Madly Deeply Always

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🌹Genre & Tropes

• Full-length Standalone Novel
• Age-Gap Contemporary Romance
• Slow-Burn Ache
• Emotional healing
• Devotion, Yearning, Longing looks & accidental touches
• Mentor / student vibes
• 🌷 Inspired by:
  • Jane Austen's Sense and Sensibility 
  • Alan Rickman's portrayal of Brandon in the 1995 Sense and Sensibility film 
• ⚡Harry Potter nostalgia 
• Reserved, British love interest who loves patiently, even when it hurts
• The romantic melancholy of a BBC period drama
• Reserved, British love interest who loves patiently, even when it hurts
• Wholesome characters
• Seaside Cottage
• Coffeehouse vibes
• When she’s staying under his roof… and things get complicated
• Bonding over music
• Witty banter
• Heartfelt comfort read
• SLOW Slow Burn with eventual spicy payoff: 
  • 🌶️ Lyrical, emotionally focused spice (1-2x open-door scenes – not too explicit)
• ✨Happily Ever After

🌹Content Notes / Trigger Warnings

This story touches on several emotional themes, often framed around healing from past trauma. While these elements are present, there are also cosy elements and humour, and the overall narrative centres on recovery, hope, and a heartfelt Happily Ever After to leave you smiling.

Emotional Abuse & Gaslighting: Lily begins the story after leaving a toxic relationship and is actively working through the lingering effects.

1. Her ex-boyfriend is portrayed as controlling and emotionally manipulative.

2. A present-day character gaslights her and manipulates her emotionally.

Grief & Parental Loss: Lily is grieving the death of her father, who died before the events of the story.

Physical Injury & Medical Procedures

Suicide: There are repeated emotional references to a past suicide via drug overdose of a side character. The act is not depicted on-page, but the aftermath and the trauma of discovering the body are mentioned.

Pregnancy Loss / Miscarriage (Referenced):  A secondary character reveals she lost a pregnancy late-term ten years earlier. This is mentioned briefly as part of her character’s emotional history.

Sexual Content: Contains ~2 open-door romantic scenes. They are sensual and lyrical rather than graphically explicit.

🌹Book Images

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🌹Opening Chapters:

Please note: The story releases on February 14th 2026.Prior to that, the story is subject to change and will continue to receive proof reading.

Chapter 1: Ghosts of Silence

Lily-Anne

I’m frozen in the Sydney Airport carpark, about to cross oceans for a man I’ve never met.

I must be mad. The last man I trusted nearly erased me.

My voice. My confidence. My music.

All gone.

Now there is only silence, and it’s winning. If I were half the musician I trained to be, I’d have broken it by now. But I can’t. The only thing breaking is me, and the Englishman waiting for me across the sea has no idea how much I’m counting on him to glue the pieces back together.

Unless he takes one look at the mess I am and realises he’s made a terrible mistake.

A cold gust slaps me as I stare into the boot of our old sedan, my pulse spiking.

The black case stares back, cold metal latches gleaming in the predawn light, the lid shut and sealed tight like a secret.

My guitar case.

Mum joins me by the boot, pulling my suitcase behind her. She follows my gaze and sighs. “It’s not a dead body, Lily.”

No. But it holds the ghost of one. I carefully unlatch the hard case and lift the lid, my stomach knotting at the sight of my pride and joy—a Cole Clark semi-acoustic made of Australian blackwood.

Tears prick my eyes. I can hardly bear to touch it, though every part of me still aches to play.

“You’ll see, love,” Mum says gently. “This trip is just what you need. Sea breeze, new people…inspiration?”

She doesn’t say how much she hates flying. How much she’d rather I stayed.

“Thanks, Mum.” I reach down tentatively to brush the strings. They hum in response, a soft, beautiful sound that cuts deeper than it should. Dad gave me this guitar on my sixteenth birthday. Not a day has gone by that I haven’t played it—until six weeks ago.

I shut the lid, my throat growing tight.

I shouldn’t feel like this. I have a degree in music.

Years of lessons, concerts, and busking with friends at Circular Quay. Writing songs in my bedroom—songs that Dad had believed in.

But then I lost him, and I lost my way. I couldn’t write, and though I kept playing, the joy only surfaced when I thought of Dad. Everything else rang hollow.

And that feeling never left. I forced my way through a Bachelor of Music Studies, promising myself I’d have a fresh start after graduation. I’d write songs again. Find joy in music. Finally feel like myself.

Instead, I let myself be pressured into an ensemble at the start of this year. It should have been perfect, performing on stage with other musicians for a living, but I was struggling not to fall apart. Music became work, and the Cole Clark only came out of its case when there was a concert.

I’d done all the right things, but on the inside, I was as miserable as ever.

Six weeks ago, I quit that job and ended things with my ex—and brought my world crashing down.

And now?

Nothing.

No gigs. No fire. No sound.

I’d settle for simply being able to play a chord. Funny, how hauling my guitar across the globe might make that possible.

“Dad would be proud of you,” Mum reassures me.

Her words only make the ache in my chest worse.

I turn to her, wrapping my arms around her middle like I used to when I was small. She’s soft and warm, the familiar scent of her rose moisturiser calming my racing heart.

As we pull apart, my hair snags on her silver hair clip.

“Ow! Sorry—” I let out a pained laugh as I untangle our blonde waves.

“Careful!” Mum cries as the clip falls. “That was—”

I catch it before it hits the ground.

“An anniversary gift from Dad,” I finish, handing it back to her. The last one he would ever give her.

It’s hard to believe it’s already been three years.

She fixes it back in place. “Right then—shall we head inside?”

The guitar case bumps against my leg as we move through the crowd. No one gives it a second glance, but I feel like an imposter carrying it.

As we wait in the check-in line, a Fiji Airways poster of a luxury resort with palm trees draws my attention. It’s the kind of place any Aussie in their right mind would go to escape our June winter.

