They were teenage sweethearts...

Can they say “I do” a second time?

Abigail last saw her ex-husband, Brad, six years ago, but now that they’re reunited at his sister’s wedding, their chemistry makes her feel like a love-struck teenager again! Neither has forgotten the tragedy that tore them apart, but as Brad walks his sister down the aisle, all the romance in the air makes Abby wonder, could she and Brad find themselves at the altar...again?

KATE HARDY has always loved books, and could read before she went to school. She discovered Mills & Boon books when she was twelve and decided this was what she wanted to do. When she isn’t writing Kate enjoys reading, cinema, ballroom dancing and the gym. You can contact her via her websit: katehardy.com.

Also by Kate Hardy

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Her Festive Doorstep Baby

His Shy Cinderella

The Runaway Bride and the Billionaire

Christmas with Her Daredevil Doc

Their Pregnancy Gift

Christmas Bride for the Boss

Unlocking the Italian Doc’s Heart

Billionaires of London miniseries

Billionaire, Boss...Bridegroom?

Holiday with the Best Man

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

Reunited at the Altar

Kate Hardy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-07784-2

REUNITED AT THE ALTAR

© 2018 Pamela Brooks

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

By payment of the required fees, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right and licence to download and install this e-book on your personal computer, tablet computer, smart phone or other electronic reading device only (each a “Licensed Device”) and to access, display and read the text of this e-book on-screen on your Licensed Device. Except to the extent any of these acts shall be permitted pursuant to any mandatory provision of applicable law but no further, no part of this e-book or its text or images may be reproduced, transmitted, distributed, translated, converted or adapted for use on another file format, communicated to the public, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of publisher.

® and ™ are trademarks owned and used by the trademark owner and/or its licensee. Trademarks marked with ® are registered with the United Kingdom Patent Office and/or the Office for Harmonisation in the Internal Market and in other countries.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Archie, my beloved spaniel, aka the newest member of my research team, who always keeps me company when I write.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

About the Publisher

CHAPTER ONE

‘ARE YOU SURE you’re all right about this, Abby?’ Ruby asked.

‘Absolutely,’ Abigail fibbed. ‘I’m so pleased he agreed.’

That bit, at least, wasn’t a lie. Abigail was more than pleased that Bradley Powell had not only agreed to come to his twin sister’s wedding, he’d also promised to walk her down the aisle in their late father’s stead—especially as he hadn’t set foot in Great Crowmell, the Norfolk seaside town where they’d grown up, in the years since their father’s funeral. Ruby had been panicking that Brad would make an excuse not to come to her wedding because he still couldn’t face coming home.

As for actually seeing her ex-husband again for the first time since their divorce: that wasn’t something Abigail relished. But she was five years older now. Infinitely wiser. She could do this. And she would do this with a smile, for Ruby’s sake. No way was she going to rain on her best friend’s parade.

‘You know you can bring a date to the wedding,’ Ruby said. ‘Just give me a name for when it comes to sorting out the place cards. Or you don’t even have to do that—bring whoever you like and I’ll get someone to write his name on the place card that morning.’

‘Thanks, but I don’t need a date. I’m going to be way too busy on the day for that,’ Abigail said with a smile. ‘I’ve got chief bridesmaid duties to think about, and I want everything to go perfectly for your wedding.’ The fact she’d barely dated since her divorce was irrelevant.

Or—a nasty thought hit her—was Ruby trying to tell her something? That she should bring a date, because Brad was bringing his new love to meet everyone and it would be awkward if Abigail turned up alone?

‘Is Brad bringing a date?’ Abigail asked, trying her best to sound casual and hoping that her suddenly thumping heart didn’t show in her voice.

‘Of course he’s not. He’s married to his j...’ Ruby winced and clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Um.’

Abigail smiled and finished the phrase. ‘Married to his job.’ Whereas he’d once been married to me. And she knew that was exactly what Ruby was thinking, too.

‘Sorry, Abby. I didn’t mean to—’

Abigail hugged her best friend. ‘It’s fine. That water’s so far under the bridge, it’s already been recycled twice. Brad and I can be civil to each other.’ She hoped. She’d been through all the stages of grief at the end of their marriage. Denial that it was over, anger that he was being so stubborn, bargaining with him to see sense, depression when she realised that she just wasn’t enough for him, and finally acceptance that it was all over. All laced together with guilt, because she’d been the one to instigate the end.

She’d been so sure that if she walked out on him and went home to her parents, it would shock him into his senses: that he’d miss her and realise that shutting her out wasn’t the answer.

And how wrong she’d been. Because, instead of asking her to come back to him, Brad had simply said that her defection was proof that everyone had been right about them. They’d been way too young to get married, they weren’t going to make it, and he’d give her a divorce so she could have the chance to make a real life for herself.

Divorce had been the last thing she’d wanted.

But Brad had built a wall of ice around himself after his father’s death. He’d shut Abigail out, and she just hadn’t been able to reach him. Despite being married for nearly four years, they hadn’t been strong enough to weather the storm. She hadn’t supported him enough in his grief or been able to hold her marriage together.

So maybe everyone had been right about their relationship, after all. They’d been naive and reckless and immature, eloping to Gretna Green the week before their exam results. Everyone else had thought they were simply doing the coast-to-coast walk from St Bees in the Lake District to Robin Hood’s Bay in Yorkshire, raising money for the local lifeboat rescue team—which they had. They’d just happened to go to St Bees via Gretna Green, having quietly sorted out all the marriage paperwork the day after their last exams.

At the time, they’d both thought that eloping would be romantic. That each other was The One. That their love would last for ever.

Yeah. Naive, reckless and immature just about summed it up.

And she wasn’t any of those any more.

‘Is Brad OK with me being your bridesmaid?’ Abigail asked. ‘If he’s not, you know I’ll step down and keep out of the way on the actual day—but obviously I’ll still help you with all the organisation and do anything you need.’

Ruby rolled her eyes. ‘For goodness’ sake. Who else was I going to ask to be my chief bridesmaid, other than the person who’s been my best friend since the day we met at toddler group?’

And who also happened to be her twin’s ex-wife.

‘Have you actually told him?’ Abigail asked.

‘Yes. And he—well, he said the same that you did. That you could be perfectly civil to each other at the wedding.’

Civil. All that passion and love and hope reduced to cool, dismissive politeness. It made Abigail want to weep. What a waste.

Not that she was going to let Ruby have the slightest idea about that. Abigail wanted her best friend’s wedding day to be the happiest day of her life and she’d do her best to make it happen. ‘There you go, then. All’s fine.’ Abigail smiled. ‘Now, we have lists to make. If you will insist on having a whirlwind wedding...’

