The Bed and Breakfast on the Beach: A gorgeous feel-good read from the bestselling author of One Day in December

‘Nice namesake.’

‘I was named after my father, seeing as you mention it. Wonderful guy, and surprisingly, he’s never robbed a bank in his life.’

Great. Now she felt shitty for insulting his dad. How did that happen?

‘So, Jesse,’ she said, thinking actually he looked like a Jesse, now she’d said it aloud. Jesse suggested bad boys and motorbikes and leather jackets, scowls, cigarettes and bad manners. Not that she’d seen him smoke, but she wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled a box out and lit up. ‘Would you mind telling me how to make my donkey move, please?’

He scrubbed a hand over the dark stubble along his jaw and gave a non-committal ‘huh’. ‘Now there’s a question.’

Here we go again. ‘And does it have an answer?’ she asked, sweet as apple pie.

Jesse shrugged. ‘Not an obvious one, no.’

Winnie could feel the threads of her temper unravelling. ‘So give me the complicated one. It would appear that I have time to listen.’

‘Would you like a drink?’

Whoa. That volte-face was so violent it’d be a miracle if he didn’t give himself whiplash. In truth, Winnie was gasping for a drink; she hadn’t thought to bring any water with her as she’d expected her neighbour to be closer than he was, and the sun overhead was making her feel every inch the barbecued prawn he’d likened her to. Nonetheless, she still considered saying no, because there was every chance he was being sarcastic.

‘I don’t suppose it’d go amiss,’ she said, feigning indifference.

His full mouth turned down as he shrugged. ‘It was just a neighbourly offer. Don’t force yourself.’

Winnie sighed and gave in. ‘Some water would be very nice if you wouldn’t mind.’

He inclined his head, then turned away and started to stride through the trees. ‘This way.’

Was it OK to follow a stranger into his house in a foreign land? It’d seem terribly rude if she didn’t now she’d accepted.

He stopped walking and swung around. ‘Are you coming or not?’

‘You’re not going to kill me, are you?’

‘Fucking hell, woman. I think I might if you carry on like this.’ He rubbed his hand through his dark, slightly too long hair, clearly exasperated. ‘I’ve lived on Skelidos for the last ten years without murdering anyone and I don’t plan on that changing today, but if you’d rather stay out here just in case while I fetch you a glass of water, then be my guest.’

They’d reached a low-slung farmhouse, and he gestured towards a table and chairs set out under the shade of a veranda.

Winnie considered her choices and decided that on balance he was unlikely to bump her off; he knew that she wasn’t here alone and, technically, she’d been trespassing on his land and inadvertently tried to steal his donkey so she wasn’t really in a position to be judgmental. He led the way through a stable door directly into his kitchen. Winnie wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting; something rustic and manly, if she’d been pinned down to take a guess. It wasn’t rustic. It was sleek and minimalist, a complete contrast to the traditional stone exterior of the building. Cool and uncluttered, his air-con was blessedly fridge-cold and his drinking water, when he passed it over, was as cool and clear as if he’d just dipped the glass in an icy mountain spring.

‘Thank you,’ she said, taking a seat when he pulled out a chair at the glass dining table.

‘It’s safe. I’m fresh out of arsenic,’ he said, dropping into the seat opposite hers.

Winnie smirked and took a welcome drink as he watched her.

‘So what’s going on over at the B&B?’ he asked. ‘Are you three doing a Thelma and Louise?’

God, he was annoying. ‘Meaning?’

He lifted one shoulder. ‘Bitter women running off together for an ill-advised adventure?’

‘Way I remember it, Thelma and Louise were badasses who murdered a man because he behaved like a cock and then killed themselves.’

Jesse cupped his glass between his hands on the table. ‘This could be an interesting summer for all of us then.’

‘And we’re not bitter,’ Winnie added, correcting him belatedly. ‘We’re three modern, perfectly happy women who spotted a shrewd business investment and snapped it up.’

