I plunged one hand into my bag dangling down from the side of my chair and reached for the letter he wrote to Lily. He could have at least been honest with her all those years ago, if he had no intention of coming back. But if he was capable of doing that, he would be more than capable of not showing up to see me. Had this been a complete waste of time? I had to return this letter to her, but I knew I would have to carefully consider how to do that. The last thing I wanted was her to suspect me of snooping around Merry Wood.

A few more minutes ticked past.

I poured the remnants of my tea into my cup. I would finish this and then go. Served me right for getting involved. He had stood me up. What a coward.

“Leonie Baxter?”

I snapped my head up from my dainty cup and saucer and came face to face with a man possessing a set of stunning hammered-silver eyes.

He had a camera suspended around his neck. “Sorry about that,” he said, not sounding at all sorry.

The man shrugged off the camera around his neck and placed it on the table. He was tall with a halo of wild, dark curls that he had slicked away from his chiselled face. There was the faintest dash of stubble on his chin and a defiant arch to his thick brows. There was something wolfish about his features. On closer inspection, I estimated him to be in his mid-thirties. He was very attractive and I found myself feeling self-conscious.

Who was this? He must have confused me with someone else. I opened my mouth to explain I was waiting for someone. Then I noticed he was wearing a crisp white shirt and a navy-blue waistcoat.

I rose up from my chair, my mouth flopping open.

He extended one hand towards me. His voice was a deep mash-up of Anglified Scottish. “Hi there. I’m Flynn Talbot.”

Chapter Nineteen

I continued to stare at him, bewildered. “Flynn Talbot? You’re Flynn Talbot?”

He frowned at me from under those thundery brows. “I was the last time I looked. Is that a problem?”

What was going on here? “Yes. No. I mean, I just expected you to be older.”

I sank back down in my chair. This didn’t make any sense. Who was this? He was nothing like the Flynn Talbot my imagination had conjured up – and he must have been at least forty years younger too.

“Oh, excuse me for a second.” He plucked his ringing mobile out of his jacket pocket and proceeded to talk to the caller about something called the “blue hour” and “depth of field”.

After a few moments, he rang off. “Sorry about that – a client of mine who’s commissioning me to take some shots of his property portfolio.”