Ruby snorted. ‘Says the woman who eloped.’

‘There’s a lot to be said for keeping it simple,’ Abigail said lightly. ‘No worries about seating plans, menus or dresses.’

Ruby looked at her. ‘Do you regret it, Abby?’

‘Marrying your brother? Or eloping?’ Abigail asked.

‘You know what I’m asking.’

Abigail sighed. ‘I don’t regret marrying Brad. I loved him. We just brought the wedding forward to before he went away to study rather than waiting until after he’d finished his degree, that was all.’ It had been Brad’s idea to elope and, although part of Abby had thought it wasn’t really practical to get married when he was about to go away and be a student, she’d been madly in love with him and thought he felt the same about her. So she’d said yes, squashing her misgivings.

‘But you regret eloping?’

‘Yes and no. Yes, it was romantic and fun to elope.’ Just the two of them. And they’d made love so tenderly in their cheap hotel room that night. Eighteen years old, with the whole world ahead of them. ‘But, in hindsight,’ Abigail said, ‘I regret not sharing the day with everyone else. It meant Dad didn’t get to walk me down the aisle, our mums didn’t get the chance to dress up and make a fuss, you weren’t my bridesmaid, and your dad wasn’t the best man. Looking back, I realise we were selfish. We should’ve shared that day.’ And maybe if they’d been mature enough to share their wedding, they would’ve been mature enough to make their marriage last.

‘Anyway, there’s no point in dwelling on it because you can’t change the past.’ Abigail opened up her laptop. ‘Right. Our list of things to do starts here...’

Six weeks later

Great Crowmell.

Even the signpost made Brad’s stomach turn to knots.

The town where he’d grown up.

The town where he’d met the love of his life.

The town where he’d lost her.

He was dreading this. He’d avoided coming here at all since his father’s funeral—not for birthdays, not for Christmases, not for an off-the-cuff visit. The longer he left it, the harder it was to face. He’d seen his family—of course he had—but not here. He’d met them in London, organised posh afternoon teas and trips to the theatre with hard-to-get tickets, to make up for not coming here.

Every nerve in his body told him to turn the car round again and drive back to London. Back to where he could bury himself in work and forget everything.

But he couldn’t be that selfish. His sister was getting married and he had no intention of letting her down. This was the one thing that would make him come back: Ruby had asked him to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day and he’d promised her he’d do it. Even though the last time he’d set foot in that church and walked down that aisle, he’d been one of the pallbearers carrying their father’s coffin, he’d suck up his feelings for her sake.

Though Brad hadn’t quite been able to face going back to stay in their childhood home, filled with his memories of their father—and with a hefty loading of guilt. Instead, he’d rented a holiday cottage for a few days. One of the ancient two-up, two-down fishermen’s cottages in the flint-built terraces just behind the harbour. A place with no memories, so he had a bolthole when the town and everything that went with it got too much for him: all the kindness and concern edged with speculation and gossip. He knew that Ruby understood and he hoped she’d talk their mother round. He wasn’t avoiding Rosie; he was avoiding the house. Just as he’d done for the last five years. He knew it was selfish, and it made the guilt worse.

And then there was Abigail.

How was he going to face her?

More layers of guilt weighed down on him. He’d been the one to sweep her off her feet and ask her to elope with him; and when life threw its first hurdle in their way he’d let her down. He’d let her go.

Even before Ruby had diffidently asked if he’d mind that Abigail would be her chief bridesmaid, Brad had known who she’d choose—the woman who’d been her best friend right from toddler group through to high school and beyond. He’d prepared himself for it so when it came, he was able to tell Ruby without batting an eyelid that everything was absolutely fine, and he and Abigail could be perfectly civil to each other on the day. But stupidly he hadn’t thought to ask Ruby if Abigail was taking anyone to the wedding. The idea of seeing his ex-wife dancing with her new man, laughing and smiling and kissing him in the moonlight, the way she’d once done with him, made him feel sick.

He dragged in a breath. Maybe he should’ve asked one of his colleagues to be his plus one, just in case. There was still time; the wedding wasn’t until Saturday. Though who could he ask, without either giving out the wrong signals—and he really didn’t want the complication of someone at work thinking he was interested in a relationship—or having to explain the situation and becoming an object of pity throughout the lab and the office?

Maybe he should’ve made an excuse not to come to the wedding in the first place. Maybe he should’ve said he was speaking at a conference and, because Ruby had only given him a few weeks’ notice, there simply wasn’t enough time to find someone to take his place.

But then he’d hate himself for letting her down.

He needed to brace himself and deal with it. Be the cool, calm, analytical scientist he’d spent the last five years turning himself into. The one who kept his feelings completely locked away and could deal with almost anything without betraying a flicker of emotion. There was no place in his professional life for guilt, for nervousness and wondering how people were going to react to him, so he shouldn’t let any of that have a place in his personal life, either.

He could do this. The taste of bile in his mouth, the way his hands felt cold and tingling with adrenaline—that was all psychosomatic and he was going to ignore it. And he’d grab some paracetamol to deal with the tension headache that had started more than an hour ago, as soon as he’d crossed the county border to Norfolk.

He pulled into the car park in the middle of the town, fed coins into the meter to get a pay-and-display car park ticket to tide him over to the next morning, and stuck the ticket on the inside of his windscreen.

The letting agent had warned him that parking was tricky outside the rented cottage so he left the car and made his way to the address. He pulled up the four-digit key code for the safe box where the house keys were stored from the last email from the letting agent on his phone, retrieved the keys and dumped his luggage next to the stairs in the living room. When he headed into the kitchen at the back, there was a tray on the small kitchen table containing a plate, a mug, a spoon, a box of tea-bags and a tin of good instant coffee. There was also a white paper bag, and a note propped on top of it.

Welcome to 2 Quay Cottages. There’s milk and butter in the fridge, bread in the cupboard, and a little something in the paper bag to keep you going until dinner. Any problems, please call in at number 1.

Clearly the neighbour was happy to act as a kind of caretaker. That was reassuring, given that the letting agent was in London. OK, Brad thought, and opened the paper bag.

A blueberry muffin.

Home-made? he wondered. From the neighbour? Though surely the neighbour would’ve put his or her name on the note. Or maybe they’d been interrupted while they were writing the note and simply forgot to sign it. Whatever, the gesture was appreciated.

Brad realised then that he was hungry. He’d worked through his lunch break so he could leave early and miss the worst of the rush-hour traffic for his three-hour drive from London to north Norfolk, but then he’d been too keyed up to eat when he’d stopped for a rest break. He hadn’t bothered to stop at the large supermarket on the edge of town—one that hadn’t been there on his last visit—and he hadn’t even thought about dinner. He’d just been focused on driving to Great Crowmell and facing all the memories.