I picture myself there, lounging by the pool, soaking up the sun, and sipping cocktails like I haven’t a care in the world…

And then gunning it across the ocean on a jet ski loud enough to drown out the thoughts planted in my head by my ex-boyfriend.

“Wishing you were going somewhere warmer?” Mum asks, following my gaze.

I release a breath. “Just a little. Did you see the forecast? It’ll be raining in Whitstable.”

“That’s the English summer for you,” she says lightly, squinting at her phone. “Let’s see…Oh, look! It’s not so bad. Next weekend’s supposed to have a top of 18°C.”

“Yay?”

She’s trying her best to stay positive, but we both know I didn’t book this trip for sunshine.

I’m flying to England for a man more than a decade older than me. A complete stranger.

A handsome stranger, if the publicity shots still floating around online are anything to go by. Sharp jawline, dark eyes, the kind of face that probably made artists take him seriously without him having to say much.

But his looks are irrelevant. I’m not going for love. I’m going for music. For a chance to get my creative spark back.

With his mentorship, maybe I will.

At the counter, I’m handed the boarding passes for my flights. Two for me. Two labelled EXST—extra seats for my guitar. I couldn’t stand the thought of it getting thrown around like another suitcase.

“At least you won’t be travelling alone,” Mum says brightly, smiling at my guitar. “Come on. There’s plenty of time to get breakfast before you go through security.”

We slide into the booth of an airport café, the air thick with the scent of burnt espresso and microwaved croissants.

By the time our pancakes arrive, Mum’s earlier optimism takes a nosedive. I think being deep within the airport is bringing back memories of Dad.

She toys with a strawberry distractedly. “Don’t you want to know a bit more about where you’ll be staying?”

I shrug, swirling maple syrup around my plate. “I looked it up on Google Maps. It’s a cottage by the sea—two storeys, weatherboard walls, a little garden out the front. I’m sure it’ll be lovely.” I pull out my phone and turn the screen to show her a row of pastel-coloured Edwardian houses in pink, blue, and yellow. “Can’t tell which one it is, though.”

Mum leans closer, squinting at the photo. “Hopefully the pink one.”

We smile. Then her tone changes, the edge returning. “Are you sure you want to stay with this man?”

“I’m not staying with him. It’s a separate flat upstairs. And you’ve already met Brandon.”

“Yes, but you haven’t. You were on that school trip when he came round for dinner. Aren’t you nervous to meet him?”

“Not really,” I lie.

This whole trip was a spontaneous decision, but now that it’s real with my boarding pass printed and bags checked, I’m not sure if I’m brave or naïve.

All I know is that he’s there.

Brandon Ward. The quiet family friend from England who spent his twenties managing artists and even worked with Dad’s record company in Sydney. He’s thirty-three now, and based on his e-mails and everything I’ve read online, he’s stepped away from the music industry entirely.

Technically, we’ve met before—if you can call it that. He flew back for Dad’s funeral, but I don’t remember him or much of anything from that day.

All I know is Dad trusted him. When I searched his old work e-mails, Brandon’s name kept popping up. Steady. Grounded. Reliable. That’s how he described Brandon to colleagues, painting a picture of a quiet force in the industry who helped artists find their spark again.

Which is exactly what I need. With no one else to turn to, and my music slipping out of reach, I’d foolishly reached out…

Only to be amazed when he actually replied to my rambling, dog’s breakfast of an email. It gave me hope.

“If anyone can help me reconnect with my music, it’s him,” I tell Mum.

“I know. But I’d feel more comfortable if Ellenor were going with you.”

Me too. But my older sister is a hotshot city lawyer, too busy working herself to the bone. I don’t know how she does it—trying to fix other people’s lives. It’s hard enough trying to fix my own.

Mum sighs, forlorn. “Oh, my baby girl. Going overseas all by herself…”

“I’m twenty-one,” I interject, then soften. “But yes, I’m still your baby.”

“What if the two of you don’t get along? He and Ellenor didn’t exactly hit it off when we had him over for dinner all those years ago.”

I snort softly. Ellenor is combative by nature. But she supports my going, even if she thought Brandon was dull.

I thought the opposite. From the few texts we’ve exchanged, he seems to have a sense of humour.

Like the photo he sent the other week of a half-renovated bathroom coated in plaster dust, asking what colour I’d like the walls painted. I’d jokingly suggested neon green.

He’d replied, promising to deliver an ‘exciting beige’. I wasn’t sure if that was sarcasm or just British enthusiasm, but he received a laughing emoji from me, anyway.

It felt strange to be bantering with someone again, like the humour had been bottled up inside me for years. Stranger still, to imagine some Englishman on the other side of the world working hard to get things ready for my stay. It makes me feel…welcome.

I reach across the table and squeeze Mum’s hand. “I’ll be fine. I promise.”

She searches my face, then nods and tries for a cheerful smile, though she’s never been as good at faking it as Dad and Ellenor. Like me, she wears her heart on her sleeve.

I smother my last pancake with maple syrup, hoping it will douse the nerves knotted in my stomach. I haven’t felt this anxious since I broke up with—

“Maybe this holiday will help you forget your ex,” Mum the Mind Reader says, topping up our orange juice.

My shoulders tense. While I’m grateful she doesn’t mention Toby by name, I’d rather she didn’t bring him up at all. “Please, can we just…not?”

“Alright.” She nods, but I can tell she wants to talk about it.

I don’t blame her. She lost me there for a while. Still worries I’ll go back to him.

I met Toby after Dad died and dated him through my three-year degree. By the time I graduated, I barely knew how to be without him.

I shocked myself—and everyone else—when I broke up with him without warning.

I’m relieved to be free of him, but the damage lingers, my music so tangled with pain that I can’t play at all. So, Mum needn’t worry, I won’t take him back. I’m desperate to move on.

I just don’t know how.

