Dreams of a Little Cornish Cottage: A cosy and uplifting romance that you won't be able to put down

Also by Nancy Barone

The Husband Diet Trilogy:

1. The Husband Diet

2. My Big Fat Italian Break-Up

3. Storm in a D Cup

Standalone novels:

Snow Falls Over Starry Cove

Starting Over at the Little Cornish Beach House

Dreams of a Little Cornish Cottage

No Room at the Little Cornish Inn

New Hope for the Little Cornish Farmhouse

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 there 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 back 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.

I caught sight of his eyes, as dark as the unknown world I was about to jump into. ‘It’s just that I’ve never done this before, you see.’

‘I know,’ he whispered. ‘But you have your reasons and you don’t have to answer to anybody anymore.’

I snorted. ‘You should put that on a business card.’

He grinned a sexy grin. ‘I keep it on the quiet side. You know.’

I looked at him. In a parallel world, I should’ve been born ten years later – to say the least – and met him instead of bloody Neil.

They say that forty is the new twenty. So technically, I was only nineteen.

‘What’s your hourly rate for the uhm… extras I require?’ I asked.

‘It depends. Do you want me to fit you in as a regular?’

‘Oh. Do you… have many other regulars?’

He hesitated. ‘A couple. IT doesn’t pay as much as you’d think.’

‘But I get first dibs?’

‘Absolutely,’ he assured me.

‘And we do this only if we both want to, yes?’

He smiled wryly, a set of dimples bracketing his firm but luscious mouth. Surely he must have known how dreadfully gorgeous he was?

He coughed. ‘So, upstairs?’

‘Yes!’ I almost screamed. ‘Follow me.’

Now, normally, I wouldn’t have done this until I’d made a decision and, oh, but who was I kidding? The bloke had perfect manners, he looked clean and, let’s face it, he was easy on the eye.

We passed into the hall and up the stairs, and I was acutely aware of him behind me, and even more aware of my thin sundress separating his body from mine. And apart from his own clothes, unfortunately. Goodness, what was happening to me? Had divorce finally flipped a switch inside me? Now it seemed I wanted everything I’d missed out on all those years, and with a vengeance.

I opened the door of the second bedroom and stepped back for him to enter. As he slipped past me with a smile, I sniffed at the air like a hound dog. We were completely alone in the world, and the only sound between us was the light padding of his feet on the carpet and the occasional creak of a floorboard.

My mind raced like that of a love-starved teenager, imagining all sorts of scenarios where he took me in his arms and kissed me, or where he toyed with the strap of my sundress and—

He looked around, poked his head into the en-suite bathroom and looked out the window down to the garden.

‘It’s perfect,’ he said. ‘I’ll take it.’

I gushed, despite my thirty-nine years. ‘Really?’

He grinned, warming me from the inside out. ‘Absolutely. I’d be honoured to be your lodger.’

Of course, it would have been fun to continue pretending to myself I was interviewing him as a prospective gigolo, but the truth was, I needed a lodger to boost my income that had been halved since my other half left me for a woman half my age. Ah, life was so unfair, wasn’t it? And so far, Connor seemed like a great choice, due to his – oh, who was I kidding? He was absolutely delicious, with just a hint of stubble you wanted to run your fingertips over, just to see what it felt like to be close to a man again.

Yesterday I didn’t even know he existed, and all it had taken was an ad and a phone call to see him here, in the flesh, right in front of me. I wished I had the guts to go all the way and live life instinctively. To do whatever I felt. I’d been married for years and had always toed the line, never misbehaving, always doing the right thing, and never anything that might, God forbid, bring me any personal pleasure or enjoyment.

He pulled out a sheet and unfolded it. ‘These are my credentials. Should I come back tomorrow?’

I nodded. ‘I’ll have the contract ready for you to sign and give you the keys and you can move your stuff in.’

He smiled in relief. ‘Thanks. You don’t know what it means to me to be able to start afresh.’

‘Oh, I do know, believe me,’ I answered. Having the house to myself, without Neil, having my own life back after all these years… was pure bliss. It had always been about him, his medical career, his needs. Now it was about me. But independence cost dear, so a lodger was the perfect solution. I was feeling good about this again.

‘Yeah?’ he said, but was too polite to ask why and I was certainly not going to volunteer any info as to what a woman my age was doing on her own, besides Missy, in a huge five-bed detached high above Wyllow Cove.

