She was grateful that Conor had accompanied her even though he was shaking his head with patronising exasperation.

‘Promise you, whatever it is, is no bigger than a weasel or a fox. If it was anything bigger like a deer you’d hear it crashing through the undergrowth.’

He set off again and she hurried after him up to the front door.

‘Here you go, madam. Have you got your key?’

There was an electric silence between them and she made the mistake of glancing at his lips, remembering in a sudden rush the last time they’d been outside a door together. His mouth twitched. Oh God, he remembered too. The two of them kissing furiously, his hand tugging at her top, her fingers undoing buttons, as he fumbled with the key card.

They stood in awkward but very-aware-of-each-other silence in the tiny porch as she delved into her bag for her key. Her uncooperative fingers scrabbled about like fat sausages as she tried to gain purchase on the stupid thing nestled at the bottom of her handbag.

Conor leaned back against the oak post, his arms folded and a smile on his face as Hannah felt her face heat up. At last, she found it.

‘Got it.’ She held the key up in triumph, gripped between finger and thumb, and then the dratted thing pinged out of her hand and bounced on the floor with a metallic clink.

They both ducked to their knees on the floor to find it, her fingers brushing over the wooden planks in the darkness. His warm hand nudged and covered hers for a brief second and they both pulled back with the shock of the touch as if they’d been zapped with a brief burst of electricity.

‘Here, let me,’ snapped Conor, pulling out his phone and switching on the torch function.

The light cast dark shadows on the grim set of his face. He really didn’t want to be here and Hannah felt embarrassed by her continuing response to him. The camaraderie of the pub had made her forget that for her own self-preservation she was supposed to be keeping her distance from him.