Page 7 of Rescue

Layla giggles from her stool, chocolate smeared on her cheek. “Maybe he’s a wizard!” she says, her voice high and excited. “Like Merlin!”

Nancy gasps in delight, playing along. “Oh, I like that one! What if he’s come here because there’s a magical portal in the Dales? He needs to bake muffins with your mum to power his wand.”

Layla squeals with laughter, clapping her hands together and nearly sending the chocolate chips flying, of course completely oblivious to the double meaning of Nancy’s words. “Mum, we have to bake him a magic muffin!”

I can’t help but laugh. “Layla, I think Mr Peterson’s going to need normal food, not wizard snacks.”

Nancy ignores me, her imagination running wild. “No, no, he’s definitely tortured. Maybe he’s working through heartbreak. His fiancée left him at the altar, and now he’s come to the Yorkshire Dales to find himself... or maybe to find love again.”

“Nance, you’ve got to stop reading those romance novels,” I say, though I’m trying not to laugh.

“Don’t crush my dreams, Abby! What if Jon Peterson isthe onefor you? Imagine it—he stumbles into your kitchen, rain-soaked and apologetic, only to find you baking muffins with flour on your nose. He realises instantly that you’re the one who can heal his broken heart.”

“Let me guess,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Then I hand him a muffin, our fingers touch, and we fall madly in love?”

“Yes!” Nancy says, clapping her hands. “You get it! And then there’s a moment with the power out and just a single candle lighting the room—”

“I think I’ve heard enough, thank you,” I say, laughing as I swat at her with the tea towel.

Layla pipes up, grinning from ear to ear. “Can I be in the story too? I’ll make him magic potions!”

“Absolutely,” Nancy says, winking at her niece.

She's still grinning as I head to the door, but her antics leave me with a faint twist of nerves. It’s ridiculous, really—Jon Peterson is just another guest. Still, something about his three-week booking has me curious.

I push open the door and step outside, the late afternoon sun warm on my face.

The driver’s side door opens, and out steps a man—tall, dark hair, glasses perched on his nose. He’s dressed casually, but there’s something about the way he carries himself that feels… different. Calm, but distant. His gaze scans the cottage, his face unreadable, and for a moment, he doesn’t notice me.

I clear my throat, smiling as I step forward. “Hello! Welcome to Sunshine Cottage.”

He turns, his eyes landing on me, and I catch the faintest flicker of something in his expression—surprise, maybe, or hesitation. Up close, I notice the stubble on his jaw, the tired set of his shoulders. He nods, stepping toward me with a measured stride.

“Yes,” he says, his voice deep and quiet. “Jon Peterson.”

My brain does a little double take. Of course, Nancy’s words from earlier come rushing back in vivid detail, and for some ridiculous reason, my cheeks feel warm.

“Welcome, Mr Peterson,” I manage, keeping my voice steady. “I’m Abigail, Abigail Carter.”

He nods again, polite but distant.

“You’ve come on a good day,” I add, gesturing to the warm sunlight overhead. “Weather like this isn’t always guaranteed in Yorkshire.”

There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, but it doesn’t quite make it to a smile. “Lucky, then.”

“Shall I help with your bags?” I ask, stepping toward the boot.

He shakes his head quickly, almost too quickly. “No need. I’ve got it.”

His tone isn’t rude, exactly, but it’s clipped, leaving little room for further conversation. I step back as he opens the boot, retrieving a large suitcase and a smaller bag.

“Well, let me show you to your room then,” I say, forcing my usual cheerfulness. “It’s got a lovely view of the hills. And if there’s anything you need, just let me know.”

“Thanks,” he replies simply, falling into step behind me as I lead the way toward the cottage.

I steal a quick glance at him over my shoulder. He does have an air of sadness about him.Stop it, Abby, I scoldmyself.Just because he’s not chatty doesn’t mean you need to start imagining tragic backstories.

“Mind your step,” I say as we enter the cottage. “The floor can be a bit uneven. Old houses have their quirks, don’t they?”

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