‘Yeah,’ I chirped.

‘Okay, then,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow with my stuff.’

‘Great. Welcome, Connor.’

‘Thank you, Natalia.’

‘Oh – it’s just Nat.’

‘Ok, then, Nat.’ He eyed me one last time and instead of seeing him out and closing the door, I lingered on the threshold and watched him as he got into his SUV, drove back up Abbot’s Lane, reached Sennen Road, turned left and out of sight. But not out of mind.

Wishing it was already tomorrow, I went back into the kitchen and started to do the washing up, when something on the table caught my eye. I squinted at the sugar bowl and grabbed my reading glasses. It had Salt written on it. I remembered that he’d put three spoonfuls in his coffee. The poor bloke. No wonder he was knocking down the Jaffa Cakes two at a time. With me as his landlady, he was in for quite the adventure.

I cut some fresh flowers and arranged them about and around the house, trying not to think how Missy and I rattled in this huge space. My own dream was to get rid of all the tat and downsize to a cottage in the village, just Missy, myself and a few family pictures and mementos, with a second bedroom for when my sister’s little girls came to stay. And then I could start afresh, with only the things that I had chosen rather than put up with because they were or looked expensive.

I’d buy some essentials like a new bed (top of my list), a table and enough chairs for family dinners, a sofa and a writing desk. Neil would certainly turn his pseudo-aristocratic nose up at it all and say I’d lost my mind. If anything, I’d found myself, and a whole new future.

Because I didn’t need a lot of stuff – and certainly not the high-class jewellery that I’d had to flaunt at dinner parties to make Neil happy. Emeralds, diamonds and rubies. All bought with his family’s old money, and certainly not his own salary. Beautiful objects, indeed, but what did I need any of them for? The one time I went to the annual black-tie benefit for writers in London? Besides, I’d soon lost any interest in them the moment I’d realised that every necklace, bracelet or pair of earrings had been a silent trade-off, if not an apology, for each and every one of his indiscretions. The safe was full of the stuff. You do the maths, if you care to.

I had to get away from this status symbol, as the upkeep of a five-bed detached house and its grounds was expensive. Plus it was the last link to my life with Neil, if you didn’t count the one good thing that had resulted from our marriage, i.e. our daughters Sarah and Lizzie.

I had always envisaged selling the place alongside all of its humongous, self-important furniture and family portraits that Neil had inherited from his grandparents, all pompous and impractical.

If, on one hand, I would miss the commanding views of the coast from up here, my ideal home would be something like Lavender Cottage down in Wyllow Cove, tucked away at the end of the quay. Empty, run-down and in need of a loving new owner now that Mrs Pendennis was gone, it was perfect, except for one thing. It was right next door to my mother.

I decided to leave the decluttering and packing away of all of Neil’s stuff and spent the rest of the day sunbathing with my feet up and drinking iced tea while waiting for Gin o’clock (one must have some semblance of restraint) next to a stack of magazines.

Now with the rent money to tide me over until the house was ready to be viewed, I had both eye candy and extra income. The first thing on my list was to help Sarah and Lizzie get onto their own property ladders rather than renting.

The doorbell rang and I grinned to myself. Whoever it was, they were too late. I was already all lodgered up with someone who had even agreed to have a go at my borders and disintegrating fences, to boot. Financial freedom, happiness and relaxation, pleased to meet you. Or so I thought.

2

Domestic Drama

It was Yolanda, my younger sister, with her twins Amy and Zoe. After the umpteenth time trying IVF, she and her (now ex) husband Piers had finally managed to conceive, and the result was not one, but two bundles of joy. It was a shame that Piers had decided he didn’t want a family after all that, and that he left Yolanda for a younger woman. That was the story of the Amore sisters – no matter what we did in our lives, there was always another woman our men preferred to us.

It was lucky that Yolanda, a very popular celebrity chef with books and TV shows under her belt, had had a career to keep her going in every sense. When she was away for work, she depended on me to help her with the girls who knew my house better than they did their own. They even had their own room here, which I’d painted half pink for Zoe and half purple for Amy.

But these days, I could hardly help myself, and was beginning to resent the fact that Yolanda always took but never appreciated anything I did for her. It was like still being married to Neil. Of course I loved those two little girls like my own, and, to be honest, pitied them for going through a childhood with a mother whose ego was the size of a cathedral. I knew what that was like, as our own mum was a drama queen, a diva