The clatter of cutlery pulls me back to the café. My plate is empty—I stress-ate without realising. Oops.

After breakfast, Mum fusses, checking I still have my passport and phone charger, along with a dozen other things.

As she chatters, my chest tightens. I picture her sitting alone in our weatherboard house near Manly Beach. How quiet it will be.

Dad’s gone.

Ellenor moved out years ago to be closer to her job in the city.

And now I’m leaving, too, for who knows how long. Brandon vaguely mentioned that he didn’t plan to rent out his upstairs flat this summer, and that I could stay as long as I liked.

In the meantime, Mum will be by herself. I can’t help but feel like I’m letting her down.

The tears are back, threatening to fall. Her eyes glisten too, her smile wobbling.

“It’s okay, Mum…I’ll be back.”

“I know, darling.” She smooths my hair the way Dad used to. “I hope this trip will be everything you wish for.”

I hope so, too. Mum had to pull nursing doubles at the hospital just to help me afford the extra plane tickets. If Brandon hadn’t offered the cottage for free, I probably wouldn’t be going to England at all.

She hugs me, extra-tight. “You’ll call me, won’t you?”

“Of course. Every day.”

“Not every day! I want you to make the most of your trip. But send our group chat lots of photos.”

“I will,” I promise.

“Now, I know your visa is for six months, but you can come back any time.”

“I won’t be gone that long,” I promise.

She pulls me in for one last hug. “Text me when you land.”

“I will.”

I wave as she heads towards the terminal exit. And then she’s gone.

I’m on my own, but not for long. Soon I’ll be in England, standing before Brandon Ward, the man my father once trusted with music.

The man I’m crossing the world for to trust with mine.

Chapter 2: Up in the Air

Lily-Anne

I hate goodbyes, and I breathe a little easier once Mum disappears into the crowd.

Once I’m finally through security with an hour to kill, I pull out my phone and begin typing out a message to Brandon to let him know I’ve checked in.

I’m about to tap Send when I hesitate. Is it too much? He’s already done enough by offering the flat, renovating it, even agreeing to pick me up. The least I can do is not pester him before I’ve even boarded.

After staring at the message a moment longer, I erase it and lock my phone.

Hoisting my guitar case, I drift through the terminal, dodging perfume counters and giant plush koalas until a boutique catches my eye.

The window display is full of summer dresses—flowy, floral prints in bright colours. A skater dress in daisy print stands out, the hem hitting just above the knee. It’s cute. Casual. Exactly the sort of thing I used to wear.

Toby would have hated it. He was only a couple of years older than me, but he carried himself like he belonged to another century, critiquing anyone who wore modern clothes—which was obviously everyone.

I can practically hear his sneer. “It’s too short. People dressed far better in the olden days.”

I catch my reflection in the glass, suddenly feeling exposed in my plain white t-shirt, loose acid-wash jeans with ripped knees, and canvas sneakers. Clothes I thought I’d thrown out years ago, but Mum had saved them, tucked away as if she’d been waiting for me to want them back.

My outfit’s a far cry from the heels and tea dresses Toby approved of.

I pull out my oversized sage-green cardigan and slip it on. Soft knit, with cinched lantern sleeves. It was vintage, yet even this had drawn his scorn. I think he just hated that I loved something he didn’t choose.

I eye the daisy dress longingly for another moment, then force myself to move on to my gate.

The flight isn’t boarding yet, just a crowd of travellers slumped in chairs, bags at their feet, waiting.

I duck into a nearby gift shop and make a beeline for the bookshelves. I’m greeted by floral Austens, Brontës in jewel tones… the usual suspects. I select a gold-foiled special edition I definitely don’t need—but can’t possibly imagine living without—and start toward the counter.

Until a familiar face stops me cold. Moody and glamorous, she stares out from the cover of a glossy magazine with a deadpan expression, her dark bob framing a face lined with thick eyeliner.

The headline jumps out: Four Years Since Nova’s Death: Australia Still Mourns Its Most Haunting Indie Soul Star.

Nova. Her voice was everywhere back then. Smoky and unforgettable. Yet she’d seemed so down-to-earth in interviews, kind and witty.

She was one of Brandon’s artists. Dad’s record label had signed her, and she soon made it big overseas. It was a proud moment for Aussie artists.

I wish I’d met her—I nearly did. She was meant to fly back to Sydney from the US for a meeting, and Dad had promised to invite her to our house afterwards.

But she never even made it onto the plane.

Nova died at twenty-nine from a drug overdose. She was the same age as my sister. It’s heartbreaking to think about.

I’m about to put the magazine back when Toby’s voice whispers in my head, “Gossip is brain rot.”

The pages bend in my grip. Brain rot sounds pretty perfect right now.

Jaw tight, I march to the counter, where I pay for not only the novel, but the magazine as well.

As I step back into the terminal’s fluorescent glow, my phone buzzes.

Brandon: Hi Lily-Anne. I just wanted to wish you safe travels.

My heart gives a small, startled jump. I blink at the screen, my thumbs hovering. I could just reply with a thank you, but old Lily would have said something charming or witty.

Lily-Anne: Worried I’ll skip my flight, are you?

Brandon: Is that a possibility I should prepare for?

Lily-Anne: Not unless you’re planning to skimp on the castle I requested

The joke had started with Ellenor, who’d dared me to text Brandon a list of essential fantasy castle features to include in the flat’s renovations, from battlements and moving staircases to my very own Chamber of Secrets. After culling most of the movie references, I’d sent it to him in mock-seriousness.

Brandon: I recall chandeliers, a clawfoot tub, and something about a moat

Lily-Anne: You forgot the enchanted library with rolling ladders

Brandon: I think you overestimate the square footage of my humble cottage. But I’ll see what I can do.

I smile, a flicker of warmth stirring as I reread the messages, wondering if he’s smiling too.

Or is he facepalming, regretting that he invited me to stay?

I close the chat, my smile fading.