He took a bite of the muffin. And it was fabulous.

For a second, he was transported back to the early days of his marriage. When Abby had made blueberry muffins for breakfast on Sunday mornings, and he’d woken to the smell of good coffee and cake. They’d always eaten the muffins in bed and lazed around until lunchtime...

He shook himself. Long, long gone.

Coffee. That would sort out his head. And it would help the paracetamol to tackle his headache, too.

He took the kettle to the sink and turned on the tap.

Nothing.

The neighbour hadn’t left a note about there being any problems with the water.

Frowning, he went upstairs to the bathroom and tried the taps on the sink and the bath. Nothing there, either. When he flushed the toilet, the cistern didn’t fill up. Clearly someone had turned off the stopcock, for some reason, and forgotten to turn it back on. It would be easy enough to fix.

But he couldn’t actually find the stopcock. The obvious place for it to be located was under the sink in the kitchen, but it wasn’t there—or in any of the other cupboards. It wasn’t in the bathroom, either.

Great.

It looked as if he was going to have to disturb the occupant of number one, after all, to see if he or she knew what the water problem was and where the stopcock was located.

Leaving the little cottage, he walked to the neighbouring house and knocked on the white-painted front door. And he stared in utter shock when it opened, putting him face to face with Abigail Scott for the first time in nearly five years.

CHAPTER TWO

‘BRAD?’ ABIGAIL LOOKED as shocked as he felt, the colour draining from her face as she stared at him. ‘What are you doing here?’ she asked—at exactly the same time as he asked, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was looking for the owner of number one Quay Cottages,’ he said.

‘That would be me.’ She frowned. ‘So that means you’re hiring number two this week?’

‘Didn’t the letting agency tell you?’

‘They don’t always give me a name. They just said it was a single person who’d booked a Monday-to-Monday let.’

Which was clearly why she’d left him the fresh muffin today as a welcome gift. ‘I didn’t realise you lived here.’

‘No.’ She raised an eyebrow, as if to point out that it was really none of his business, since he was no longer married to her. ‘I assume there’s a problem next door?’

‘Yes. There’s no water,’ he said.

‘Ah.’ She grimaced. ‘Number three had a leaking pipe and the plumber borrowed the spare keys from me to turn off your water this morning, just in case it caused a problem in your house. Obviously he forgot to turn the water back on before he returned the keys, and I didn’t check because I assumed he would’ve already done that.’

‘And the stopcock isn’t in an obvious place.’

‘When these cottages were done up, let’s just say the building contractors made some unusual choices,’ she said. ‘I’ll come and show you where it is.’

‘Thanks.’

Abigail looked hardly any different from the way she’d looked five years ago, when Brad had last seen her. She was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever met, with eyes that he remembered being sea-green when she was happy and grey when she was sad, a heart-shaped face and a perfect cupid’s bow mouth. The striking difference was the way she wore her dark hair; he remembered it falling halfway down her back, and now it was cropped in a short pixie cut that made her grey-green eyes look huge.

‘Audrey Hepburn,’ he said.

She frowned. ‘What?’

‘Your hair. Breakfast at Tiffany’s.’

She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, but actually she had long hair for that film. This is more like her hair was in Sabrina.’

Of course Abigail would know. She and Ruby loved Hepburn’s films and had binge-watched them as teens in the summer holidays. And it was a stupid thing to say. ‘Sorry.’

‘It’s not important.’ She ushered him out of the house, and waited for him to let her into the cottage next door. ‘OK. The stopcock’s here in the lean-to at the back.’

He found the right key, unlocked the door and dealt with the stopcock.

‘I’ll wait to make sure the water’s working,’ she said. ‘And I’d better ask the agency to put a note about the stopcock’s position in the file they leave for clients.’

‘Good idea,’ he said. Abigail always had been practical and organised. She’d made him feel grounded and back in the real world after a hard day at the lab—and he’d missed that.

Not that he had a right to miss it.

He’d been the one to insist on a divorce. Even though he’d been sure he was doing the right thing for her, he knew it had hurt her.

There was nothing he could do to change the past; but he wanted things to be at least on an even keel between them, for the sake of Ruby’s wedding.

‘Thank you for helping,’ he said, turning on the taps and noting that thankfully the water ran clear.

‘No problem.’

* * *

Abigail knew this was her cue to leave, and to make herself a little bit scarce over the next few days.

Except Brad looked like hell, with dark smudges under his eyes. And she knew why: because he was back in Great Crowmell for the first time since his father’s death. Home, where he felt he’d failed. Even though Jim’s death most definitely hadn’t been his fault, Brad had blamed himself, and that was when their life together had started to unravel.

They were divorced, she reminded herself. This was none of her business.

But Bradley Powell had been her first love. Her one and only love, if she was honest with herself. Right now, she could see he was suffering. She couldn’t just leave him like this. OK, so she knew he didn’t love her any more and she’d learned to accept that; but, for the sake of what he’d once been to her, she wanted to help him.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked, her voice gentle.

‘Yes.’

He was lying. Putting a wall between them, the same way he’d done five years ago. She could walk away, like she had last time; or, this time, she could challenge him. Push him the way she maybe should’ve pushed him back then, except at the age of twenty-two she hadn’t quite had the confidence to do that.

Now, things were different. She knew who she was and she was comfortable in her own skin. And she was no longer afraid to challenge him. ‘That’s the biggest load of rubbish I’ve heard in a while.’

He looked at her as if not quite believing what he’d heard. ‘What?’

‘You’re not OK, Brad,’ she said. ‘You’re lying about it—which is crazy, because I’m the last person you should need to keep a stiff upper lip in front of—and I’m calling you on it.’

He lifted his chin, as if to argue. ‘I...’ Then the fight went out of him and he sighed. ‘No. You’re right. I’m not OK.’

‘Because you’re dreading this week?’ she asked. ‘That’s why you booked into the cottage, isn’t it? So you wouldn’t have to go home and see the ghosts.’

He raked a hand through his hair. ‘You always could see through me, Abby. Except back then...’

‘Back then, I would’ve let you get away with it.’ How young and naive she’d been. In the last five years she’d grown much wiser. Stronger, more able to deal with tricky situations. She’d changed. But had Brad? ‘You’ve just had a three-hour drive from London, in rush-hour traffic. I’m guessing you didn’t have time for lunch and you were thinking about your current project while you were driving, so you didn’t bother to get any shopping on the way here either. Apart from what I left you, your fridge and cupboards are all empty. But there’s an easy solution. Come and sit in my kitchen while I make you something to eat.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t ask you to do that.’

