Dreams of a Little Cornish Cottage

by Nancy Barone

  Also by Nancy Barone

  New Hope for the Cornish Farmhouse

  No Room at the Little Cornish Inn

  DREAMS OF A LITTLE CORNISH COTTAGE

  Nancy Barone

  AN IMPRINT OF HEAD OF ZEUS

  www.ariafiction.com

  First published in the United Kingdom in 2021 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd

  Copyright © Nancy Barone, 2021

  The moral right of Nancy Barone to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (E): 9781838938055

  ISBN (PB): 9781800246188

  Cover design © Cherie Chapman

  Aria

  c/o Head of Zeus

  First Floor East

  5–8 Hardwick Street

  London EC1R 4RG

  www.ariafiction.com

  This novel is dedicated to my beloved husband Nick who is always by my side with a kind word, coffee and cake.

  Contents

  Welcome Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Author Note

  Chapter 1: Man For Hire

  Chapter 2: Domestic Drama

  Chapter 3: Three’s Company

  Chapter 4: Mummy Dear

  Chapter 5: Hotel California

  Chapter 6: The Hounslow

  Chapter 7: The Ex Always Returns

  Chapter 8: Just Like Family

  Chapter 9: Someone Like You

  Chapter 10: The Noughty Boys, Pun Intended

  Chapter 11: Toy Boys and Porky Pies

  Chapter 12: Only You

  Chapter 13: White Lies Have Tiny Legs

  Chapter 14: Because You Thought You’d Figured Him Out

  Chapter 15: The Homecoming

  Chapter 16: The Key to My Heart

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements:

  About the Author

  Become an Aria Addict

  Author Note

  I have always been in awe of the so-called Sandwich Generation, i.e., those super-human beings who take care of their elderly and possibly frail parents alongside their own children. It’s a very demanding position to be in, and only love and patience can give any hope of getting through it. I hope this book makes you smile and realise that you are not alone.

  1

  Man For Hire

  ‘Hello? Mrs Amore?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘My name is Connor Wright. I’m calling about your ad in the paper.’

  Finally. I cleared my throat, my heart pounding. ‘Oh yes?’

  ‘Are you still looking? The ad is a few days old.’

  I was, but if his voice was anything to go by, my search was over. But still, I hesitated. Maybe this was a thing for divorced ladies, but it was a first for me.

  Neil would freak if he knew, but the glory of it was that it was no longer his business – not since he elected to entertain himself with another woman, leaving me all on my own up here in this five-bed mausoleum dedicated to his allegedly noble ancestors. I was just glad that we didn’t have any young children to fight over, both Lizzie and Sarah having moved to Truro to live with their boyfriends.

  ‘I’m assuming you’ll want to meet me first?’ came the polite question.

  ‘Er…’

  A warm, hearty laugh filled the ether. ‘Believe me, I feel as awkward about this as you.’

  I very much doubted that. ‘Well, then. When would you be available for an… interview?’

  ‘I’m available from now onwards, if that’s okay?’

  Now? I gulped. I wasn’t ready. In fact, I’d probably never be ready, but the time had come to inject some novelty and excitement into my life. Yes, it was time for a change. It was time for many changes, in fact. So I gave him my address.

  ‘It’s the first house on the coastal footpath up from Wyllow Cove, if you’re coming from that way. Or the last on Abbot’s Lane if you’re driving?’

  ‘I’m driving.’

  So he wasn’t a local. I’d have recognised his name. There were no more than a hundred of us in the village, pets included.

  ‘Okay, I’ll be waiting,’ I said, wondering how fast I could change out of my clothes and into something decent.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he promised and rang off. Deep voice. Sexy, Irish accent. It all boded very well indeed.

  Missy jumped up onto my lap, and I stroked her dark fur as she rubbed her head against my palm. Affectionate and dependent, she was more like a dog than a cat. The more attention she got, the happier she was. I had thought about getting a dog for years, but Neil had always been allergic, and when Missy showed up one day in the garden soaked to the marrow and shivering, it was love at first Meow.

  ‘Are you hungry, Missy-Moo?’ I cooed and opened a sachet of her favourite, Liver Delight, and dashed up the stairs to change from my yoga pants into a white sundress. Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang.

  But as I moved through the entrance hall to open the door, I realised how stupid I’d been in giving a perfect stranger my address. Maybe we should have met somewhere first, to size each other up politely and walk away with no hard feelings if it didn’t feel right. Because not only was I doing something I never ever thought I would do, I was also being completely reckless about it. The man now on the other side of my front door could have been a nutter. And that alone would have raised the criminal offences of Wyllow Cove of the past fifty years to two, not counting that sheep that went missing about ten years ago.

  I should’ve gone through some sort of agency. Gone online and asked for someone with references. You could do that for this sort of thing, right?

  Before I could think any more about it, I yanked the door open and standing on the threshold before me was a man – a younger man. The first thing that hit me was his friendly smile. Then came the dark mop of loose curls and the lashes so long he could sweep the floor with them. He was tall, but not overly so and there was an air of easiness to him, and even in a pair of faded jeans and a black Zenyatta Mondatta Police T-shirt, he looked formidable. I couldn’t have hoped to meet anyone as gorgeous as this even when I was twenty, but now that I was thirty-nine? Pure fluke.

