Page 32 of Rescue

Before I can protest, Layla is already dashing back up the stairs toward the bedroom, her giggles trailing behind her.

“Layla, wait!” I call after her, but it’s too late.

From upstairs, I hear a loud thud, followed by Jon’s unmistakable groan and a muttered curse.

“You said a bad word again, Doctor Jon!” Layla shouts gleefully. “And banged your toe!”

I cringe, pressing my fingers to my temples as Nancy stifles a laugh beside me. “Morning chaos suits you,” she teases.

By the time I step into the bedroom, Jon is sitting on the edge of the mattress, his face twisted in a mix of resignation and disbelief. He’s in nothing but his boxers, one hand massaging his foot and the other holding a corner of the duvet he clearly tried—and failed—to hide under.

Layla, meanwhile, is bouncing on her toes in front of him, his jeans in her hand, grinning like she’s just discovered the world’s best secret.

“Give him his trousers, Layla,” I say firmly, trying to inject some authority into the situation.

“But he hasn’t said please,” she counters, her mischievous giggles bubbling over.

Jon exhales a long, defeated sigh before looking at her. “Please, Layla?”

Satisfied, she hands over the trousers, then skips back down the stairs toward Nancy, announcing loudly, “Doctor Jon is coming with us to the farmers market!”

Jon tugs his trousers on with as much dignity as he can muster before fixing me with an exasperated stare. “What exactly was I supposed to do?” he asks dryly.

“Make up an excuse!” I hiss, throwing my hands up.

He smirks, leaning back against the headboard. “Not exactly how I imagined waking up this morning. I’m stressed out and it’s not even eight.”

“You’re stressed out?” I snap, my voice rising. “I have to explain this to my six-year-old, deal with Nancy’s smug grin for the next week, and somehow survive the farmers market without Layla announcing to everyone we meet that she found you in my bed.”

Jon tilts his head thoughtfully, his smirk deepening. “Just tell them I stayed over for bedtime stories.”

I groan, sinking onto the mattress. “I’m tired again.”

He chuckles, finally standing to pull on his shirt. “Welcome to the club.”

The farmer’s market is buzzing with life, the air filled with the warm scent of freshly baked bread, the sharp tang of cider, and the earthy aroma of fresh produce. Layla skips ahead of us, her little hand occasionally darting out topoint at a stall selling colourful jams or a table piled high with honeycomb.

Jon walks at my side, his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, looking far more at ease than I expected after this morning’s debacle. Meanwhile, Nancy has taken up her usual spot on my other side, casting frequent, curious glances at him.

“So, Jon,” Nancy says casually, though I can hear the mischief in her voice. “What’s next for you? I mean, after your Yorkshire retreat. Heading back to save the world, or do you have a less dramatic plan in mind?”

“Nancy,” I warn lightly, shooting her a look. But Jon surprises me by smiling faintly, his expression calm.

“I haven’t decided yet,” he says. “Still working that out.”

Nancy grins, undeterred. “Working it out, hmm? Sounds like a man with options. Do any of them involve staying in a picturesque little hamlet with, say, a charming B&B owner?”

My cheeks flush, and I nearly trip over a loose cobblestone. “Nancy!” I hiss, but she waves me off with an innocent shrug.

Jon chuckles, the sound low and relaxed. “Not sure that St Claire is ready for me as a permanent resident,” he says. “I’m more comfortable being a guest.”

“That’s a shame,” Nancy presses, clearly enjoying herself. “I think you’d do quite well here. Quiet life, fresh air, lovely company…”

“Don’t you have some jam to buy?” I cut in, trying to steer her toward a nearby stall.

“I’m just saying,” Nancy says, holding up her hands in mock surrender. “A man like Jon could settle in nicely. Don’t you think, Abby?”

“Stop it,” I mutter, feeling the heat creep further up my neck.

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