He’s just being polite. I know that. He was my dad’s friend and colleague. He probably sees me as someone he’s doing a favour for—an obligation he couldn’t quite say no to.

And I’m imposing on his hospitality. Ellenor said as much when I accepted his invitation to visit him in Whitstable.

I think about messaging Brandon again. Just to clarify: Are you sure this is okay?

But I already know how that would come across. Needy and insecure.

So I don’t.

I start moving towards the gate when my phone buzzes.

He’s messaged again.

Brandon: Let me know if you need anything when you land. Tea? Coffee?

I chew my lip, deliberating. I don’t want to inconvenience him more than I already am.

Lily-Anne: That’s okay, I’m all good

I take five steps, then stop in my tracks. Something about his offer softens the edge of my nerves.

Lily-Anne: Actually… coffee?

Brandon: Of course. How do you take it?

Lily-Anne: Milk and sugar please :)

I stare at the smiley face. Too much? Not enough?

I snort quietly. I’ve just turned coffee into an existential crisis.

Above me, a voice crackles over the PA system. “Final boarding call for Emirates flight EK415, codeshare Qantas flight QF8415, to Dubai. All remaining passengers should proceed to Gate 61 immediately—”

“Oh, shoot!”

I shove the phone in my pocket and bolt for the gate, guitar case swinging wildly from my hand. Gate numbers flit by, none of them right. I’m further away than I realised.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

If I miss my once-in-a-lifetime, soul-searching quest to find myself because I was reading a bloody gossip magazine, I’ll never live it down.

I rush to the counter.

“Hi—sorry. Did I make it…?” I puff, handing my passport and boarding pass to the flight attendant.

She smiles like she sees five of me a day. “Straight down the jet bridge.”

Dazed, I enter the narrow tunnel. Glass walls shimmer with morning light, my footsteps echoing around me as if I’m walking through a dream. A low thrill rises with every step, the rumble of the plane growing louder.

Without breaking stride, I snap a quick photo for our group chat with the caption, Boarding now! I can hear the engines! Then step onto the plane, grinning despite myself.

“Welcome aboard,” greets the flight attendant, and another gestures me down the correct aisle.

“Thank you,” I gush. By the time I settle into my seat, the guitar case buckled in beside me, I have two new messages.

Mum: Safe flight! Remember to stay hydrated and stretch your legs to keep your circulation moving!

Ellenor: FYI, that was probably the APU you could hear, not the main engines. They don’t run during boarding

I tap a heart on Mum’s comment. Ellenor gets no such love from me. I send her an emoji rolling its eyes, then a message:

Lily-Anne: Been bingeing air crash investigation videos again?

Ellenor: No. I read about it in Hogwarts: A History

She’s such a Potterhead. But I know how to press her precious Slytherin buttons.

Lily-Anne: Spoken like a true Gryffindor

Ellenor: How dare you

A few seconds later, she sends a photo of her middle finger, emerald-green nail polish gleaming beneath what looks like the edge of a conference table.

Mum: Girls!

Lily-Anne: I see you’re stuck at work

Ellenor: Yeah. Sorry I couldn’t get to the airport. Firm meetings suck balls

Mum: Please, be kind to each other

Mum: Ellenor! Watch your language! What would your boss say???!

We both love heart her message.

Ellenor: So… got a window seat?

Lily-Anne: Yup. And I’m thinking of poor you as I sip my preflight champagne

Ellenor: Liar. We both know you’re in economy

I chuckle.

Ellenor: You should have listened to me and taken a broomstick. Flown in style!

Lily-Anne: All the way to England? I’d bloody freeze!

Ellenor: Weak. You could have been great, you know

Lily-Anne: Not Slytherin… Not Slytherin…

Ellenor: Ha. Your loss. Anyway… fly safe, mudblood

Lily-Anne: Rude!

She sends me a kissy emoji, and I send back a heart.

I’m about to put my phone away when I realise Brandon’s responded to my coffee order. Just a simple ‘will do’ that doesn’t require a response.

But I’m still on a strange high after Ellenor’s ridiculous messages. And he may as well know what he’s in for.

Lily-Anne: Boarded. See you on the other side!

Then I send a gif of an over-the-top slow-motion pour of latte art using colourful food dye. A swirling rainbow masterpiece of deliciousness.

His response comes a minute later.

Brandon: Christ. Is this what you’re expecting?

Lily-Anne: Not necessarily Jesus Christ - any historical figure will do, religious or otherwise. Just make it pretty

Brandon: Understood.

Grinning, I set my phone to flight mode and lean back in my seat, exhaling a long breath as we wait for take-off.

The roar of engines is unmistakable now.

We safety brief. We taxi. We soar.

Outside, clouds blur past, the plane climbing higher and higher. Tension drains from my shoulders, and for a moment, I’m giddy with weightlessness. I stare down at the shrinking city below, relief rushing through me. I’m leaving it all behind.

When the drink cart comes round, I order that glass of champagne.

Sipping, I consider the music options on my in-flight screen.

Classical…nope.

Jazz…nope.

Hard no to Frank Sinatra.

My teeth clench. I used to love this stuff, but now, I can’t listen to any of it without feeling caged.

Dean Martin’s That’s Amore was my favourite. Was it truly love when Toby serenaded me with it? I’d felt so special. So cared for.

My grip tightens on the glass stem.

I’d needed someone desperately. We’d only just buried Dad, and I was a mess, drifting from one class to another like a ghost, failing all my practicals. I’d been on the verge of dropping out when Toby found me crying in a dark lecture hall.

He’d listened as I spoke through tears about how my world was falling apart.

Then, after lending me his handkerchief, he provided answers. All I had to do was follow his lead. With my family reeling after losing Dad, his certainty was magnetic.

It crept in slowly. The control. The little criticisms. The twisting of words until I didn’t even know what I was apologising for, or why I was crying.

