One Hot Summer: A heartwarming summer read from the author of One Day in December

‘But you can’t get to it without coming through mine,’ he countered, not at all bothered by the fact. In fact he’d made sure to move the hire car that had been delivered that morning over so she could easily get in and out.

Alice narrowed her eyes as she banged the first nail in to place and let the wood swing down while she dug another nail from her pocket. Christ. She couldn’t keep nails in the pockets of her jeans. She was giving him a heart attack.

‘If you wanted to be really bloody minded I could get to the Airstream from the farm behind the manor,’ she said. ‘I’d have to swim across the stream, but I could do it.’

‘Or you could just build yourself a bridge,’ he suggested. ‘You seem to have the determination, even if your skills could use work and your tools look like they belong in a museum.’

Her eyes opened a fraction wider. ‘Probably. They were here when we moved in. Brad wasn’t exactly what you’d call a DIY fan so we never bought new stuff.’

Robinson filed away that nugget of information about Alice’s husband along with the thing she’d said a while back about him owning a drum kit but never bothering to play it. He wasn’t finding much to admire about the man, besides his estranged wife.

‘And err, hello? My skills could use work?’ she said, seeming to suddenly hear what he’d said and fixing him with an appraising look. ‘And you’re qualified to judge me because …?’

‘I know enough to know you should be wearing eye defenders when you’re using the saw, even if it’s blunt, and the way you’re storing nails in your pockets is highly likely to result in your femoral artery being pierced.’

She looked unsure for a second, as if she recognised that he was right but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing her pull those nails from her pocket.

Straightening her shoulders back a little, she said, ‘I should get on.’

‘Because you’re going to use the tree house for …’ he waited for her to supply the rest.

‘Yes,’ she said, without elaboration. ‘I am.’

If she was trying to be secretive to wind him up, it was working. He remembered the sophisticated camera he’d handed over to her last week and a horrible suspicion surfaced in his mind.

‘You’re not building a hide for the press to spy on me, are you?’

He knew he’d said the wrong thing instantly. Her face told him so, but she didn’t go off the deep end. She looked at him in silence for a few long moments and her eyes told him that he’d hit a nerve before she segued into cool, professional landlady mode.

‘Your privacy, or indeed your fame, is not my concern, Mr Duff, but you can rest assured that I have no affection for the press and I won’t permit them on my land.’

Mr Duff, huh? So they were back there again. She’d perplexed him with her secrecy and he’d offended her with his accusation in return, and no doubt he’d also left her with the idea that he was a cock with an over-inflated ego.

‘I’ll leave you to your work, Mrs McBride,’ he said, like for like, inclining his head in goodbye as he descended the ladder. At the bottom of the tree he paused, considered an apology, and then thought better of it and shoved his hands deep in his pockets as he made his way back to the manor without glancing back.

Alice stood on the deck of the tree house and watched him saunter away across the grass, her heart still banging too fast in her chest. She’d had her fill of the paps and reporters during her break-up, and her father had had scant regard for the invasive methods they used. Over her dead body would she have them back here again. In some ways Robinson Duff was nothing like Brad, but in other unsettling ways he was obviously cut from the same fame-hungry cloth. If she didn’t need the six months rent he’d paid in advance so badly she’d ask him to pack his precious celebrity bags and leave her in peace.