She folded her arms and looked at him. ‘You’re not asking me. I’m telling you.’

‘Bossy.’ But there was the hint of a smile in the tiny crinkles at the corners of his eyes. A smile she wished she hadn’t noticed, because it still had the power to make her knees weak.

We’re divorced, she reminded herself. I’m just doing this for Ruby, to make sure Brad doesn’t get overwhelmed by the past and bail out on her before the wedding. Bradley Powell doesn’t make my knees go weak any more. He doesn’t.

‘Just shut up and come next door,’ she said, more to cover her own confusion than anything else.

* * *

‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ Brad asked when he’d followed her into her kitchen.

Abigail shook her head and gestured to the small bistro table in the nook that served as a dining area. ‘Sit down and make yourself comfortable.’

‘Thank you.’ He paused. ‘So how long have you been living here?’

‘Two years. Didn’t Ruby tell you?’

‘She doesn’t really talk to me about you.’ He looked at her. ‘Does she talk to you about me?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Though obviously your mum told me you’d got your doctorate. She showed me the graduation photos.’

He’d nearly not bothered with the graduation ceremony—until his sister had pointed out that she and their mother would quite like to be there, so it would be a bit selfish of him not to go. Brad had felt he didn’t deserve the fuss, but he’d given in for his mother’s sake.

‘Uh-huh.’ He didn’t want to talk to Abigail about his graduation and how much he’d missed his father. How it had been a physical ache. How he’d longed to say to Jim, ‘See, I told you I’d make something of myself doing the subject I love.’

He grabbed at the nearest excuse to change the subject. ‘Nice house.’ It looked as if it was the same layout as the cottage he’d hired for the week: the white-painted front door opened straight into the living room, and stairs led between the living room and kitchen to the upper floor. But whereas next door was all furnished in neutral shades, as far as he’d seen, Abigail had gone for bright colour. Her living room was painted a warm primrose yellow, with deep red curtains and a matching deep red sofa opposite the cast-iron original fireplace with a huge mirror above it, a wall full of books and a massive stylised painting of a peacock on another wall, which looked very much like his sister’s handiwork. And the kitchen walls here were painted a light, bright teal; the cupboards were cream and the worktop was grey. It was stylish and homely at the same time.

The perfect size for two.

He didn’t let himself think about who might have sat at this table opposite her. It was none of his business who she dated. She wasn’t his wife any more.

‘Are there any dietary things I need to know about?’ she asked.

‘Such as?’

She shrugged. ‘I know you don’t have any food allergies, but you might have given up eating meat or fish since we last ate together.’

Had she? He really had no idea. As for himself, he barely noticed what he ate, since she’d left. Since he’d pushed her into leaving, he amended mentally. ‘No. Nothing’s changed. But I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I can walk up the road and get some fish and chips—assuming the chip shop’s still there on the harbour, that is?’

‘You’re not putting me to any trouble,’ she said. ‘I haven’t eaten yet this evening. It’s as quick to cook for two as it is for one.’

‘Then, if you’re sure you don’t mind, whatever you want to cook is absolutely fine with me,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

‘You told Ruby we could be civil. So did I. We might as well start here and now.’

‘A truce. OK.’ He could do that. And maybe, if he could get things on an even keel with her, it would take some of the weight of guilt from him.

‘Coffee?’

‘Thanks. I’d love one.’ He paused. ‘That muffin you left next door—did you make that yourself?’

‘Yes. This morning.’

‘I appreciated it. And it was very good.’

‘Thank you.’

She’d gone slightly pink. Was she remembering when she’d made muffins in his student days and they’d eaten them in bed together? Not that he could ask her. That was way, way too intimate.

She made coffee just the way he liked it, strong and sugarless with a just dash of milk. He remembered how she took her coffee, too. And the fact that she never drank tea. Funny how all the memories flooded back, as if their years apart had never happened.

Wishful thinking. It was way too late to do anything about it now.

She chopped onions, chilli and garlic, then heated oil in a pan and started to sauté them. The kitchen smelled amazing. She added diced chicken, and he realised just how hungry he was. Abigail always had been good in the kitchen; rather than going away to study for a degree, she’d planned to join her family’s café business when she left school. She was going to work her way up while he studied, and they were going to get married after he graduated.

Until Brad, after a huge row with his dad, had rebelled; he’d asked Abby to elope with him before they got their exam results. All wide-eyed and trusting, young and full of hope, she’d agreed. And she’d put her plans aside, moving with him when he left for university, getting a job in a café in Cambridge and ending up managing the place within a year.

Ruby had been economical with the details but Brad guessed that, after Abigail had moved back to Great Crowmell, she’d gone with her original Plan A and joined the family business. Given that her parents were in their late fifties and would be looking at retiring, he’d guess that she was taking more responsibility every year. Maybe she was even running the place now.

‘So how’s the café?’ he asked.

‘Fine. How’s the lab?’

‘Fine.’

Stonewalling each other with single-word answers wasn’t going to do anything to help the situation. Brad decided to make the effort and try some polite conversation. Offer some information, which might make her offer information in return. ‘My team’s working on developing a new antibiotic.’

‘Sounds good—we definitely need that.’ She paused. ‘So are you happy in London?’

He hadn’t been happy in the last five years. But he did like his job. And she was asking about his job, right? ‘Yes. How about you? You’re happy here at the café?’ If he focused on work rather than the personal stuff, then she wouldn’t tell him about her new love.

‘Yes, I’m happy at the café. Like you, I’m developing something, except mine’s rather more frivolous.’ She paused, then said brightly, ‘Ice cream for dogs.’

‘Ice cream for dogs?’ The idea was so incongruous that it made him smile.

‘Don’t knock it,’ she said, smiling back. ‘Think how many people bring their dogs to the beach, then come and sit with them outside the café.’

He knew that Scott’s Café, on the edge of the beach, had tables outside as well as inside, plus water bowls for dogs; it had always been dog-friendly, even before it became trendy to welcome dogs.

‘Half of the customers buy an ice cream for their dogs to help cool them down, too, but obviously the sugar’s not good for the dogs’ teeth and the fat’s not brilliant for their diet, either,’ Abby said. ‘So we’ve produced something a bit more canine-friendly.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘So you’re telling me you’re making chicken-flavoured ice cream?’

She laughed. ‘Not quite. It’s more like frozen yoghurt. We do a carrot and cinnamon one, and a cheese one.’

He stared at her. ‘Cheese ice cream?’

‘They serve Parmesan ice cream at the posh restaurant round the bay in Little Crowmell,’ she said. ‘That’s what gave me the idea. Especially as Waffle—’ her parents’ dachshund ‘—will do anything for cheese. He loved being one of my beta testers. So did your mum’s dog.’

