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

As she finished the washing-up and returned the crockery to its rightful place, she knew what he had been about to suggest and why he had pulled back from pursuing it when he’d seen the fear in her eyes.

Even now, two years on, it was the one place she could never go, the place she had to avoid at all costs in order to keep her sanity intact – and she certainly had no intention of going there the morning after she had arrived.

In fact, she could see the pitch of the summerhouse roof beneath the cherry tree from where she stood, elbow-deep in suds, so she studiously averted her eyes to focus on the garden, and the grass that was so overgrown she wouldn’t have been surprised to find Doctor Livingstone lurking about in there. After she had mowed the lawn, she would take a stroll to the village shop to see Martha and ask for her suggestions for a healthy supper.

She slotted her feet into an old pair of flower-bedecked wellies and spent the next few hours communing with nature, taking care to keep her back firmly towards the summerhouse. When her neck and shoulders began to object to the unfamiliar physical exertion, she made a plate of salad sandwiches, but when she checked her watch she realised her father would have left for town already. She fingered the phone in her pocket, battling the urge to call Jean-Pierre or Fleurette for an update on life at House of Gasnier, but she knew that whatever they said would upset her, so she tossed it on the kitchen table and sauntered into the garage.

That morning there were three vehicles in the workshop, two jacked up for easy access to the chassis and the third, the lipstick-red E-Type Jag Max had been working on the previous day, parked in the far corner. On closer inspection, the iconic car might have seen better days as far as the paintwork was concerned, but the leather seats had been replaced and the chrome metalwork shone under the overhead lights.

A radio tinkled a cheerful tune in the background, providing the cadence for the day, and Gabbie inhaled a lungful of that special scent that caused her senses to sparkle. If she had confessed her love of Castrol GTX to her colleagues back in Grasse they would have looked at her askance. But that’s what some aromas did to people – sent their memories zooming back to happier times, whether it was freshly mown grass, warm buttered toast, newly laundered sheets, or the waft of wax furniture polish.

‘Don’t just stand there! Pass me the wrench! And this time, don’t drop it on my hand!’

Gabbie bristled. While she had no objection to being a mechanic’s mate, and would welcome the diversion if she were honest, she did object to being ordered around, even if Max had acquired the badge of her father’s new right-hand man.

‘Wil! Did you hear me?’

Max slid out from under the Jag, his face covered in random splatters of dirt and oil, the top of his overalls rolled down to reveal his taut abs and impressive biceps beneath a tight black T-shirt. Despite her irritation, Gabbie couldn’t prevent a gasp of appreciation from escaping her lips. Wow! She felt like she was an extra in a remake of Grease!

‘Oh, sorry. I thought you were Wil. He promised he was going to get the first-aid box, but it looks like he’s decided to disappear instead. I really don’t know how your dad managed to run this place with Wil in tow. He’s a complete liability!’

Max pushed himself up to standing and inspected his arm where a two-inch-long gash oozed blood. He lowered his lips and sucked the blood away, a gesture that caused an uncomfortable feeling in Gabbie’s lower abdomen.

‘What happened?’

‘Wil thought he’d imitate his favourite cocktail waiter while he waited for his next set of instructions. Circus clown, more like. Anyway, the wrench slipped out of his hand and I have this trophy to show for it.’

‘Whose is the Jag?’

Max raised his eyebrows and those tiny dimples appeared again. ‘Like it?’

‘I love it.’

‘Really? I thought you’d prefer some little French number, like a Citroen 2CV or maybe an Alpha Romeo for driving at speed along the Corniche.’

‘Well, that just shows how little you know about me, doesn’t it?’ Gabbie retorted, for some reason annoyed by the continual unfavourable assumptions Max seemed to make about her. ‘Have you forgotten I’m the daughter of a car obsessive? I grew up listening to bedtime stories from car-maintenance manuals and hearing about the workings of the internal combustion engine. As with people, when it comes to cars, it’s not what’s on the outside that matters, but what’s underneath the bonnet.’

Max looked at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners and a smirk playing around his mouth. Once again, she was shocked at the strength of her body’s reaction to his proximity. Okay, Max was attractive, there was no denying that. She’d even go as far as to say he could give Danny Zuko a run for his money! But she was no stranger to handsome men. She had dated several in France – Rafael, for instance, with his Spanish heritage, was no slouch in the charisma stakes. So what was it? Could it be the slight tang of clean engine oil – not every girl’s cup of tea – that enhanced his allure?

‘Well, in that case, if you appreciate quality engineering, you’ll be impressed by this little beauty.’ Gabbie watched Max’s eyes light up with excitement as he released the catch on the bonnet and displayed his handiwork. ‘There’s just the final paint job and it’ll be ready to go.’

