I’m not sure if mutual hair compliments are the strangest thing I’ve ever done with a guy, but I’m definitely the most contented I’ve ever been, sitting here leaning against a tree to the back and a gorgeous Scotsman to the left, so relaxed it would be easy to fall asleep – unless that’s just exhaustion from all the saw-wielding – and his fingers are still weaving themselves through my hair.

‘Tell me about London,’ I blurt out.

‘Capital of England, UK’s largest city, population of about eight million …’

‘Ha ha.’ I reach over and whack his thigh. ‘I meant tell me about what happened to you there. You obviously hate the place.’

‘I don’t hate it.’ He sighs. ‘I hate the person I became there. It wasn’t the city’s fault, it was my own.’

I nudge his arm with my elbow where he’s still leaning against me. ‘You know you have to elaborate on that, right?’

Without moving his head from my shoulder, his eyes shift up and catch mine. ‘Somehow I don’t mind that with you.’ He closes his eyes and settles his head until it’s more comfortable. ‘I was slowly killing myself there. I got a job straight out of university, and I drowned myself in it so I didn’t have to think about the farm and the family I’d left behind. If I was there, working, I could pretend that my dad was still alive and well up here, and if I just didn’t come back, it wouldn’t be real.’

‘What did you do there?’

‘Investment banker.’

‘You?’ I say in surprise. I want to see his face so I can work out if he’s joking or not, but nothing in the world could persuade me to dislodge the way we’re leaning against each other. I settle for my voice rising to a pitch usually reserved for the dolphin species. ‘You were an investment banker? That’s the furthest thing away from anything I can ever imagine you doing.’

‘I think that’s what attracted me to it in the first place. I wanted something that was a million miles from the farm I was supposed to take over after my dad died.’

The hand that’s not tangled in my hair has gradually crept across his lap until it’s resting against my thigh, and I find myself automatically rubbing my fingers over his palm as he talks, my nails catching on the grooves in his work-rough skin.