He wondered who’d taken her to Little Crowmell and had to damp down an unexpected flicker of jealousy. He had no right to be jealous. She was a free agent. It was up to her who she dated, he reminded himself yet again.

‘Dinner smells nice,’ he said, reverting to a safer subject.

‘It’s not that fancy. Just chicken arrabbiata.’

He’d always loved her cooking. ‘It’s still better than I could’ve made.’ Not that he really cooked, any more. Cooking for one didn’t seem worth the effort, when he was tired after a long day in the lab. It was so much easier to buy something from the chiller cabinet in the supermarket and shove it in the microwave for a couple of minutes. Something he didn’t have to think about or even taste.

Abigail’s chicken arrabbiata tasted even better than it smelled.

And how weird it was to be eating with her again, in this intimate little galley kitchen, at this tiny little table. Close enough so that, when he moved his feet, he ended up touching hers.

‘Sorry,’ he said, moving his feet swiftly away again and banging his ankle on the chair leg.

She gave him a half-shrug. ‘Not a problem.’

She might be immune to him nowadays, he thought, but he was far from immune to her. There was a time when they would’ve sat at a tiny table like this together, their bare feet entwined. When they would’ve shared glances. When dinner would’ve been left half-eaten because he would’ve scooped her up and carried her up the stairs to their bed.

And he really wasn’t going to let himself wonder if she slept in a double bed.

It was none of his business.

This was supposed to be civil politeness. A truce. Getting rid of the awkwardness between them, so Ruby’s wedding would go smoothly at the weekend. So why did he feel so completely off balance?

He forced himself to finish the pasta—she was right, he did need to eat—and then cleared the table for her while she rummaged in the freezer.

She was close enough to touch.

And that way danger lay. Physical contact between them would be a very, very bad idea. Because seeing her again had brought back way too many memories—along with a huge sense of loneliness and loss.

He retreated to the bistro table, and she brought over two bowls, spoons and a plastic tub.

‘Are you selling tubs for people to take home, nowadays?’ he asked, suddenly curious.

‘Yes, but they’re half-litre paper cartons rather than like this. Ruby designed them for me—pink and white Regency stripes, with “Scott’s” written across it in black script,’ Abigail said.

‘So you’re expanding the business?’

She inclined her head. ‘Certain local restaurants stock our ice cream, and we have pop-up ice cream stalls for events. Regency-style carts. Ruby’s having one at her wedding.’

And how different his sister’s wedding would be from his own. A big affair, with the church filled with family and friends. The complete opposite from his and Abby’s: no frills, no fuss, just the two of them, and two witnesses that the wedding planner at Gretna Green had provided. Abby had worn an ordinary but pretty summer dress and carried a posy of cream roses, and he’d worn the suit his mother had bought him for his interview at Cambridge. It had got a bit creased in his rucksack, but he hadn’t cared. He’d just wanted to get married to Abby and be with her for ever and ever, and prove to his dad that he was wrong, that they weren’t too young and he wouldn’t find someone else in the first week away at university—that their marriage would last.

The summer when they were eighteen.

How young and foolish they’d both been.

All that was left from that day now was a handful of photographs.

He shook himself. They were meant to be talking about her business, not their past. ‘Sounds good,’ he said lightly. ‘So what’s this?’

‘A new flavour. I’m still tweaking it, so it’s not in production yet. Let me know what you think.’

She actually wanted his opinion? Something shifted inside him.

She put a scoop into the bowl. ‘If you hate it, don’t be polite and eat it—just tell me what you don’t like about it because that’ll be much more useful. I also have salted caramel in the freezer.’

His favourite. And he knew that she remembered. Just as he remembered that she loathed chocolate ice cream.

He looked at the bowl she’d just given him. The ice cream was a dusky pink, studded with pieces of deep red fruit. He took a spoonful. ‘No more tweaks needed,’ he said. ‘Cherry and almond.’

‘Cherry and amaretto, actually—but that’s close enough.’ She looked pleased. ‘So the amaretto isn’t overpowering?’

He tried another spoonful. ‘No. You’ve got a good balance. It’s not too sour from the cherries, but it’s also not oversweet.’

‘Analysed like a true scientist.’

There was amusement in her voice, but there was also respect. And maybe, he thought, a note of affection? But he’d managed to kill her love for him, five years ago. He’d shut her out, hadn’t let her help him deal with the shock of his father’s death. He didn’t deserve her affection. ‘It saves time,’ he said.

‘Thanks. I thought I might have got it right with this batch, though I was thinking about adding pieces of crushed amaretti biscuits.’

He shook his head. ‘It’ll change the texture too much. This is rich and soft and—well, nice.’

‘Good. Help yourself to more. Or there’s salted caramel,’ she said.

He realised then that he’d finished the bowl. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘But thank you.’

He insisted on doing the washing up. And, even though he knew he really ought to go, how could he refuse when she offered him another coffee?

Her living room was just as cosy as the kitchen.

‘Is that one of Ruby’s?’ he asked, gesturing towards the peacock.

‘Yes. It was a special commission,’ she said with a smile. Then she grew serious. ‘It’s going to be hard for you, this week.’

There was no point in lying. He knew she’d see through it. ‘Yes.’

‘I imagine you came back early so you could face things before the wedding on Saturday, instead of being hit by the whole lot on the day.’

How well she knew him. ‘It seemed the most sensible approach.’ Doing the lot in one day tomorrow would be easiest in the long run; and if he did it now he’d cope better at the wedding.

‘I’m working tomorrow,’ she said, ‘but I’m pretty much off duty from Wednesday so I can help Ruby with any last-minute details.’ She paused. ‘If you want someone to go with you to...’ She paused, and he knew what she wasn’t saying. To the church. To his father’s grave. To all the places in the town that held so many memories, they threatened to choke him. ‘Well, you know where I am,’ she finished.

It was a really generous offer, especially considering how he’d pushed her away before.

But he also knew he had to face this on his own. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine.’

* * *

Brad wasn’t fine. Abigail could see it in his dark, dark eyes.

But he was as stubborn as his father had been. Which wasn’t always a good thing. He was making himself miserable, and that made his family miserable. Why couldn’t he see that?

‘Brad. It’s been five years.’ And everyone else had moved on, except Brad himself. ‘I hope by now you’ve worked out that you weren’t to blame.’

He said nothing.

‘Your dad was a stubborn old coot. I loved Jim dearly, but he didn’t help himself and he didn’t listen to anyone.’ Maybe now wasn’t the right time to say it—but then again, when would be the right time? ‘I think you’re going the same way.’