‘So who is the lucky owner?’ Gabbie asked, smoothing her hand over the chrome wing mirror and along the graceful curve of the vehicle’s side panels.

‘None other than Yours Truly.’

‘What? This car belongs to you?’

‘It does.’

‘But…’

‘I know what you’re thinking – how do my meagre wages stretch to something like this?’

‘No, I…’

Again, Gabbie felt a surge of heat invade her face because Max was right.

‘I was left this car by my uncle when he passed away a couple of years ago and I’ve been restoring it ever since, bit by bit, when I can afford it. I’ve always loved classic cars, but for me the E-Type is the epitome of elegance and style. And you don’t have to take my word for that – Enzo Ferrari said it was the most beautiful car ever made, or words to that effect.’

Max’s eyes caressed the vehicle in front of him like an art critic would the Mona Lisa. When he saw Gabbie was watching him, his cheeks reddened.

‘Sorry, I can get quite evangelical when I talk about cars.’

‘You don’t have to apologise – I love them too! In fact, this workshop and the garage forecourt were my playground from the time I could lift a spanner! Dad and I would spend hours dismantling, cleaning, oiling and reassembling engine parts like other parents do jigsaws with their children. I loved it!’

‘I know exactly what you mean. My uncle also had an Austin Healey Sprite and an old clapped-out Rover P6 that he let me work on. My obsession with engines is what kept me out of trouble all through my teenage years. And I’m still learning something new every day from your dad – he’s an amazing mechanic, not just on the technical side, but he seems to have this affinity with an engine, an instinctive ability to understand what’s wrong and how to fix it.’

‘Yes, that’s my dad!’ Gabbie smiled with affection for her father.

‘You know, it’s my dream to own my own garage one day, too. But I want to specialise in restoring classic and iconic cars. What better way to spend the day than bringing these magnificent vehicles back to their former glory so they can grace our roads for years to come?’

Max ran his hand over the bonnet of the Jag as a Casanova would his lover. It was abundantly clear to Gabbie that her father had selected his deputy wisely, for she recognised some of his personality quirks in Max. She was beginning to understand what had drawn her so powerfully to Max Fitzgerald, and if there was one thing she could appreciate it was how important it was to have passion as the driving force behind your ambitions.

‘I know exactly how you feel. I feel the same about creating perfumes.’

Gabbie saw Max scrunch up his nose and laughed. It was a typical reaction from people who knew nothing about her industry. Perfumers didn’t just produce the liquid itself; they created a dream, a style, a statement, a mood. But she wasn’t sure it was the perfect moment to regale Max with her sales pitch.

‘I guess I won’t be bending your ear about my obsession, then?’

‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…’

‘It’s okay,’ she laughed. ‘So when do you think you’ll have your project finished?’

‘Depends how much spare time I get. I only work on her during my lunch hour, or if I come in early in the morning. Your dad’s been great – he’s even opened up the garage on the occasional Sunday so I can get stuck in. I need to have everything done by the end of October, though, because I promised my aunt I’d take her to my cousin’s wedding in it. Can’t let her down, can I?’

Max extracted a dirty cloth from his pocket and polished away an invisible speck of dust from the headlamp, pride in his achievement glowing on his handsome face. Gabbie recognised that expression as one she wore more frequently than she would care to admit; the fervent desire to spend every spare second with the non-human objects of her affection.

Max had taken several steps towards her, causing her heart to perform a flip-flop when she felt the whisper of his breath on her cheek. He might dismiss the perfume business, but he clearly enjoyed the benefits of its products. She inhaled slowly so as not to alert him to her scrutiny of his choice of cologne – a habit Jasmine constantly chastised her about.

Mmm, frangipani with monoi and a nip of galbanum. Delicious. She realised too late that she had closed her eyes briefly, her nostrils lifted in the air in an almost snooty fashion as she savoured the intoxicating aroma. She quickly averted her gaze and changed the subject to more mundane matters.

‘Dad says the garage has got plenty of work on. Is that true?’

‘Yes, in fact we’re too busy – winter services, MOTs, repairs after the long drives over summer. We’ve had to start turning customers away, which isn’t something Jeff likes to do.’

Gabbie wondered if her father had confided in Max about the problems he had mentioned the previous day but brushed off as issues of ‘turnover and whatnot’ when she had queried them. She didn’t want to breach any confidences in relation to the business so she didn’t ask the question that had formed on her lips – if they had so such work on, and an extra pair of hands since Max had arrived, why were there concerns? It didn’t make any sense.

She made a mental note to ask her father about it, and if he refused to discuss it with her, as he had yesterday, she would take a look at the accounts and work it out for herself. She had often helped her mother with the filing and entering the invoices and receipts in the old-fashioned ledgers, so she knew what to look out for. In fact, there was no time like the present.