Dedication

For Dad

Love you xx

PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

Brighid – Bree-ge (said in a similar way to ‘breeze’)

Eoghan – Owen

Fiadh – Fia

Roísín – Ro-sheen

Aoife – Ee-fah

Cillian – Killian

Siobhan – Shi-von (with a ‘short’ i)

Diarmaid – Dear-mad

1

Another deafening thunderclap boomed over the cottage, as lightning illuminated the dark day. The first rain in months fell heavily as the summer heatwave finally broke, sending that wonderful smell of petrichor drifting in through the open windows. Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to be doing much to clear the humidity, and the air was still clammy as I listened to the steady drip drip drip from my leaking roof into the bucket I’d just emptied. The heat, although stifling, had at least been a respite from the emergency of a failing roof. That was the thing about old properties, they always held another surprise for you – and not always the good kind. My little cottage might look like the picture on a chocolate box but right now it was about as watertight as one. I crossed my fingers that today would help get me one step closer to changing that.

I glanced in the mirror, checking my appearance. I twisted my long auburn hair up and secured it neatly in a clip, keeping it off my neck in an attempt to stay cool, and then headed down the narrow stairs just as the brass doorbell clanged outside. Pulling open the heavy front door revealed the epitome of a tall, dark, handsome – not to mention broad – stranger loitering there. From the emails I’d exchanged so far with the bride whose wedding I was being hired to plan, my initial thoughts were that she had great taste. Now seeing the man she was to marry, it seemed I was right.

He was looking around, striking dark blue eyes taking in the cluster of picturesque houses that hugged the village green, before his gaze returned to my own cottage. I was used to seeing this sense of wonder. I still got it myself at times when I came home, a feeling of surprise that this idyllic scene existed at all, let alone within easy access to London. I smiled, waiting patiently for the ensuing compliment.

‘Jesus,’ the soft Irish accent proclaimed. ‘It’s like something out of Midsomer Murders.’

I forced the smile to stay in place, mentally readjusting my earlier thoughts about the bride’s taste. Clearing my throat, I stepped back from the door to indicate he should enter.

‘Well, the police did find someone last month tied to the railway tracks in the model village with a toy train wedged in his mouth, but apart from that it’s a perfectly lovely place to live. Would you like to come in?’

The man was staring at me.