Move Over Darling by Christine Stovell

showed no signs of following, but then he saw the driver’s door open and a pair of Wellingtons drop beneath it. Shortly after, Coralie stood up in them and, with the door still open, applied her shoulder to the frame.
    ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were stuck?’ he asked, running back and noticing for the first time that she’d steered into a pile of slushy snow at the side of the lane to avoid him. The Land Rover would have slid out of it comfortably, but Coralie’s heap of rubbish needed some coercion.
    ‘Get in,’ he said roughly. ‘Now put it in second gear – you do know which one that is, do you? Then, when I say, let the clutch out very slowly.’
    Marching round to the back of the van, hoping that she really did know where second gear was and didn’t find reverse instead, he hefted his shoulder against the bodywork and with a bit of brute force, the van was free. Coralie gave him a wobbly thumbs-up sign which did little to improve his mood, especially when he returned to the Land Rover and realised that it was only possible for her to get home if he reversed all the way back to the pair of cottages.
    And now he was running late for the builder, too. ‘Sodding mobiles!’ he muttered seeing the ‘service unavailable’ message, having got out of the car in the vain hope of picking up a signal. Willing the guy he was supposed to be meeting to hang on at his father’s house until he got there, he decided to save the lecture he was going to give his neighbour about the state of her van for another time. ‘You can come in and use the landline, if it helps,’ she offered, quietly. ‘You might stand a better chance of getting through.’
    He glared at his useless phone in frustration. ‘I’ve only got a mobile number for the builder I’m supposed to be meeting. If he’s up at the cottage there’s no signal there. Besides, he’s never in a hurry to answer his voicemail.’ What a backwards place this was!
    He shoved the phone back in his pocket. ‘Thanks anyway,’ he said, remembering his manners and looking at his neighbour for the first time since she’d got out of the car. ‘Coralie?’ he said, shocked at the sight of her. ‘What’s wrong?’

Chapter Five
    Even in the fading light, he could see how pale she was, her lips drained of colour. And shaking; he could hear her keys jangling in her hand. Either she felt the cold far more than him, or he’d frightened the life out of her. He mentally replayed their near miss in the lane and all he could hear was his hectoring tone, a soundtrack of constant criticism: her music, her car, her driving. No wonder she was scared. He’d behaved like an utter bully; cruel and overbearing when she was in no position to fight back. Hell! He was no better than his father. Yet another unwelcome legacy.
    ‘Are your house keys on that bunch?’ he asked, self-disgust making his voice gruff. She nodded and his stomach lurched at the distress in her eyes.
    ‘I think we should get you inside, that’s all,’ he said, more gently, ‘before you’re frozen solid.’
    A gentle bump beside them, as her cat jumped down from wherever it had been hiding, seemed to reassure her.
    ‘Hello, Rock,’ she sighed, as the little animal rubbed itself against her Wellingtons.
    ‘Your key, Coralie?’ he reminded her. She offered it to him and he felt the cold brush of her fingers before she bent to scoop the cat up in her arms. It seemed only natural to place a guiding arm round her shoulders to usher her inside and he tried to ignore his inner voice observing what a good fit she was. None of that leaning-over problem he had with very small women, or stretching up to accommodate tall ones.
    ‘It used to feel very cold here,’ she explained, turning and catching his bemused expression as he looked around at the cosy room with its eclectic blend of junkshop finds and vintage fabrics. ‘The oranges and red just warm everything up.’
    ‘They do that all right,’ he agreed,