The Summer House of Happiness: A delightfully feel-good romantic comedy perfect for holiday!. Daisy James

the alternative scenario – to feel nothing at all, to be cold and unmoved by life’s tragedies, wading through life like some kind of automaton?

      She paid the driver, watched him screech off to collect his next victim of the silent treatment, and inhaled a steadying breath, taking a few moments to cast her eyes around the place that had been her home for twenty-one years. No matter how hard she had tried to block out this image of bucolic beauty and replace it with an equally picturesque image of Grasse, she had never quite managed it.

      Her heart hummed with affection. The village had once been selected as the setting for a TV murder-mystery drama and the locals hadn’t stopped dropping the fact into dinner-party conversations ever since. It was no surprise it had been a star performer, with its thatched roofs, painted window boxes bursting with scarlet geraniums, and the welcoming allure of the village pub – The Pear Tree. However, for Gabbie, it was the people who made the place so special. Every single one of the residents had rallied round to support her and her father in their hour of need; in fact, they still did.

      An upsurge of emotion tightened her throat as her eyes were drawn to the church on the other side of the village green, but she just didn’t have the courage to linger on what had happened within its walls. She hitched her canvas bag higher up her shoulder, hooked her fingers around the handle of her wheelie suitcase, and fixed her gaze on the sign in front of her. Immediately the corners of her mouth perked upwards.

      Jeff Andrews Autos.

      For the first time, she noticed that the blue-and-silver paint had started to peel like sunburnt skin and a couple of the letters were missing. When had that happened? Further inspection revealed that the double doors, currently flung wide open in an expansive and welcoming gesture, could also do with a fresh coat of paint, and there was a tangle of weeds sprouting from the hanging baskets instead of the pale-pink fuchsias her mother had planted every year as part of the RHS Britain in Bloom competition.

      Gabbie cringed. Had Andrews Autos let the side down this year?

      She stepped onto the forecourt that had been her playground and classroom for as long as she could remember. The familiar tang of engine oil, mingled with a soupcon of rusty nail and the freshly ground coffee her father loved, invaded her nostrils and caused her lips to curl even higher. Some people loved the smell of roses, or perhaps the whiff of lavender or recently mown grass, but for her the aroma of old engine oil caused her memories to scoot back to her childhood, to the happy times when she had performed the role of mechanic’s mate in her father’s beloved garage.

      By the age of six she could name every make and model of vehicle, and at eleven could deliver a confident diagnosis of potential engine faults. She had been Jeff Andrews’ secret weapon when the car repairs were behind schedule because a part had taken ages to arrive from the manufacturer – for who could get annoyed with a cute eleven-year-old dressed in her own oily dungarees, her chestnut-brown ringlets tied back in a red handkerchief, and waving a spanner like a magic wand? She had never had the slightest interest in playing with dolls or wearing pretty dresses, preferring to climb trees or race the local boys down to the river where she could swing from the branches with the best of them.

      So engrossed was she in her memories that she had failed to notice the mechanic wiping his hands on an oily rag and surveying her from beneath the longest, darkest eyelashes she had ever seen on a guy. When their eyes met, she was surprised at the way sparks of electricity shot through her veins and rippled out to her fingertips.

      ‘Hi, there. Can I help you?’ asked the Adonis, striding out to greet her with a wide smile on his face, causing a pair of cute dimples to bracket his surprisingly full lips. He smirked when he caught her eyes lingering on his mouth and heat seeped into her cheeks.

      God! What was the matter with her? She swallowed quickly, astonished to find her throat was dry, mortified when her words came out of her mouth in a strangled squeak.

      ‘Oh, I… erm…’

      ‘You know, if you need the help of a garage mechanic, you really should bring the vehicle with you!’ Even the guy’s chuckle was music to her ears.

      ‘Yes, I…’

      Gabbie couldn’t remember the last time she had been tongue-tied in front of anyone, even someone as handsome as the man standing in front of her – who was clearly revelling in the effect he was having on her, which made her feel even more awkward. What was going on? It was as though her heart – and body – had taken on lives of their own, taunting her brain to pull them back into line like a pair of naughty schoolchildren.

      ‘And before we go any further, let me ask you this. Have you checked the fuel gauge? I know how inconvenient it is, but engines don’t run on fresh air, you know. You do have to top them up with petrol occasionally.’

      The man laughed as he tossed the oily rag onto the bonnet of the gorgeous, lipstick-red E-Type Jaguar he had been working on before she arrived. He turned back to face her, hands on his hips, confident in his environment and clearly taking her for a typical woman driver who had as much idea how the internal combustion engine worked as how to split the atom.

      ‘I’m not here for car repairs,’ Gabbie managed, casting a quick glance round the cathedral-like room where, apart from the Jaguar, there was a Volvo, a Fiat 500 and a Ford Transit van jacked up over the inspection pits.

      ‘Well, I’m afraid that’s all that’s on offer here… for the moment.’

      The way he said the last three words sounded like liquid caramel flowing over chocolate ice cream and caused sparkles of desire to shoot through Gabbie’s abdomen and southwards. She watched him reach up to run his fingertips through the quiff at his forehead and scratch at the back of his neck. At last able to bring her errant emotions under control, she almost laughed out loud. Had she somehow inadvertently stumbled upon a rehearsal for a Diet Coke ad?

      Despite the fact that his navy-blue overalls had seen better days and were liberally dotted with splodges of oil, the uniform suited him perfectly. The sleeves had been rolled up to his elbows to reveal a smattering of golden hairs on his forearms and he clearly worked out because his biceps stretched the fabric covering his upper arms to bursting point. However, the image of photographic perfection was tempered by the distinct whiff of creosote which seemed to emanate from his direction, which, for other women, might have proved a mood dampener. Shame she wasn’t one of those women, because she felt the pull of physical attraction strengthen.

      Suddenly, conveniently, she remembered his name. Max Fitzgerald. But from the way her father had described his new deputy when they had met in London at the end of June, she had pictured him much older than in his early thirties – and a lot less like a Fifties’ matinée idol! Perhaps she should have quit her job at House of Gasnier sooner!

      ‘Hey! The wanderer returns! Welcome back!’ came an excited voice from the office whose window onto the forecourt had been blocked by a tottering pile of cardboard boxes. ‘I didn’t know you were coming home!’

      ‘Wil! Great to see you!’

      Gabbie enjoyed the confusion on Max’s face as she hugged the guy her father had taken on as a trainee when he’d failed every one of his GCSEs after his father’s death in a road-traffic accident ten years ago. He wasn’t the best mechanic in the world but their customers loved his cheeky grin and his insistence on accompanying their MOT invoices with a cupcake whipped up and decorated with his own fair hands. Unsurprisingly, the generous gesture had increased business and Wil could usually be heard extolling the virtues of coupling cars and cupcakes to anyone who queried the business model.

      ‘How’s your mum?’ Gabbie asked.

      ‘She’s doing fine. She’ll be so pleased to hear you’ve made it home for a visit – what’s it been? Three, four months? She’s just back from a girls’ trip to Majorca with Aunt Helen. Loved it – even threatening to take a Spanish conversation class at the high school next month, would you believe!’

      ‘Sounds like a great idea.’

      ‘It would be if she wasn’t insisting on dragging me along to do my maths