‘What?’

There was a simmering, dangerous tone to his voice. But Abigail wasn’t backing down now. It was a boil that had needed lancing years ago. The poison needed to come out so Brad could move on instead of being stuck in the misery of the past. ‘Jim was the one to blame for his death, not you. If he’d listened to his doctor and taken his angina medication out with him on the boat—or, better still, waited until the following weekend when you could’ve gone out on the boat with him and he wouldn’t have been on his own—he wouldn’t have had the heart attack in the first place; or at least if he’d had his GTN spray with him he would’ve been able to buy himself enough time for the emergency services to get to him and treat him in time.’

He clenched his jaw. ‘My dad’s dead.’

‘And you’re still alive, Brad.’ Though he wasn’t living. Just existing. ‘Stop wearing that hair shirt and thinking you have to atone for something that really wasn’t your fault.’

His face shuttered. ‘I don’t want to have this conversation.’

‘No,’ she said, not sure whether she was more angry or sad. ‘You wouldn’t face it then and you won’t face it now. Brad, for pity’s sake—you might want to keep punishing yourself, and that’s your choice, but please make sure you don’t punish your mum and Ruby at the same time.’

‘I think,’ he said, ‘I’d better go. Before we say something we’d both regret.’

He was shutting her out again and refusing to discuss anything. So he hadn’t changed. How stupid she was to think that five years might have made a difference. ‘You do that,’ she said. ‘But if you’re not smiling all day until your face hurts on Saturday, then you’ll answer to me.’

His eyes widened as if he was shocked that she could even think that he’d do anything less than be delighted for his twin. ‘Ruby’s my sister.’

‘And you’ve been there for her?’ It was a rhetorical question, because they both knew the answer. He hadn’t. He’d shut himself away in his lab, suffering in silence and not letting anyone comfort him—and that had also meant he wasn’t able to comfort anyone else.

A muscle worked in his jaw. ‘That’s none of your business.’

‘That’s the attitude you took when it was still my business,’ she said. ‘Stubborn, refusing to see any other point of view except your own.’ The anger she hadn’t realised she was suppressing flared up, and the words came out before she could stop them. ‘That’s what killed your dad. Don’t let it kill you, too.’

He stood up, his dark eyes full of answering anger, and walked out without a word.

He didn’t even slam the door behind him. Just left it open.

Abigail stared after him, the flash of anger suddenly gone and leaving her full of guilt.

Oh, God. What had she done?

She was supposed to be civil to the man and start pouring oil at the first sign of any troubled waters. But instead she’d stirred up the storm. Big time.

OK.

Tomorrow, she’d apologise. And hope that she could repair the damage in time for Ruby’s wedding.

CHAPTER THREE

EVEN THOUGH BRAD was tired after the three-hour drive, he couldn’t sleep. He just stared into the darkness, replaying Abby’s words over and over again in his head.

‘You might want to keep punishing yourself, and that’s your choice, but please make sure you don’t punish your mum and Ruby.’

Was he punishing his mother and his twin?

‘Stubborn, refusing to see any other point of view except your own. That’s what killed your dad.’

No, what had killed his dad was Brad’s selfishness.

He should’ve come home for the weekend and gone out on the boat with his dad, instead of going off with Abby for a romantic weekend away. OK, so she’d won the trip in a competition, but she could’ve taken Ruby with her instead and made it a girly weekend: and then Brad would’ve been there for Jim. He would’ve made sure that his dad had his angina medication with him on the boat. He could’ve administered it, bought time until the emergency services could get to them.

Though he was horribly aware that Abby had said pretty much the same thing. If only Jim had listened to his doctor and taken his medication with him. If only Jim had waited.

But everyone knew that James Powell was a Type A personality and the word ‘wait’ simply wasn’t in his vocabulary. Jim was a larger-than-life character, a sharp barrister who’d lived for his job and been bored stiff being stuck at home. Of course he wouldn’t have waited to go out on the boat until someone else could be with him. He would’ve argued that he was perfectly capable of crewing the boat alone. He’d hated the whole idea of having to retire early on the grounds of poor health. Being diagnosed with a heart condition that could kill him if it wasn’t kept under control had been the worst thing that could’ve happened to him. He’d needed something to fill his time, and the boat was the one thing that had stopped him going crazy.

If Brad had only come home, that weekend...

But he hadn’t.

And Jim had taken the boat out on his own. He’d had an angina attack and collapsed. The chest pain had been so bad, he hadn’t even been able to call the emergency services; he’d only been capable of hitting the last number redial on his phone.

Brad’s number.

‘Chest. Hurts. On boat. Call coastguard,’ he’d gasped.

‘I’ll do it now. Where’s your medication, Dad?’ Brad asked.

‘Home.’

Meaning that there had been nothing to help with the pain.

Abby had been in the spa, having a facial, but thankfully she’d left her mobile phone in their room. With shaking hands, Brad had put his dad on speaker on his own phone and called the emergency services from Abby’s.

‘I’m getting someone to you now, Dad.’

‘Should’ve waited.’ Jim had squeezed the pain-filled words out.

‘That doesn’t matter now, Dad. Stay with me. Stay with me. It’s going to be OK. I’ve got help coming. I know it hurts to talk, so I just want one word from you every couple of minutes so I know you’re still with me. OK?’

‘Yes.’

‘Stay with me, Dad. I love you. It’s going to be all right.’

But Jim had been in trouble way before the helicopter and the lifeboat had reached him. Miles and miles away from the coast, knowing it would take him hours to drive to Great Crowmell even if he left the hotel that very second, Brad had been unable to do anything to help. He’d heard the clatter of the phone onto the deck and guessed that his dad had dropped it.

‘Dad! Dad! Stay with me. Pick up the phone. Please pick up the phone,’ he’d pleaded.

But Jim hadn’t answered. All Brad had been able to hear was the hum of the engine and the screaming of the seagulls, until finally the phone had been picked up by one of the lifeboat crew.

‘This is the lifeboat. We’ve winched down the paramedic from the helicopter. You’re his son, who called us out, right?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. We’re going to fly your dad back to hospital. Can you give us some information?’

‘Anything you need,’ Brad had said, and had gone through his father’s medical history.

But it had been too late.

Jim had had a massive heart attack in the helicopter and the crew hadn’t been able to resuscitate him. He’d died on the way to hospital.

Stop wearing that hair shirt and thinking you have to atone for something that really wasn’t your fault.

Now that was where Abby was wrong. Brad didn’t blame himself for his father’s death. Even if he’d been there, if he’d given his father the medication, there was a very high chance that Jim would still have had that heart attack and died on the way to hospital.

That wasn’t what crucified him every single day.

