Turning down a tree-lined street, he stopped in front of Hawthorne Cottage, a black-and-white thatched Tudor. The front door, a large nail-studded affair, opened, and Jack Pressley-Coombes descended the steps, a huge grin splitting his features.

“Hey, Elise. Harry. How was the drive?” Jack’s warm, brown eyes lit with welcome.

Jack beat Harry to Elise’s car door. When she slipped out, he hugged her tight.

Harry slammed his door with more energy than necessary. Going to the back of the 4x4, he liberated Elise’s luggage and placed it on the pavement beside the front gate while she and Jack caught up.

Jack did a double take when he caught sight of her baggage. “Since when did you start packing a suitcase?”

Elise flushed an unbecoming red and reached for the handle of her case, extending it to its full height. “A duffel is a bit difficult to manage at present.”

“Sorry. I was so happy to see you that I forgot all about your accident.” The American South elongated Jack’s vowels. “Are you still going to rehab?”

“Occasionally.”

Elise gave Jack a brittle smile, one that made Harry pause. She was hiding something. He’d bet his 4x4 on it.

Turning to Harry, Jack stuck out his hand. “Good to see you again.” Jack gripped Harry’s hand firmly. “Can you join us for tea? Gillian made a ton of food.”

“I need to shove off. I haven’t seen my boy yet.” Harry banged the back door of his 4x4 shut and addressed Elise. “I’ll be by Sunday to collect you.”

“I’ll be ready. Thank you for the ride.”

Harry hopped behind the wheel and made a U-turn, saluting them when he passed. Elise waved goodbye, her expression shuttered.

The iron-studded hinges screeched on Jack’s front door when he pushed it wide for her. Elise stepped directly into a great room filled with the combined scents of home-cooked food and new paint. Natural light flooded the space. While the furnishings appeared quite chic, the cottage had a laid-back vibe.

Gillian, Jack’s wife, a curvy blonde with merry blue eyes, stood at the AGA—a combo oven cooker. She stirred a pot, her torso wrapped with a baby sling. Thierry, her eight-year-old daughter, sat at the farmhouse table reading a chapter book.

Thierry looked up when the front door slammed. Her eyes darted to Elise, then back to Gillian, as though measuring the distance to safety.

Gillian turned from the AGA with a sunny smile and came over to shake Elise’s hand. “I’m so glad you could come.” She tilted her head toward Elise’s suitcase. “Jack, can you take her bag upstairs?”

“Be happy to. Which room?” Jack picked up Elise’s luggage and started toward an open-rung staircase against the far wall.