  My friends and colleagues at Lady magazine had urged, nay, badgered me to go on a date, but I barely had the will to live, let alone to love or have a fling. But this man before me would rearrange anyone’s perspectives. Perhaps even my picky sister Yolanda’s. But this was my little secret, and seeing that I lived high above the village, maybe I had a small shred of a chance of keeping this under wraps for a little while longer. Of course, eventually, it would come out, but for now, I was my own secret agent.

  He smiled amiably as he stretched out a lean but particularly muscled arm. ‘Mrs Amore?’ he said in that deep, velvety voice that had won me, literally, at hello. A voice so warm, like something you’d gladly wrap yourself up in. ‘I’m Connor Wright.’

  ‘Yes, please come in, Mr Wright!’ I practically sang. Never had a name sounded so apt.

  Not only because he was by far the most ravishingly good-looking bloke I’d ever seen, but also because ther
e was something, well, undefinable about him.

  It was in the eyes, and in the curve of his mouth – an innate kindness, a shyness that you didn’t expect. We’d be a perfect fit. And I had got all that in the time it took him to step over the threshold? I must have been going mad. Or I must have been more desperate than I’d thought.

  ‘Please don’t mind the boxes,’ I apologised as he stepped over the threshold and into the large hall. ‘I’m putting my house on the market.’

  ‘You’re grand,’ he simply answered with a dazzling smile and already I could feel my skin tingling with pleasure. Yes, this was going to work out just fine.

  He followed me down the hall to the large kitchen extension at the back, the only area of the house where portraits of Neil’s parents hadn’t been allowed and that had been decorated according to my taste and not his. A huge Shaker-style kitchen done in white and grey with a large island dominating one end of the room extended into a bright orangery awarding a view to the enormous garden and beyond that, the sea. A tartan-style cream and duck egg sofa/daybed and armchairs occupied the opposite corner, with a low coffee table made entirely of driftwood I’d found on the beach below. It was clean, relaxed and airy, without the stuffiness of the empire-style drapes and thick carpeting everywhere else. And now there was not a gilt portrait frame or a coat of arms in sight.

  ‘Very nice, and very tastefully done,’ he said.

  Bloody right. The minute I’d kicked Neil out, down came all the pictures of his ancestors that he’d so proudly displayed in the entrance hall without even asking my opinion. I sensed that Connor, too, preferred this to the grand entrance as he seemed to relax further. Hopefully he’d be more interested in the bedroom, because, truth be told, I had completely gone blank on all the conversation pieces I’d rehearsed.

  ‘Thank you. Have a seat,’ I offered, as I busied myself with filling the kettle and broke open a selection of biscuits, rapidly assembling everything on an Emma Bridgewater plate before him with a composed but friendly, ‘Please help yourself.’ I figured that if we agreed on this, certain formalities would have to be dispensed of, sooner rather than later.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Coffee? Tea?’

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  ‘Coming right up.’

  But when I switched the kettle on, nothing happened. I checked the power point and the ‘on’ switch. Still nothing.

  ‘Mind if I take a look?’ he offered and I moved to the side as he got up to stand next to me by the island, his head cocked at an angle while he removed the kettle from its cradle and examined the underside.

  What a bad show this was. I couldn’t even operate a kettle. I only hoped he didn’t think…? ‘I’ve paid my electricity bill, I promise!’ I blurted.

  ‘No, it’s not that,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘The connection is a bit wonky, see?’

  I craned my neck to examine it, which brought me closer to him. He smelled nice. Like fresh soap and clean clothes.

  He fiddled around with the cord and then, satisfied, put it back down and switched the kettle on again. ‘It’s oxidised. Normally, I’m for repairing rather than running off to buy new when it’s not necessary, but in this case, this one’s on its last legs.’

  ‘Ah. Okay, thank you,’ I said, wondering where to start again, what to say next.

  He, on the other hand, seemed at ease, his bright dark eyes twinkling with good humour and an undercurrent of naughtiness. Or perhaps that was just my imagination.

  As the water finally boiled, I poured two coffees and placed the sugar bowl before him. Even performing simple, mundane tasks felt strange in his presence, let alone anything else.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘Sugar for you?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not for me, thank you. I more than make up for it with my biccies. It’s all yours.’

  He nodded and scooped out three generous spoonfuls, stirring slowly, his eyes never leaving mine as he politely, but still openly, assessed me as he took a sip of coffee, swallowed and reached for a Jaffa Cake.

  I was sizing him up, too, of course, imagining a whole (silent) conversation to match our gestures and faces:

  Him: So, date much, Natalia? I imagined him asking me when his eyebrows raised with curiosity.

  Me (lying through my teeth): Oh, yes, of course. But I prefer quality to quantity. And you, Connor?

  Him: Me, too. He stared into his mug because, as handsome as he was, he was still somewhat shy.

