It wasn’t what she would have chosen herself, but even she had to admit it was cozy.

She kissed her daughter, left the bedroom door ajar and headed downstairs.

The sick feeling had become a knot of tension.

She laid the table for dinner. Lit candles, then blew them out when there was still no sign of him an hour later. She turned off the oven.

She’d made the casserole while Holly had been watching half an hour of TV.

Her own mother had refused to have a television in the house. Christy’s childhood had been a roundabout of carefully curated learning. Violin lessons, piano lessons, ballet classes, riding lessons, art appreciation and Mandarin lessons. Her mother had insisted that every moment of her time should be spent productively. Flopping on the sofa was frowned upon, unless it was done with a book in hand. Tell me about the book, Christy. Let’s discuss it.

Christy eyed the slim book that had been taking up space on the side table for weeks. The cover reminded her that it had won a major literary award, but each time Christy sat down to read it she never made it past the second chapter. She already knew the main character died. The people were horrible, and they made horrible choices, which meant the ending could only be one thing: horrible. Why was it that books worthy of the book group were always depressing? What was good about a book that left you feeling miserable? She couldn’t bring herself to read it, which meant she’d have to read some reviews on the internet if she had any hope of sounding intelligent and engaged. What would I have done differently if I’d been in the same situation? Everything!

She glanced out the window into the darkness.

Still no Seb.

By the time she finally heard the sound of his car in the drive, the casserole was cold and congealed.

She smoothed her hair, closed her eyes briefly and took a deep breath.

She’d pretend nothing was wrong. It would be fine. And maybe she was imagining things anyway, and the whole thing would go away. There was probably a simple explanation.

By the time he opened the front door she was ready and waiting. She even managed a smile.

“You’re so late. I was worried. Did your meetings overrun? You must be exhausted.” She hovered, heart aching, mind racing.

“Yes. Sorry.” He hung up his coat. Kissed her briefly. “Freezing out there.”

“Yes. They’re saying it might even snow. Can you believe that?”

Were they really talking about the weather? What had happened to them?

Her mood plummeted even further.

Seb followed her into the kitchen, forgot to duck and smacked his head on the low doorway.

“Damn it. This house hates me. Why didn’t the guy who built it make the doors higher?” He rubbed his forehead and glared at the doorway of the kitchen.

“They probably weren’t as tall as you.” For once it felt as if she and the cottage were on the same side. She felt hurt, betrayed and more than a little angry with him for proving Alix right.