Wedding Bells at Butterfly Cove. Sarah Bennett

be more than a flight of fancy. The corner of a thatched roof was visible, crouching low over whitewashed walls and dark-framed square windows. Trellis covered part of the lower walls, thick with greenery and white-pink flowers. A proper chocolate-box cottage.

      A loud thud and a sharp curse shattered the idyllic illusion. ‘Bloody hell, Karen. Be careful!’ Not a local accent, more the drawn-out vowels of the Midlands.

      ‘I told you it was too heavy for me. We should have got a proper firm in, instead of trying to do it ourselves.’ The woman’s protest carried a similar twang.

      Curious, Aaron rested the bike against the open gate and hooked his helmet over the handlebars. A few strides down the drive brought him face to face with a sweating, frowning man about the same age as him, struggling to hold one end of a heavy-looking chest of drawers. The other end rested on the ground in front of an exasperated blonde. A white box van stood behind them, the tailgate down. He gave the couple a grin and a friendly wave. ‘Hey. Sorry to intrude. I was cycling by just now and it sounded like you might need a hand.’

      The blonde cast him a tired smile. ‘Thank you. We’ve bitten off a bit more than we can chew here.’ She held out her hand. ‘Hi, I’m Karen. D’you live around here?’

      Aaron stepped forward, shook her hand, then offered his own to the man, who’d placed his end of the dresser down. ‘Aaron. My friends live a couple of miles down the road, at Butterfly Cove.’

      ‘Dave.’ They shook hands. ‘Never heard of it. We’re down here trying to sort out Karen’s great aunt’s place.’ He gestured with his head towards the cottage. ‘She passed a couple of months ago, left her the cottage and all its contents in her will.’

      Karen folded her arms across her chest and rubbed her biceps in a self-soothing gesture. A frown creased between her brows. ‘I didn’t really know her. She was my nan’s sister and I hadn’t seen her since I was a kid. She never married, some sad story about a lost love in the war, I remember nan telling me once. Turns out I’m her only living relative so it all came to me. Not that we can do anything with the place. There’s a few things we want to take, but we don’t have room for it and we can’t keep two houses running.’ Colour lit her cheeks and she gave an embarrassed little laugh. ‘Not that you want to hear our life story.’

      Aaron stared at the cottage. Weeds had claimed the flowerbeds beneath the windows, and the paint was peeling a bit in places, but it looked sound enough. His mind started whirring. Luke would need to take a look, of course, and a proper surveyor. He could ask Richard for details of a local solicitor; Dave and Karen could use the one who’d handled her great aunt’s will. The flat in town had a two-month clause on the lease, but he was pretty sure he could find someone to take it off his hands quicker than that. Interest rates on his cash ISA were in the toilet, so it wasn’t like he’d be losing any interest if he withdrew it for a deposit…

      A rushing sound filled his ears and he could feel his heart thumping in his chest. He didn’t do impulsive. Steady, solid, the man with the plan. A house martin swooped past and disappeared into the eaves. Feeling light-headed, light-hearted and thoroughly unlike himself, he turned to the couple. ‘So, you’re looking to sell the place then?’

Chapter Three

      Tap, tap, tap. ‘Hellooo? Mizz Sutherland, are you there?’ Mia closed her eyes and sent up a silent prayer for patience. They’d been open for guests for two weeks now and their grand-opening weekend had been such a success, it had spoiled her into believing running Butterfly House would be a doddle. Then the Chivers had arrived on Thursday for a five-night stay. Ten minutes of Mrs Chivers’ pointed disappointment in, well, everything had poured cold water on Mia’s cocky confidence. From the supposed inferior quality of the sheets on their bed in the beach room… ‘One expects at least five-hundred thread count from a quality establishment’… to the disdainful sniff given to the homemade chicken pie Mia had served for the previous evening’s supper… ‘It’s so hard to get an even, thin crust, isn’t it, dear?’… Mrs Chivers had picked and poked until Mia was ready to offer a full refund if she would just leave.

      ‘Bugger that,’ had been Daniel’s response to her suggestion. ‘Make the miserable old bat pay.’ She would have laughed if he hadn’t said it almost loud enough for her awkward guest to hear it. By contrast, Mr Chivers couldn’t have been kinder, and Mia wondered if he spent so many hours exploring the little beach behind the house as an excuse for a bit of peace and quiet.

      Fixing a smile on her lips, Mia tugged off her washing-up gloves and turned towards the closed kitchen door. ‘It’s not locked, Mrs Chivers, please come in.’

      Looking immaculate in a camel-coloured blouse and matching cords tucked into a pair of spotless walking boots, she looked as fresh as when she’d come down to breakfast that morning. Her highlighted hair, just a shade too perfect to be natural, swung around her face in a millimetre-perfect bob. ‘It’s such a pleasant afternoon, we thought we’d take tea on the patio.’

      ‘Of course. The scones are just warming in the oven. Why don’t you make yourselves comfortable and I’ll bring everything out to you shortly?’

      ‘That would be lovely, dear. I don’t suppose you have different preserves? Homemade has its place, but when one is used to Fortnum’s…’ Mrs Chivers heaved a martyred sigh so exaggerated that Mia had to bite her lip not to laugh.

      ‘Lady Begley will be sorry to hear her bramble jelly doesn’t meet your expectations.’ Mia busied herself removing the scones from the Aga, counting slowly to ten in her head. One, two, three…

      ‘Lady Begley?’ Was that a slight sputter? God, Mia hoped so.

      Schooling her features, she began to lay the scones on the waiting cooling rack. ‘Yes, from the Hall. Didn’t you and Mr Chivers visit the gardens yesterday? Lady Begley is passionate about traditional homecrafts and most of the pickles and preserves they sell in their farm shop are made by her. I thought it would be a nice touch to cross-promote a local business.’

      Mrs Chivers smoothed a nervous hand over her sleek hair. ‘Yes, well, perhaps our palettes have been slightly spoiled by mass-market products.’

      Mia schooled her features into a bland smile. ‘I’m sure that’s it.’

      The faint whirr of a drill sounded from outside. Although they’d made it clear at time of booking that conversion works were taking place in the barns, Daniel worked hard to schedule the noisy stuff for when their guests were out for the day. When they’d spoken at breakfast, the couple had planned to spend the day walking on Dartmoor and Mia hadn’t expected to see them much before supper. Afternoon tea had been hastily put together, but her fridge and pantry were well stocked enough to cover it without any trouble.

      Mrs Chivers frowned and Mia cut her off before another complaint could be raised. ‘Why don’t you go and join your husband on the patio, and I’ll run out and tell Daniel to pack up for the day? I’ll bring your tray straight afterwards.’ Mrs Chivers pursed her lips, but didn’t say anything else.

      ‘Daniel?’ Mia peered around the door of the barn, but didn’t venture inside. He stood with his back to her, arms raised a bit above shoulder height as he drilled another hole in the wooden partition. The pose tightened his dusty T-shirt and she took a moment to admire the view. There was just something about a man working with his hands that made her shivery in all the right places. Not any man, though. Him. Daniel had a single-minded intensity he applied to every task, whether working or playing. But she had her guests to think of. Maybe later, when they were alone in their room on the third floor, she could find him some manual labour… She raised her voice over the drilling and called his name again.

      The noise cut out, and he turned, tugging down his face mask to reveal his bright smile through the dark hair of his beard. ‘Hello, love, everything all right?’

      ‘Oh yes, just admiring your handiwork.’ She cast him a fake-innocent look from under her lashes. ‘I think the