One Hot Summer: A heartwarming summer read from the author of One Day in December. Kat French

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      Alice faltered.

      ‘I’m sorry, I just assumed, given the size of the house and all …’ she trailed off, and a rose-petal warmth tinted her cheeks that had nothing to do with the warmth from the fireplace.

      ‘Maybe later. It’s just me for now.’

      Robinson didn’t elaborate, and found himself irritated by her automatic assumption. The last thing he planned on doing was sharing his domestic arrangements with strangers. He’d come here to get away from prying eyes and nosy neighbours, not hurl himself headlong into the middle of village gossip.

      Alice recovered herself well, switching that polite smile of hers straight back on.

      ‘Shall I show you around, or would you like a cup of tea? You must be exhausted after all the travelling.’

      How very English. Welcoming as she was clearly trying to be, what Robinson really needed her to do was to leave him alone to get his head together.

      ‘Actually, you’re right. I am exhausted. Maybe we could take a rain check on the grand tour until tomorrow? I’m sure I can find somewhere to lay my head.’

      He noticed how Alice blinked two or three times as she deciphered the request to leave hidden behind his polite words.

      ‘Right. Right, yes, of course.’

      She spoke haltingly, that smile still there but no longer touching her eyes. She seemed momentarily stuck, wiping her palms on her jeans as if she wasn’t sure which way to go. He looked down at her bare feet and hoped she wasn’t planning to tackle the gravel driveway without shoes.

      ‘Okay, so I’ll leave you to it then,’ she said eventually, and then, oddly, she added, ‘it’s just this way,’ and turned and disappeared through one of the wide doorways that led off the hall.

      Curious, he followed her and found himself heading into the kitchen.

      ‘This is the kitchen,’ she said, redundantly. He watched as she trailed her fingers over the central island as she passed it, almost an affectionate stroke. ‘The oven can be a bit temperamental, I can show you how to coax it, if you like.’

      ‘I’m not much of a chef,’ he murmured. An understatement. He’d barely cooked more than bacon and eggs in his life.

      ‘Right.’

      She reached the backdoor, and then turned with her hand on the latch.

      ‘I’ll be off then,’ she said, her eyes moving from him to sweep slowly around the room.

      Was it an English thing to leave by the back door? If it was he’d never heard of it. He watched as she stepped outside and pulled on a pair of bright red rain boots from beside a bench by the door, her curtain of hair swishing around her shoulders as she straightened. That resolved the shoe issue, at least.

      ‘Let me know if there’s anything you need.’

      He nodded, and then realised he had no idea where she lived.

      ‘How do I find you?’

      She glanced away from him across the gardens. ‘Easy. I’m over there.’

      Turning away, she started to tramp across the damp grass.

      He watched her go for a few seconds, confused.

      ‘You live in my garden?’ he called after her. She paused, then turned back around.

      ‘Well, no, not exactly,’ she said, holding up her finger. ‘If you check the lease you’ll see that you get the house and the top lawn. I’ve got the rest of the land.’

      He frowned, lost.

      ‘My place is just the other side of the trees,’ she said. ‘I can have a fence put in to divide the garden more clearly, if you like?’ She looked at him testily. ‘I didn’t because it seemed a bit unnecessary, but maybe I was wrong.’

      Robinson realised that he hadn’t just been being polite when he’d said he was tired. He was exhausted all the way down to his bones, and try as he might he couldn’t work out what the hell was going on here. He needed a bath, a beer, and his bed, wherever that was.

      ‘I’ll give it some thought,’ he said, and she gave him the smallest of perfunctory waves and set off again across the grass.

      In the caravan a couple of hours later, Alice went into battle with the archaic heater and lost. She wasn’t altogether surprised; disappointed, but not especially surprised given that it was a game of luck to get the gas rings on the cooker to work and the water pump was distinctly dodgy. The eBay seller who’d sold her the caravan had certainly added a gloss of efficiency to the advert that wasn’t strictly true, but Alice wasn’t to be deterred. This was home now. She was just relieved to have a roof over her head, even if it was made of tin and not one hundred per cent draught proof.

      Making herself a sandwich as she warmed the kettle to fill two hot water bottles, Alice considered her new neighbour. The last thing she’d expected when she opened the door to Borne Manor that afternoon was a six-foot-two cowboy, much less a cowboy with broad shoulders, clear green eyes and something about his guarded manner that rendered her mildly speechless. He was … interesting.

      Climbing into the huge bed, Alice set herself up for the evening. The memory foam mattress from the house had been a pain in the ass to lug down to the caravan, but boy was she glad of it now. She was equally glad of the myriad pillows and the cloud of quilts, and especially thankful for the luxury fur throw she’d given to Brad for Christmas that he hadn’t bothered to take. The rest of the caravan might be lacking in amenities, but the bed was hotel luxurious with her five-hundred-thread-count bed linen thrown into the mix.

      Warm and fed, Alice lay back and pulled the quilt up to her nose. Through the trees she could just about make out the honey glow of lights in the kitchen up at the house, and she could imagine standing by the Aga to warm her bum as the underfloor heating warmed her toes.

      Bah. Who needed all that jazz anyway? She wiggled her toes on the hot water bottle and switched her Kindle on, the only light inside the dark caravan. Clicking through to the internet to browse for something new to read, Alice scrawled through the recommendations and huffed softly as a scorching cowboy romance appeared on the screen. The blurb promised a hot Texan bad boy who could do a lot more than play the guitar with his wicked hands. Her index finger hovered over the buy button for a second, and then she thought better of it and scrolled forward to the next recommendation. Cowboys might make good romance novel fodder, but she’d had her fill of romance for at least the next twenty years. All that romance had got her lately was a broken heart, a dodgy heater and a no-fixed-abode address. Resolute, she clicked buy on the latest gory thriller to hit the top of the charts and settled down to read.

      Up at the manor, Robinson picked up the coffee he’d just made and turned out the kitchen lights. Beyond the windows he could see only evening darkness, no sign of any lights or life beyond the tree line. This really was turning into the strangest of days. Bizarre as it was, it would seem that he’d flown straight out of Nashville and become the lord of his very own English manor, complete with fairies at the bottom of the garden.

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