The morning was dry but the heavy rain of the day before had left its mark. The ground squelched underfoot, wet leaves on mud making it slippery in places. Once she crossed the humpbacked bridge, it was safe to start her run. She glanced the way she’d gone the day before, gave a slight smile and headed in the other direction.

There were a couple of narrowboats moored. Molly ran past, picking up speed, careful to avoid the worst of the puddles. There were locks along this stretch of the canal; she looked up as she rounded a bend and the first came into view. Painted white, they stood out against the predominately green surroundings, but it wasn’t their colour that made Molly stumble and slow to a halt.

There was a man standing beside the lock, leaning on one of the lock paddles. His back was to her, but she could tell from his slim-hipped broad-shouldered physique that it was the man she’d met the day before. Perhaps he lived on one of the narrowboats she had passed? Or perhaps he was a figment of her overactive imagination? An illusion conjured up by her paranoid, confused brain.

She stood staring, shifting her weight from foot to foot. What had Amelia said? You should try something new, do something different. There would be no harm in going over and saying hello, would there? Then Molly was beside him, a tentative smile on her lips. ‘Hi.’

It was a second before he turned as if he were lost in his own thoughts, a second that gave Molly time to admire the classic line of his jaw, and acknowledge the lust that had set her groin tingling and her heart pounding.

When he turned, stunning turquoise eyes boring into hers, her first thought was that Amelia had been wrong, that colour eye did exist and the second that she had been equally wrong, she should never have stopped.

‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Aren’t canal locks fascinating?’ He moved around the paddle and stood at the edge of the lock chamber staring down.

She stood uncertainly, watching as he leaned forward, then she took a few steps to stand beside him. The walls of the deep chamber were green with moss and slime, the water at the bottom dark and eerie. It wasn’t pleasant. She turned to him instead.

‘Some lock chambers have ladders in case people accidently fall in. This one,’ he said, ‘doesn’t.’

Molly had no interest in the lock; she was mesmerised by the man, by his chiselled cheekbones and sculpted lips, his low husky voice as he spoke about the workings of the lock. She remembered an expression Freya had used about some movie star – sex on legs – it was a description that suited him perfectly. When his hand reached for her, sliding around her waist, she decided Amelia was right, she was going to grab the moment and to hell with the consequences.