It was the fact that he’d been the last person to speak to Jim while he was still alive—while his father was still conscious—and he’d known that he couldn’t do a thing to save his dad. That the lifeboat and the air ambulance wouldn’t get to him in time. And then, in the days after the funeral, he’d realised that he would never get the chance to prove to his dad that he’d made the right career choice, following his heart to become a scientist rather than following in Jim’s footsteps and becoming a barrister.

Brad just hadn’t been able to cope with it all. To keep himself functioning, he’d had to build a wall round his heart. And that hadn’t been fair to Abby: so he’d done the right thing by the love of his life. He’d set her free to find happiness with someone else.

And she thought he was being self-indulgent and wearing a hair shirt?

He stared into the darkness.

If only things had been different.

If only.

Eventually, he slept. His dreams were vivid, to the point where he actually reached out for her, the next morning, thinking she was curled up in bed beside him.

Of course not. How stupid of him. Those days were long gone. She wasn’t next to him, she was next door. There was only a single brick wall between them, but they might as well be on different planets.

Brad dragged himself out of bed and had a hot shower, but he didn’t manage to scrub away the guilt and remorse. Or the sick feeling that today he was going to have to face everything he’d spent years avoiding.

Toast and coffee—thanks to the supplies Abigail had left him—made him feel more human.

OK.

He’d do the hardest bit first.

He headed into the centre of the town to renew the ticket for his parking space, then went to buy flowers. It meant he had to walk past the quay, and he could see another boat moored in the place where his father’s used to be. Well, of course there would be. His mother had never really been into boats, so there was no reason for Rosie to keep the boat or the mooring after Jim’s death.

But it still felt as if a little piece of his dad had been wiped away.

He bought a bunch of flowers from the shop in the middle of the high street, then walked to the church on the edge of town. It was a big old barn of a place, built of flint, with a massive tower, a lead roof and tall arched windows.

What he liked best was the inside of the church, and not just because it was full of light from those enormous windows. He turned the massive iron handle and pushed the heavy door open. He could remember coming here with his father, who’d showed him the ancient graffiti of the old-fashioned sailing ships scratched into the stone pillars, explaining they were probably prayers of thanksgiving for safe returns from long voyages.

If only James Powell had made a safe return from his last voyage.

But you couldn’t change the past.

Brad shook himself and wandered through the church. There was the hexagonal stone font with its carved wooden cover and the smiling stone lions at the base—the font where he and Ruby had been christened as babies. And the ancient wooden pews with their poppyheads and carved bench ends, parts of the carvings polished smooth over the centuries where children’s hands had rubbed against them. He’d always especially loved the carvings of a cat carrying one of her kittens and the mermaid.

This was the church where, if they’d waited until after his graduation, he would’ve married Abigail. Just as Colin would wait for Ruby on Saturday, Brad would’ve waited at the altar for Abby. But, because he’d been young and impetuous and desperately in love with her, he’d wanted to marry her before he went away to university. He realised now how much they’d deprived their families of a celebration. How stupid and selfish he’d been.

There were tea-light candles on a wrought-iron stand near the font, a couple of which were already lit. He lit one for his father using the wax taper provided, and stood watching the flame flicker for a while before putting some money into the slot in the wall safe.

Outside, several more graves had been dug in the churchyard since he’d last been here. And it was the first time he’d actually seen his father’s headstone.

His mum had made a good choice. Together with the dates, she’d kept the words simple: James Powell, beloved husband, father and son. And on the back there was a carving of a boat, his father’s favourite thing.

The stone vase-holder in front of the headstone was already full of flowers. Of course it would be; either Rosie or Ruby would’ve made sure of that. He should’ve thought to buy one of those pots on a spike that you could push into the earth, or bring some kind of jam jar to put his flowers in. Too late, now. He placed the wrapped bunch of flowers on the grass next to the vase, and sat cross-legged in front of the stone.

‘Well. I guess it’s about time I showed my face here,’ he said.

Understatement of the century.

He could almost see his father’s rolled eyes and hear the sarcastic comment.

‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I was too far away to help.’ He dragged in a breath. ‘I’m sorry I’ve made such a mess of my life—though at least my career is doing OK. I know you were disappointed I didn’t follow in your footsteps, but I would’ve made a lousy lawyer. I’m a good scientist. I love my job. And I think you’d approve of me being one of the youngest managers ever in the pharmaceutical company, in charge of a really big project.’

No answer. Not that he expected one. But a sudden gust of wind or an unexpected ray of sunlight would’ve been nice. A sign that his father had heard him.

‘I’m sorry I haven’t been there for Mum and Ruby,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t trying to neglect them. It was the whole idea of coming back here. Where I’d failed you. I know, I know, I should’ve manned up and driven here instead of always expecting them to come and see me in London. But, the longer I stayed away, the harder it was to come home. I couldn’t face walking into the house, expecting to see you and then seeing the space where you weren’t there—it’d be like losing you all over again and I just couldn’t bear it.’

And how he missed his father. They’d had a difficult relationship at times, but Brad had respected his father and what he’d achieved, even though they’d disagreed about Brad’s career choice. James Powell was a big bear of a man, always laughing and joking, full of outrageous stories about his days in court. Brad had sneaked into the public gallery at court one day, to watch his father at work, and he’d seen how brilliant James was—persuasive, knowledgeable, putting his client’s case in a way that the jury understood but without patronising them. He’d been spellbinding. A father to be proud of.

And he’d died way, way too soon.

Brad sighed. ‘You were right about me and Abby. We were too young to get married. Of course it didn’t last.’ And how selfish he’d been to drag Abby into his teenage rebellion. If he’d waited, maybe they would still be married now. But they weren’t. Another failure. Something else he hadn’t wanted to face, here in Great Crowmell. The place where he’d fallen in love with Abigail Scott.

The break-up had been entirely his fault. He’d been the one to push her away.

Though seeing her again had made him realise that his old feelings for her were still there. They’d never really gone away. He’d ignored them, buried them even; but now he was home and close to her, it was harder to block them out.

He couldn’t possibly act on those feelings. He didn’t trust himself not to mess it all up again, and he wanted to give Abby the chance to be happy—even if it was with someone else. But maybe they could be on better terms than they’d left it last night. When she’d told him things he hadn’t wanted to face and, instead of talking it over with her, he’d walked out and refused to discuss it.

‘Did you ever regret things, Dad?’ he asked. ‘Did you ever wish you hadn’t said things, or that you’d done something differently?’

Of course there was no answer.

Though his father had always been so confident, so sure that he was right.

Abby’s words slid back into his head. Your dad was a stubborn old coot. I loved Jim dearly, but he didn’t help himself and he didn’t listen to anyone.