I’d been miserable for a long time, but he finally pushed me past my breaking point when he tried to convince me to sell my guitar—in front of the whole ensemble, no less.

It felt like betrayal.

He knew Dad had bought the Cole Clark for my birthday.

He knew what it meant to me.

Yet he still tried to take it away.

I hadn’t realised he was capable of hurting me like that.

Something in me had snapped in that moment, the haze finally lifting, and I’d stood and left him and the ensemble behind. No tears, no shouting, no explanation—I simply packed my guitar, told him it was over, and walked out, leaving him and the other musicians gaping after me.

My vision blurs. The champagne has lost its sparkle, the bubbles lodged somewhere in my throat.

I blink furiously and rip open the plastic bag of complimentary headphones, cycling through the music menu with a quiet vengeance. I can listen to anything I want now.

Pop, RnB, rock, metal, rap…

Linkin Park’s Numb catches my eye. Ellenor and I used to sing this. Me in the backseat of her car, thinking my older sis was the coolest person alive as she drove us to get milkshakes.

I hit play.

The song intro hits, haunting and familiar, and I close my eyes as the lyrics wash over me. It’s loud and raw, a little messy—exactly how I feel.

I lean back into the headrest and sink into the music, letting nostalgia settle into my bones.

When it ends, I put on Do Me a Favour. Brooding and British, the breakup song echoes my exhaustion, its bitterness fitting over me like armour.

It reminds me of when I walked away from Toby. I’ve replayed it so many times in my mind, each time wishing I hadn’t been so polite when I ended things.

“You should have yelled at him,” Ellenor said after. “I would’ve torn him a new one. Or at least told him to fuck off. Granted, I only advise that as your legal counsel.”

It’s taken me these past few weeks to deconstruct the full scale of Toby’s manipulation. I’d even started to wonder if I should have screamed at him under the glare of the rehearsal lights, my pain echoing in the vaulted ceilings of the concert hall.

But no. The Arctic Monkeys are right in their song: telling him to fuck off would have been too kind.

Walking away was the quiet win I needed. I can’t regret that.

I switch over to girl-power anthems and spend the rest of the flight buried in my new Austen book, drifting through movies, and watching clouds slide past the window.

When I check the on-screen map, the tiny plane icon is inching across the world, carrying me closer to something new.

To England.

To whatever version of myself might be waiting there.

Chapter 3: A Mistake

Lily-Anne

After two exhausting flights, we finally land at Heathrow Airport.

Made it, I text Mum and Ellenor.

It’s raining outside the dark cabin window, because of course it is.

Guitar case in hand, I follow the shuffle of passengers into the terminal, humming Placebo’s English Summer Rain under my breath. My suitcase trundles behind me as I begin the long trek through customs. I consider tossing the magazine into a bin, but change my mind at the last second and shove it in my backpack—it’s a small badge of resistance.

I duck into a bathroom and emerge with a fresh shirt, but the ripped jeans stay, even if they’re a little ratty. I’m a musician—a little scruffiness adds character.

But then I see him.

Tall, broad-shouldered, with side-swept coffee-brown hair, he wears an expensive blazer over a dove-grey shirt, navy slacks, and scuffed boat shoes. He radiates an effortless kind of sophistication, and it suddenly hits me—who he is and the sheer weight of his reputation.

I fidget with my cardigan, feeling far too unpolished to approach.

Until I spot the cardboard sign in his hands. LILY-ANNE is handwritten in large, neat letters with a marker. It looks so absurd with his formal attire that I can’t help but smile.

“Brandon, hi!” I call as I approach.

He turns, and for a second his eyes meet mine, warm brown and gentle, and something inside me jolts—like a string pulled taut.

He gives a small, tentative smile, eyes searching, tone pleasant.

“Lily-Anne,” he says, my name softened by his British lilt. “Hello.”

God. His voice.

I suddenly forget how to breathe. Or walk. Or function.

“You have a sign,” I say, gesturing at it because my brain has clearly abandoned me.

He glances down at it, as if remembering he has it.

“Yes. Your mother insisted,” he explains dryly, tucking it under his arm.

“Oh. Well, I would have recognised you anyway.”

The words leave my mouth before I can stop them.

Heat flares in my cheeks as I realise what I’ve implied—he never sent me any photos. I’ve just admitted to looking him up online.

He blinks, clearly putting two and two together, but he has the grace not to comment.

“How was your flight? Or flights?”

“Great,” I say quickly, relieved to seize the change in topic. “Tiring.” I push my hands into my cardigan pockets, finally remembering my manners. “Thank you so much for coming to get me.” My voice is embarrassingly breathy as I add, “It’s…good to finally meet you.”

“Likewise,” he replies quietly.

For a few impossible seconds, we just… stand there, looking at each other, the crowd swelling around us. I’m grateful he’s not rushing, like he knows I need a moment to breathe before being whisked off to some far side of the country.

He gestures to the guitar case by my side. “Is that the Cole Clark?”

I freeze. “How did you know it’s a Cole Clark?”

I’m sure he didn’t Google me. I’m not on social media.

“Your father mentioned you chose it together. Quite a few years back. He said you play it beautifully. He seemed…proud.”

Something catches in my throat. That word, proud, burns in my chest. I look down at the case, unable to meet Brandon’s eyes.

“Yes, it was a birthday gift—my sixteenth,” I say, my voice thick with emotion. “It was my principal instrument at uni.”

“A faithful companion.”

I nod, not trusting myself to say more. My chest aches with gratitude. Like Brandon’s just handed me a memory of Dad. Something small, but precious. For the first time since stepping off the plane, I don’t feel entirely alone.

Brandon glances at the case again, then at me. “Have you been able to play it? Since you wrote your email?”

“I haven’t even tried.” It stings to admit I’ve made no progress since I first reached out to him a couple of weeks ago. “I mean, I’ve tried—but every time I think about taking out my guitar, I just…”

“Feel nauseous?” Brandon asks.

