveball.

‘I’m sorry, did it come across that I’m not comfortable talking about her? I was going for an easy vibe but took a detour to something different.’

‘I shouldn’t have asked. I’m sorry.’

He sighed and leant into me, knocking my arm with his. ‘I haven’t talked about her for a while.’

‘Well, you are here alone, Drew. If you started talking to yourself, I’d be worried.’ He put his hand underneath his collar and rubbed his finger there. He was uncomfortable but his eyes were honest. They shone as he glanced at me and forced a smile.

‘Her name is Meghan. We met when I was working for American Airlines.’

‘She was an air steward?’

‘No. She was a wedding planner in Manhattan. We met when she was overseeing my friend’s big day.’

‘That was handy,’ I said looking across at the barns and thinking about the match made in heaven of having a partner who could organise the weddings, but as he dropped his head and started fiddling with the zip on his coat, the atmosphere changed again, and a terrible feeling ran through me. He cleared his throat and I wanted to bash my head against the arm of the bench. ‘Please tell me you didn’t move here so she could be the wedding planner.’ He glanced to the sea, avoiding eye contact, and essentially confirmed my suspicions. ‘Oh no. That’s it isn’t it? You came here to run the business together.’

‘You’re good.’

‘Drew. I’m so sorry. No wonder you’ve had to scale back.’

‘Yeah. Not great timing on her part.’

‘What happened?’ His jaw became tense again and I wanted to erase those words. Get back to easy. ‘It’s none of my business,’ I said putting my hands up. ‘Shit, I’m so nosy.’ He started scratching his nail along the arm of the bench. Awkward but equally torn. It was clear he wanted to talk, but it was hard for him.

‘She liked the romance of it all, coming here, me giving up my career. She liked to be the centre of attention, all eyes on her. My grand gesture of coming here was something she got fully on board with, but she couldn’t cope with the isolation. She missed the city too much.’

‘You gave it all up?’ I asked. ‘Your career, your life?’

‘Without hesitation,’ he replied, softening his tone with a smile. ‘That’s what you do when you fall in love.’

Ping! My male lead is selfless and kind, and when he falls, he falls. He would do anything for the love of his life, including starting a new life together. Swoon.

I started jotting down some notes, desperately trying to remember ideas and plot lines.

Drew focused in on my scrawl and narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you writing?’

‘Notes. Things that come mind and I can’t miss.’ I cleared my throat and brought the conversation back. ‘How long was she here?’ I asked, closing my notepad and giving him my full attention.

‘Just over a year,’ he replied, sighing like retelling the story was too much hard work.

‘Has there been a wedding since she left?’ He shook his head. ‘When was the last one?’ He made a small groaning noise and started rubbing his forehead like it was hurting.

‘That’s another story for another time.’ I pulled his hand away from his face and he gave me a false smile, small and uneven.

‘You have stories of your own to tell,’ I said.

‘Thank God I’m not the writer,’ he replied, his false smile full of sadness. ‘What are you doing up here anyway?’ he asked, the subject change as subtle as a hurricane.

‘Watching. Writer’s observe the world.’

‘Really? Isn’t that another way of saying you’re exceptionally nosy?’ he said, smiling.

‘I guess.’ I half-shrugged. ‘But I prefer to call it people-watching.’

‘Not many people to watch here.’

‘I like the stillness. It helps me to think of scenarios I’ve stored and conversations I’ve memorised for future plot ideas.’ I remembered one moment that touched me so much I’d had to write it down. ‘Once, I was watching a guy in a coffee shop. He must have been in his eighties. He ordered two coffees, placed one of the cups in front of him and the other in front of an empty chair. He put in the sugar and milk, stirred it and sat back. The staff seemed to know him and were asking when his wife would be joining him. He told each of them a different story and twenty minutes later he got up and left. I asked the waitress about him. She said his wife had died, and when he lost her, his dementia had taken hold, but he still came in every week. No one knew if it was his way of coping with the loss or if he really believed she was coming to meet him. I based a whole novella on that.’

‘Jesus, no wonder your publisher wants to drop you.’ I tapped him on his arm and he moved away dramatically, holding up his hands in surrender.

‘The theme was everlasting love. It was beautiful. Didn’t sell well though.’

‘I’m shocked,’ he replied, completely deadpan as I tried to stop myself from laughing. ‘Have you experienced writer’s block before or is it your first time?’ he asked.

‘Nothing like this. I’ve been stuck with certain scenes or trying to plug a stubborn plot hole,’ I replied.

‘So how did you handle it? What kind of things did you do?’

‘Took a break, went for a walk, listened to some music that matched the mood of the book.’

‘Music to write romance to. Maybe you should try it. What’s the mood so far?’ he asked.

‘Highly romantic. My girl wants to be swept off her feet.’

From his pocket, he handed me his iPhone and earbuds before opening up a music app. ‘I’m going to ask you a question and you have to answer it on three,’ he said as I nodded. ‘What’s the best love song ever written? One. Two. Three.’

‘Your Song by Elton John,’ we both said. ‘Good choice!’ we both repeated. My hand moved to my mouth. He cleared his throat, and I watched him bite his lip, shaking his head as he tapped the screen and encouraged me to put in the earbuds. We sat back on the bench as I listened to the best love song ever written.

He pushed his phone back into his pocket once I’d finished listening to it on repeat, and stood up, raising his arms in the air and flashing his tight stomach as his shirt rode up on the stretch. I fought the urge to lift it higher with my fingers and trace lightly across the bumps and dips that were seriously beginning to intrigue me. I started to wonder how they would feel against me. The hard lines of him against the soft creases of me.

‘Did that help?’ he asked, ending my fantasy as he watched me start to jot down some notes.

‘Yeah. So much. Thank you.’

‘We have the same taste in love songs,’ he said, folding his arms. I lifted up my shoulder lazily in response when all I wanted to say was, It’s a sign! We were made for each other! ‘Did you notice the plaque?’ he said, pointing behind me. I turned to find a weathered brass plaque on the bench that I hadn’t taken notice of before. I ran my finger across the words as I said them out loud.

‘My dearest Gladys, this will always be our inspiration spot. Love always, Kenneth.’

I stared at it in wonder, remembering the questions I had when I was staring at the bench from the comfort of the cottage. ‘How beautiful,’ I gasped. ‘I saw the bench from my window and I was swarmed with questions. Who put it up on the hill? Who loved the spot so much that they wanted to make it more comfortable? What conversations took place, what stories were told? I had a rush of feeling and I had to come up and just sit. I’ve had so many ideas since I’ve been here.’

‘Well, well, author lady. It may have originally been Gladys and Kenneth’s inspiration spot,’ he replied, ‘but now, it appears that it’s yours.’