“It involves calling that local builder Zac recruited to help him when we first moved in. If he can fit us in, we’ll give him the keys to the cottage and ask him to fix it while we’re away.”

She took a deep breath. “But we’re not going to Lapland for a few more days. And you need peace and quiet to prepare for your interview. And rest. We can’t sleep in that bedroom, and the bed won’t fit in Holly’s room. I had a detailed plan for the next few days that allowed you time to prepare for your interview but still have rest and good food and—”

“Shh.” He covered her lips with his fingers. “Give me your plan. Your book. Where is it?”

She retrieved it from a drawer and handed it to him. “I thought we could—oh!” She watched as he tossed it out with the burned remains of the duck. “What are you doing?”

“Throwing away your plan. It’s making you miserable because life doesn’t work that way, and it’s making me miserable, too. We’re going off book. Spontaneous. Starting right now. Go and pack.”

“Pack for what?” Her heart raced. She actually felt a little panicky knowing that her plan, her list, was currently lying alongside potato peelings. That list was her life. She wasn’t sure she could handle things without it.

“We’re going on a romantic minibreak.”

“What? Seb, we can’t just go.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” She floundered. Could she say It’s not on my list? “We haven’t planned it.”

“I’m planning it now.” He was on his phone, scrolling through and searching.

Was he serious? “I have book group tomorrow. I have to make a quiche.” Item four on her list.

He glanced up from his phone. “You hate book group. You always say they sneer at your choice of reading.”

“They do, and I don’t love it, you’re right, but we’re trying to be part of the community, and I can’t not go.”

“Of course you can. Life is too short to spend time with people who make you feel bad about yourself. Call her and say something came up.”

“You mean lie?”

“It isn’t exactly lying. Something did come up.”

“You don’t know Alison Whitley the way I do. She can be so disapproving.”

“So what? Why do you need her good opinion?” He lowered his phone. “Wait a minute. You’re actually scared of that moody old bat?”

“Yes! She was headmistress of the local school for thirty years. She makes me feel as if I should be in detention.”

He shook his head. “You are choosing book group over a romantic minibreak?”

She was choosing it because the alternative was a difficult conversation.

On the other hand, this was her marriage, and he was offering time alone. Time to talk.

She sat up straighter. “No, I’m not. I’ll text her and say I’ve got a bad stomach.” The mere thought of the conversation would probably give her a bad stomach, so it wouldn’t be a lie.