“Yes. I know it’s ridiculous. I just feel a bit stuck. Creatively.” I blow out a breath. “I want to write music, the way I used to. But now I can’t even play.”

Brandon studies me. “You seem to be putting yourself under quite a lot of pressure.”

I huff a laugh. “Pressure? It’s been weeks since Toby. I’ve had plenty of time to get my act together.”

“Toby?”

“Oh. He’s my ex.” I silently curse the slip. “We broke up recently—but it doesn’t matter.”

He nods, the silence stretching between us until I can’t stand it.

“I’m hoping I can get over this creative block with your help,” I add. “And I know what you’re probably thinking, but I swear, it’s not a confidence thing. It’s more of a…”

Oh god. It’s definitely a confidence thing.

I scramble to pivot. “The thing is, I used to be obsessed with music. Still am, really. Slept with my guitar beside me like it was a teddy bear. Had teddy bears too, obviously.”

“Obviously.”

I draw a quick breath. The amused way he drawled it, ob-viously, like it’s two separate words, sends an unsettling shiver through me.

Also, oof. Did I seriously just tell a grown man—a stranger, basically—about my teddy bears?

I wish I could call the words back.

“So…?” He leans a fraction closer, and the crowd behind us blurs. A faint whiff of cologne reaches me, something deep and masculine, with that clean, earthy scent that lingers after rain, throwing my thoughts off balance. “What is it?”

“What’s what?”

“You said it’s not a ‘confidence’ thing. What kind of thing is it?”

“It’s…complicated. I’ve lost the drive lately. I honestly don’t even know if I want to play. I just…want to want it again. If that makes sense.”

“It does.”

He seems so calm, while I feel like a flustered schoolgirl.

“Do you play?” I pivot, eager to get off the topic of me .

His lips curl. A flash of teeth, a hint of smile lines. “Sort of.” He gestures towards the exit. “Shall we get going?”

I nod, but something twists in my chest. He didn’t really answer my question.

He reaches for my guitar. “Here—allow me.”

Panic spikes and I jerk the case back.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “It’s just…it’s what I have left of Dad.”

A shadow flickers across his face. Like sympathy, but deeper. Then he cocks his head at my suitcase, and I hand it to him with a sheepish ‘thanks’.

“Of course. The car is this way. Ready?”

“Yes. Please.” I could really, really use some air.

As we walk, I open my mouth to ask what he meant by sort of playing music—because I’m suddenly hoping he does. It might help to be around someone who can still play.

“Do you really think he’ll be able to fix you, when I couldn’t?” Toby whispers, cool and smug. “But go ahead. Follow him, just like you followed me. See where it gets you.”

I clamp my mouth shut and clutch my guitar like a life raft, praying I’m not making another mistake.

Brandon’s not Toby. I know that. He’s not trying to control me—he’s offering help, and it’s strictly professional.

But just like back then, when I allowed Toby to lead me out of that dark lecture hall…

As Brandon leads the way, I follow.

Chapter 4: Eyes Wide Open

Brandon

Lily-Anne chats softly beside me as I load her luggage into the back seat—little details about her flights, the extended stopover in Dubai, the live music scene she’s heard about in Whitstable. Her cheeks are still flushed, whether from excitement or the cold I’m not sure, but the colour suits her. She’s easy to listen to. Light. Melodic. I’m happy for her to fill the silence so I don’t have to.

When I drove to the airport this morning, I expected awkwardness. A stranger in my passenger seat. Instead, she slips into the Audi like she belongs there.

“Nice car,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say, even though I know it’s not the luxury ride it once was. It’s little more than a relic of my former life, back when transporting clients in style still mattered to me.

These days, the boot smells faintly of salt and oyster baskets, so I’m relieved her luggage fits neatly on the backseat. Lily-Anne doesn’t strike me as someone who’d judge, but it hardly seems the ideal first impression—especially when she’d travelled here expecting Brandon the music manager.

In my emails, I told her I’d stepped away from the music industry, but I didn’t say how far. Nor did I admit I’ve lost interest in the music scene.

She fastens her seatbelt and gives me a bashful smile. “Sorry. I tend to ramble when I’m nervous.”

“I don’t mind,” I say truthfully, starting the engine.

The car warms around us as we pull onto the motorway. She scrolls through her phone, frowning.

“Everything alright?” I ask.

“Mmh—my phone’s nearly dead. I forgot to charge it on the plane.”

“There’s a USB port. Is your charger in your bag?”

“Oh—yes! In my backpack…” She twists to reach it, but her backpack is wedged low between the seats, her suitcase blocking it completely.

She faces the front. “It’s fine. I don’t need my phone anyway.”

I should let it go. But given she’s in a foreign country, I’m sure she’d feel better with a working phone. My hands shift on the wheel.

“I don’t mind stopping. It’ll only take a second.”

She hesitates. “If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble? Thank you.”

I pull over and get out before she can unbuckle. “Allow me,” I insist.

The chilled air rushes over my skin as I wait for cars to pass, their lights muted in the early morning fog.

I open the rear door and crouch by the backpack, but hesitate before sliding the zip open. It feels odd to be going through her things.

“Should just be on top?” Lily-Anne calls, voice rising anxiously as more cars roar past.

It’s not.

There’s a magazine wedged inside, Nova’s haunting image making my blood turn cold. Her eyes stare up from the cover like she’s been waiting for me.

“Boo,” she whispers, cruel and amused.

I jerk back so hard I hit my head on the edge of the suitcase. A dull thud, followed by a flash of pain.

“Are you okay?” Lily-Anne calls worriedly.

I draw a shaky breath, pulse hammering as I search the empty air for Nova’s ghost. She’s vanished.

“Yep—I’m fine,” I manage.

“It’s the one with the fluffy keychain…?” she prompts.

Wrong pocket, I realise.

I find the charger in a smaller pocket. “Got it.”

