He nodded sombrely. ‘She wrings my heart. It’s as if she knows she’s reliant on my goodwill and hesitates inside doorways, wondering whether she’s welcome.’

‘That’s so sad,’ Hannah said, trying to imagine a two-year-old being that aware.

He changed the subject. ‘Middledip still seems a great spot. Yesterday I drove into the village and took the girls for a walk. We stopped at a place called The Angel for cake.’

A vision of the coffee shop swam into her mind, resurrected from the shambles of a derelict Victorian pub and finished with a mish-mash of reclaimed features and restored furniture. ‘I’ll bet it was delicious. The Angel Community Café opened just before I left for Sweden. It’s a great success.’

He was still looking at her, his blue eyes dark in the dim lighting. ‘I’ll be in Stockholm again on Thursday and Friday, the nineteenth and twentieth of November. Will you be free?’

Warmth spread through her. ‘How about the nineteenth? Meet me at the shop and I’ll take you for that dinner I owe you.’

‘Great.’ His eyes smiled. They danced on, talking about what Nico remembered of the village and those fun four years when he and Rob had played for the Peterborough Plunderers. Gradually, Hannah was aware of them heating each other’s air space, their bodies brushing more often and more fully.

She watched his mouth and the light of laughter in his eyes. ‘That looks good on you.’

‘What?’ His eyebrows rose.

‘The smile.’ He looked so abashed that she changed the subject. ‘Don’t you play ice hockey now?’

The laughter faded. ‘Rarely. I gave up my athletic scholarship and went to Sweden for the final year of uni.’ He drew her close enough that he could lower his voice and still be heard over the music. ‘I had a friend in Minnesota, another Swede. Jan Frick. Our American friends called him “Freak” because he was so fast. Popular, talented, doing well in college games. Then he got involved in a scuffle on the ice. Helmet came off and he took a hit to the head.’

‘Oh, no!’ Involuntarily, Hannah’s arms tightened around his whipcord body.

He nodded. ‘He’s still with us but … head injury.’ His eyes were full of pain. ‘He can’t live independently. I realised I’d never be hungry enough to get over things like that. It flattened my ambition.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ she breathed, wishing she could take away his distress. But even as she thought it she was more aware than ever of his height, his cheekbones and jawline, the small lines at the corners of his eyes. She wanted to comfort him, draw his head down to hers so she could kiss him softly, fitting her body to his.

Her heart kicked up a gear.

She had to lick suddenly dry lips.