  Me: So what do you think about us? Are we not a perfect fit? Apart from the age difference, I mean.

  And then he looked up at me again. Inquisitively. Him: Yes, you look like you could fit the bill, Natalia. You’ve got proper manners, your own home. Not bad for thirty-nine, either.

  No, scratch that. I wasn’t telling him my age. Let’s not be too revealing.

  Him: Pretty and petite. But with an impressive rack. Perhaps a bit too reserved, and in desperate need of a good sha—

  ‘Is it just you in this great big house, so?’ he asked, putting his mug down on the table and yanking me out of my fantasies. I came to, and his face was polite but still impersonal.

  ‘Yes. If you don’t count Missy, my cat.’ And then, a thought: ‘You’re not allergic, are you? Or to anything else, like down feathers, or…’ I faltered, ready to give up. Who was I fooling? What was I doing here with this pure hunk of eye candy, sipping coffee and eating him with my eyes? Where was my staid self? I didn’t want to give him the impression that all I could think of was sex.

  I sat up. ‘And you? Do tell me a bit about yourself, Mr Wright,’ I urged after clearing my throat loudly. I did that when I was nervous. Of course I shouldn’t have been nervous at the mere sight of a beautiful young man. After all, he really could have been my younger brother, couldn’t he? Not that I had one.

  He reached for another Jaffa Cake, which he popped into his mouth. ‘Call me Connor. There’s nothing much to tell, really. I’m pretty boring. I work in IT, mostly from home.’

  ‘Interesting,’ I said and immediately cringed.

  He laughed and stroked his chin, lightly scratching his stubble, his long fingers cupping the lower half of his face. And what a charming face it was, so different from the cookie-cutter ones you saw around, with laughing, mischievous eyes so beautiful it was unfair. And at the corners of those eyes were tiny laugh-wrinkles, which appeared every time he smiled.

  ‘And you? What do you do, if I may ask? I mean, not that running this lovely household isn’t enough.’

  ‘I’m a monthly contributor to a magazine.’

  ‘Wow. Which one?’

  ‘It’s a female publication – you won’t have heard of it. It’s called Lady.’

  ‘Lady? You’re joking. All the women in my family read it! From my mam to my sisters-in-law. Hang on a minute – Natalia Amore – is it the column That’s Amore?’

  ‘Uhm, yes.’ Heat shot up my neck. I wasn’t exactly counting on being recognised. Plus all this beating around the bush was killing me. So I racked up my courage and said, ‘Connor – I’m really sorry, but I’m rubbish at small talk, so if you don’t mind, let’s skip the formalities. Are you interested?’

  His eyes flickered with amusement.

  If ‘out with the old, in with the new’ was any divorce motto to go by, I’d certainly nailed this one. And that verb was used aptly, because I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d had another man in the house besides Neil, let alone the eye candy now sipping coffee at my table and helping himself to my biscuits like there was no tomorrow. And to think that, hopefully, in a moment he’d be interested enough to go upstairs.

  He pushed his mug away, clearing his throat. ‘I’m more than interested. I’m excited. Shall we go upstairs?’

  The coffee I was just about to swallow spurted out of my mouth and landed on his T-shirt, precisely on Sting’s face.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorryyy!’ I wailed, dashing to the island for some paper towel, but in my haste to get b
ack to him, I tripped over my own feet and lurched towards him. As I hurtled through the air, he reached out a hand to stop me. Just like that, without even breaking a sweat. I liked men with good reflexes. There was something of the primitive in that, which attracted me on an instinctive level.

  ‘Easy, there,’ he said as he took the paper towel from me and dabbed at his chest.

  ‘Oh, I’m an absolute disaster today! I’m not making a very good impression, am I?’ I apologised.

  ‘You’re perfectly fine,’ he assured me. Liar. But I wanted him to stay even more now.

  ‘Thank you. You’re very kind.’

  ‘Do I pass muster too?’ he asked with a grin.

  ‘Well, uhm… the thing is, Wyllow Cove is a tiny village and I really don’t want anyone knowing about our arrangement for as long as possible. Can you guarantee absolute discretion…?’

  He crossed his heart with his index finger and sent me a knowing grin that made my chaste and very lonely white cotton knickers sizzle for the first time in years.

  ‘Discretion is my middle name.’

  I bristled. Of course it was. His clothes might have been plain, but his Jeep outside said a lot about his income, and I was thinking that at this point I probably needed him more than he needed me.

  I moved my hands from the spoon on the table to my lap, out of sight. No need for him to see I was shaking like jelly, was there? After all, I called the shots. But if that was so, why couldn’t I keep still? The idea of having such a handsome man at my disposal, and guilt-free, to boot (well, almost) was foreign to me.

  ‘Are you single?’ I blurted out.

  ‘Divorced.’ He grinned. ‘We didn’t see eye to eye anymore.’

  And suddenly, I wasn’t so sure. Up until a moment ago it had felt like a great idea – you know, after the divorce, get my freedom back and all that, but now? My friends were bound to find out and I’d die of shame.

  ‘If you’re not convinced,’ he said softly.