Sour smoke clogs my nostrils as I rezip the bag, heat prickling my skin. As I straighten, I see Nova, her memory slouched in the backseat like a phantom. She wears her leather jacket, red lace dripping at her wrists, glimmering eyes peering at me through thick eyeliner and sheets of black hair. She stubs a cigarette against the leather, then nods in Lily-Anne’s direction, voice husky as she croons, “She blushes so prettily, doesn’t she?”

Slamming the door, I press my back to the Audi as I wait for a string of cars to pass, my chest painfully tight. I exhale, trying to clear the smoke from my lungs.

It’s just a magazine. Just paper and ink.

But it’s one thing to stumble upon a photo online or in a store, and another thing entirely to find it coiled up in my car like a viper.

I draw a long breath, trying to rein myself in. Then I climb back behind the wheel, my tone smooth once more.

“Here you go.”

“Champion! Thank you.” Lily-Anne shoots me a grateful smile as she plugs her phone in.

Once I’m back on the road, she starts humming English Summer Rain under her breath. It’s fitting, in that slightly ironic way.

Then I remember the thermos.

“What’s this?” she asks as I hand it to her.

“Coffee, as promised—sans latte art. I didn’t trust the foam to survive the trip. It should still be hot.”

She takes a sip, then her eyes drift shut. “Mmm, this is delicious. Were you a barista in your former life or something?”

“More or less. Back in university, I worked mornings at a café.”

Her eyes light up. “Lucky me—living with a barista.”

A smile tugs at my lips.

“And then you became a music manager?” she asks, watching me curiously between sips.

I nod. It’s a period of my life I rarely speak about—the glamorous, chaotic career of my twenties, tangled up in the tragedy that ended it.

“What do you do now?”

I knew this question was coming. Even so, I’m not sure how to answer. If she’s expecting a recording studio, a wall of gold records, or brunch with a washed-up rockstar or two—I’ll be sad to dash her hopes.

I shift in my seat. “I work on the coast.”

“Like a pirate?”

She’s teasing me, and I relax slightly.

“Yes. But pirating aside—I work on an oyster farm.”

She lets out a laugh. “An oyster farm?”

“Yes.”

“Wow. That sounds really interesting.”

I glance at her. “Does it?”

“Yes! But I’m guessing it doesn’t involve pirate ships…?”

“Usually not.”

A slow smile forms on her face. “How disappointing.”

She doesn’t seem bothered by my occupation, humming thoughtfully as she says, “I bet it’s nicer working outdoors.”

“I certainly think so.”

“Although I have no idea what an oyster farm looks like.”

“Well…” I sit straighter, staring carefully ahead. “If you close your eyes and imagine rolling hills, grassy paddocks, wooden fences, cows…”

Her brow creases. “Yes?”

“It looks nothing like that.”

She gapes at me, a smile teasing her mouth. “That’s very unhelpful, you know that?”

A chuckle escapes me. “So, besides music, is there anything else you’re hoping to get out of your time here?”

“Besides music? I’m not sure. That’s the reason I came.”

“No sight-seeing?”

“I haven’t really thought about that.” She scoffs softly. “Truthfully, I was kind of hoping you could Mr. Miyagi my creative block away. You know, wax on, wax off type stuff.”

“Ah, but you already know how to play guitar,” I say wryly. “And I’m afraid I don’t know karate.”

She grins at that, and something warm stirs in my chest. It doesn’t placate my concerns, however. She’s hoping I can guide her, but what she’s asking for won’t be easy, not if she’s chasing it too hard.

She chews her lip. “Seriously, though. I have to figure this out. Without music, I don’t know how to be.”

The frustration in her voice takes me back to Sydney—to a rooftop bar at the end of a long week, Jeremy at my side with his sleeves rolled up and a rum and coke in hand.
“Slow down, mate,” he’d told me. “Music’s meant to be a passion. Don’t let the job eat you alive.”

Would he give his daughter the same advice now?

She hums softly beside me, and for a moment I hear him too.

Jeremy was always humming. She has his posture, his willowy frame. Even her cadence echoes him, that thoughtful pause before she speaks, the gentle humour.

But the rest is her mother: the brown eyes, the round face, the wild sweep of golden hair.

It’s a poignant thought, still difficult to comprehend: the man who mentored me, befriended me—and saved me—is gone. And now his daughter is here, trusting me with this fragile part of her life.

Not mine to look after, exactly, but close enough that I feel the weight of it.

“One step at a time,” I murmur to her. “You’ll get there.”

She nods. “Like you said in your email—maybe a change in scenery is what I need.”

“Indeed. I think you’ll like Whitstable.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“And if not, we can always learn karate.”

She chokes out a laugh.

Our gazes meet, and for the briefest second, a glimmer of recognition sparks, like a distant memory of joy.

I’m the first to look away, staring at the road, and we fall into silence.

As if conjured by the quiet, Nova leans close, her voice a silken whisper in my ear. “Careful, Mister Sexy Mentor. She’s looking at you like you hung the stars.”

Not true. Not possible.

“Isn’t it? Well, I really hope you don’t let her down.”

I shoot Nova a disapproving glare in the rearview mirror. Her voice was always sharpest when she wanted to dig under my skin.

“Are you alright?” Lily-Anne asks.

“Yes, I—”

I’m saved from answering when her phone buzzes.

“It’s Mum asking me about my flight. Do you mind if I call her?”

“Not at all.”

She lifts the phone to her ear, and after a few rings, Catherine’s voice carries faintly in the car.

They speak briefly, Lily-Anne assuring her she’s fine, that her luggage arrived, and ‘yes, we’re already on the road’.

I keep my eyes ahead, letting their conversation wash past like the rain on the windscreen.

When I overhear Catherine ask for our ETA to Whitstable, I speak up. “A little over two hours to go.”