She was right; and that was probably why James had been so confident. He didn’t listen to anyone who didn’t say exactly what he wanted to hear. And Brad couldn’t ever remember his father apologising; though Jim had come close to it in that last phone call, when he’d admitted he should’ve waited instead of going out on the boat on his own.

Brad sighed. ‘Abby loved you. Even though you were stubborn and didn’t listen to anyone except maybe your clients, she loved you.’

She’d loved Brad, too. And he’d been so sure he was right, not listening to her. Just like his father. Funny, he hadn’t thought that he could be as difficult as James, but maybe he was. Being stubborn and refusing to give up had stood him in good stead professionally; the flip side meant that being stubborn and refusing to talk about things had ruined his marriage.

‘I owe her an apology,’ he said. ‘For a lot of things. I need to go and talk to her. But I’ll be back. I’ll come and see you on Saturday. And we’re going to smile all day until our faces hurt, for Ruby’s sake.’

When he walked back into the florist, the assistant raised her eyebrows. ‘Back again?’

He nodded. ‘Can you wrap up six roses for me, please?’ And there was only one colour he could choose. ‘Cream ones.’

‘Going to see your mum now, are you?’

That was the thing about growing up in a small town; everyone knew you, and they knew your business, too. ‘No. Actually, I’d like a different bouquet for her, please—something with lots of pinks and purples.’ Her favourite colours. ‘Can I pick it up in an hour? Oh, and if you have one of those vases on a spike you can use in the churchyard, I’d like to buy one of those, too, please.’

‘Sure.’

He paid for everything, taking just the roses and the vase with him, then bought a bottle of water in the newsagent next door.

Then he noticed the shop next to the newsagent. Scott’s Ice Cream Parlour. That was new. He’d been so focused on visiting the churchyard that he hadn’t noticed it when he’d walked here before. So where would Abigail be today? Here, or at the café by the beach?

Inside, there was a young girl serving; he didn’t recognise her.

‘Can I help you?’ she asked with a smile.

‘Um, I was wondering if I could have a quick word with Abigail, please?’

‘She’s not here, I’m afraid. Can I take a message?’

‘No, it’s fine.’ It looked as if he’d have to catch her at home.

‘Do I hear someone asking for our Abby?’ An older woman came out of the back of the shop and stared at him in surprise. ‘Oh. Brad. You’re back.’

‘Hello, Gill.’ He remembered her from the beach café, years back. ‘Yes, I’m back for Ruby’s wedding.’

She eyed him warily. ‘I can get a message to Abby, if you like.’

It was kind of nice that Abby’s staff were protective about her, he thought, not actually telling him where she was until they’d checked with her first. Though it didn’t help him.

‘I’m not going to fight with her,’ he said softly. ‘I just wanted a quick word with her about wedding stuff.’ That last bit wasn’t strictly true, or anywhere even vaguely near the truth, but the first bit was heartfelt.

Gill frowned, and he thought she was going to stonewall him. But then she nodded. ‘OK. It’s Tuesday, so she’ll be at the beach café.’

‘Thank you, Gill.’

‘You’re welcome.’ Her gaze dropped to the flowers and the vase he was carrying, and this time there was more sympathy in her expression. ‘Going to see your dad?’

‘Yes.’ She didn’t need to know it was for the second time—or that these flowers were for Abby.

‘He was one of a kind, your dad. He’s still missed around here.’

The words put a lump in his throat. ‘Thank you.’

At the church, he sorted out the flowers he’d left at the grave earlier, pushing the spike into the earth and then filling the vase with water; then he headed for the beach café. He’d forgotten what a long walk it was from the harbour to the beach. It had always felt like seconds when he was a teenager, walking there hand in hand with Abby. Now, it seemed never-ending. And he couldn’t remember the seagulls being quite so irritating and screamy, either.

Or maybe he was just out of sorts because of what he’d been doing that morning.

As he neared the café, he saw that all the tables outside were full. Dogs were sitting next to their owners or lying half under the tables; it looked idyllic. The perfect English beachside scene.

He was pretty sure that Gill would have called the café as soon as he left, so Abby would be expecting him. Hopefully she hadn’t decided to leave and avoid him, or he’d have to come up with a plan B. He took a deep breath and walked inside.

She was nowhere to be seen in the café.

‘Excuse me, please,’ he said to the young man at the counter—someone else he didn’t recognise. ‘Would it be possible to have a word with Ms Scott, please?’

The young man eyed the flowers curiously.

And then it occurred to Brad that he might be causing problems for Abby if she had a new partner. A stranger bearing a bunch of roses wouldn’t go down well. Even if she explained that the stranger was her ex-husband, and he was simply trying to apologise for a fight they’d had and keep things on an even keel between them for the sake of his sister’s wedding.

‘I’ll go and get her,’ the assistant said.

Abby came out from the back and he could see the second that she spotted him, because the welcome in her face turned to wariness. He sighed inwardly. It was his own fault. He’d done that with his behaviour last night.

‘I know you’re at work, and I don’t intend to hold you up or get in the way,’ he said, ‘but please can I talk to you for three minutes?’ And hopefully she’d realise he meant not in front of other people. He didn’t want any gossip. Gossip was the thing he’d hated most about growing up in a small town.

She nodded. ‘Come into the office.’

He followed her behind the counter, ignoring the curious looks from the people round them.

She closed the door of her office behind them and gestured to a chair. ‘Have a seat.’

‘Thank you.’ He handed her the roses. ‘For you.’

She frowned. ‘Why?’

‘A mixture of things,’ he said. ‘One, to say thank you for stocking my fridge.’

She lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. ‘Barely. It’s what I do for all the guests next door.’

He ignored her protest. ‘Two, to say thank you for sorting out the water problem. Three, to say thank you for dinner last night.’ And here was the big one. ‘Four, to apologise for walking out on you last night when you tried to talk to me.’ He knew he owed her more than that. ‘Five, to ask if you’d let me take you to dinner tonight to apologise properly—that is, if it won’t cause a problem with your partner?’ Because he had to face it. A woman as warm and lovely as Abigail Scott wouldn’t be alone for long.

‘Will it cause a problem with your partner?’ she asked.

Which didn’t tell him anything. Though he could hardly call her on answering a question with a question. ‘I don’t have a partner,’ he said.

After a long, long pause, she said, ‘Ditto.’

And why did that make the day feel as if the sun had suddenly come out? Crazy. He wanted Abigail to be happy. Rekindling their relationship wasn’t on the cards, because he couldn’t risk hurting her again. He ought to want her to have a partner instead of being alone. But a more selfish part of him was glad that she wasn’t involved with anyone else.

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