Jesse nodded, then lifted his glass and downed the entire contents. Something about the action disturbed Winnie; for a few brief seconds she found herself noticing the physicality of him, as if she were watching a movie. He could pass for Greek; the sun had burnished his skin that deep bronze that could never be attained on a package holiday, and if his hair wasn’t black, it was as near as damn it. He’d changed from the billowy shirt into a faded red T-shirt that had either shrunk in the wash or been given to him by a lover who enjoyed the way it fit him a little too well; either way Winnie couldn’t help but be aware of his long, lean biceps and the generous width of his shoulders. All that fresh air and olive farming clearly agreed with him.

‘Speaking of badasses,’ she said, because getting her mind off the fact that he looked hot was a good idea. ‘How do I get that bad ass out there to walk back to the B&B with me?’

Jesse shook his head. ‘There’s no way you’re going to win him over in five minutes, or five hours even. Five days, possibly, or five weeks, I’d say it’s almost a definite. He has to trust you. To like you, even, before he’s going anywhere with you.’ He paused. ‘Hard work. Bit like a woman, really.’

Winnie curled her lip at him. ‘You just don’t stop, do you?’

He lifted his hands palms up. ‘Just sayin’.’

‘I don’t know about us being bitter women,’ Winnie said. ‘It sounds to me as if you’re the one with the chip on your shoulder.’

He laughed and rubbed the heel of his palm into his eye socket. ‘On the contrary. I love women. You all just drive me fucking crazy with your complications and contradictions.’

‘That is so incredibly rude and ignorant,’ Winnie said, bridling. ‘So what, you hide out on your farm drinking beers with your donkey?’

‘I’m not a monk. I fuck sometimes. I even make breakfast afterwards. I’m one of the good guys; I don’t promise the moon on a string, because strings strangle relationships.’ He made a yanking gesture that clearly indicated a noose being tightened around his neck.

Winnie stared at him. ‘Well, say it like it is, why don’t you?’ she said, taken aback by his frankness.

‘What do you want me to say?’ He looked thoroughly unapologetic. ‘I like a simple life. I don’t do hearts and flowers.’

‘So what do you do?’ Winnie asked, trying to steer the conversation around to life on Skelidos because they’d got really quite deep into relationship talk, and that was weird given that this was their first real conversation.

‘With women? I do talking.’ He gestured between them to demonstrate man and woman. ‘And I do kissing. I do kissing really well.’ He laughed, as if that was sort of a given for a cool guy like him. ‘And I do sex, naturally. I’m pretty darn good at that too.’

Winnie wasn’t sure if she wanted to tip her cold water all over her own head or chuck it at him. It was definitely an inappropriate thing for him to say, and yet he said it so flippantly that it came over as cheeky rather than sleazy. He was a rogue; but at least he was upfront about it, and that was actually something of a relief after all of the underhand behaviour that had ended her marriage.

‘I wasn’t asking about your sexual technique,’ she said, drily. ‘I was asking what you do here on the island.’

‘Ah. My mistake.’ The glint in his eye told her that it wasn’t necessarily a mistake at all. ‘Well, as you so astutely observed, I farm olives and drink beer,’ he said. ‘And I sculpt.’

Now he’d surprised her. ‘You do? Sculpt as in …’ She made vague pottery movements in the air with her hands. ‘Pots and things?’

Jesse nodded. ‘I have a wheel for smaller stuff, but I mostly do bigger commission pieces. Animals, people, that sort of thing.’

‘Wow.’ Winnie was genuinely thrown. He seemed too much of a jock to be an artist, although she was self-aware enough to realise that her sweeping generalisation was small-minded. ‘Can I see?’

He huffed under his breath, as if she’d asked a stupid question. ‘No.’

She’d expected as much. Back home in the UK, Winnie had been forging a career for herself as a self-taught jewellery designer, and she’d never been keen on showing any of her pieces to people before they were finished. She’d worked alone from her tiny garden workshop, happy with just the radio and next door’s cat for company. Her silver and copper wire work didn’t cost the earth, but she’d been making a name for herself as a designer with flair and an eye for pretty gemstones. The last couple of summers had been especially busy with bridal commissions, but this year she’d barely touched her tools. Rory had stolen far more than her happiness; he’d tucked her creativity into his holdall alongside the aftershave she loved the smell of on his skin and the cufflinks she’d made for him as a first-anniversary gift.