Lily-Anne relays the information, then lets out a quiet exhale as another stream of questions comes through. “I’ll text you when I arrive, Mum. Yes, I’ll tell him.” She glances my way, mouths, ‘she says hi’.

I’m guessing that’s the abbreviated version, and I ask Lily-Anne to pass on my regards too.

After a long volley of drawn-out goodbyes that would satisfy any Brit, the call ends. Lily-Anne slumps back in her seat with a sigh. “Sorry. Mum worries a lot. Ever since the helicopter crash—” Her voice cracks, and when she finally regains her smile, it’s too quick, too bright. A mask, I realise. “She never flies anymore, not even locally.”

“I’m not surprised,” I say in a low voice. “It would have been a shock.”

“I saw the footage,” she whispers.

I tense, recalling it, too.

Jeremy was on a helicopter tour over Sydney Harbour with clients when mechanical failure brought the chopper down. A tourist climbing the Harbour Bridge caught the terrifying moment it plummeted from the sky.

My voice comes out low. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been—for you, and your whole family.”

She nods. “It was on the news for a while. Especially local news. Online was worse—the algorithms seemed to think I wanted to see news stories and ads for tour charters. That was when I quit social media.”

“Understandable.”

She grows quiet, shoulders folding inward, her thoughts clearly somewhere far away.

“I’m not on social media either,” I eventually volunteer to dispel the tension. “Nor do I travel. I used to live out of a suitcase. Now I barely leave Kent.”

“Do you miss it? Traveling?”

“No,” I say immediately. “Whitstable suits me.”

I hope you like it there too, I nearly add.

“Was it the sunny days that drew you?” she smirks.

“Actually, it doesn’t normally rain much this time of year. Bit of a stereotype.”

She indicates the rain pelting the windscreen, eyebrow arched.

“Statistical anomaly,” I say. “I’ll have you know that June is one of the driest months for us.”

She indicates the windscreen again, and I laugh.

Nova’s ghost gives a long, pointed yawn before finally fading, the tension in my chest going with her.

The silence that follows is gentler, Lily-Anne humming again. She seems more tired now, her eyes unfocused as motorway signs blur past.

“There’s a service station up ahead if you’d like breakfast,” I offer.

“I’m fine for now,” she says, stifling a yawn.

“Alright. Why don’t you try and sleep?”

“That’s okay. I thought I’d be jet-lagged, but I’m wide awake. Besides, I don’t want to miss anything.”

I don’t reply, just give that small, useless smile I seem to give when I’ve run out of words.

She cracks the window and breathes in. I do the same, the cool air clearing my head.

A floral scent reaches me, with a hint of citrus, and I realise it’s Lily-Anne’s perfume. I inhale softly.

Eventually, the city falls away behind us, the fog thinning to reveal hedgerows and gently rolling hills.

“These seat warmers are so toasty,” she sighs contentedly, sinking deeper into her seat.

“Don’t fall asleep—you might miss something,” I tease, repeating her words back to her.

A soft laugh. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

But her eyes drift shut, and a minute later, her head tips onto her shoulder, her breath slowing in sleep.

I reach over and carefully return the thermos to its cupholder. Blonde waves spill over her shoulder, falling across her eyes. I resist the urge to smooth them away.

Instead, I steal another glance at her. Then another.

And then I keep my eyes wide open and fixed on the road.

Chapter 5: Baggage

Lily-Anne

A warm hand grazes my shoulder.

“Lily-Anne. We’re here.”

Brandon’s deep voice slides through the haze of sleep, smooth and velvety. Not the worst thing to wake up to.

I open bleary eyes. He’s standing by my car door, the overcast light catching the lines of his face.

“The service station?” I mumble.

“No. Whitstable. I need to move the car—someone’s stolen my parking space. But I’ll let you into the house with your luggage first.”

I shiver as he steps back, a cool draft meeting me.

We’re parked in front of the narrow houses I’d seen online, their pastel colours even lovelier in person—postcard-perfect as they face the North Sea. The water is a muted sheet of grey-blue beneath the cloudy midday light, bordered by a shingle beach, though from here the pebbles gleam like sand. Air tinged with the smell of seaweed cools my face as I take it all in, a part of me yearning to go explore.

“Oh, how pretty,” I murmur, stepping out of the car and drawing my cardigan close.

I turn to see Brandon watching me, the breeze ruffling his brown hair, my suitcase and backpack beside him. He’s holding the guitar case tentatively, waiting for me to take it.

Embarrassment prickles as I remember how I’d reacted at the airport when he offered to carry it.

“Thank you,” I say, reaching for the handle. Our fingers brush briefly—just for a second. He only nods and starts towards the blue cottage, but as he climbs the steps, his hand flexes, and a shiver skims across mine.

“This is us,” he says, pulling out his keys.

“Not the pink one?” I tease, nodding at the neighbouring house. It’s very Legally Blonde, its matching garden of bubble-gum pink roses creeping through Brandon’s neat hedgerow.

“That belongs to the neighbours, Rupert and Barbara.” He gives me a wary look. “You’ll be invited over there soon enough, if you aren’t careful.”

“You make it sound ominous.”

“Yes, that was my intention.”

His expression is deadpan, though the corner of his mouth twitches as he unlocks the door. He wheels my suitcase inside, then ducks back out.

“Make yourself at home—feel free to look around. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

The hallway smells of cedar, timber floors warmed by cinnamon-brown walls. A coastal-blue runner mutes my steps as I set down my guitar case and bags.

In the kitchen, white cabinets and modern appliances gleam. Glass doors open onto a shady patio with cushioned chairs around a wrought-iron table. Beyond it is a narrow fenced garden of lawn and trees.

Off the hall is a living room. A flatscreen TV hangs on the wall, but the blue couch points toward the window’s view of the sea. A stack of travel books sits on the coffee table. No speakers, no vinyl, no photos—nothing to suggest he enjoys music. I’d hoped for an instrument.

A closed door at the back likely leads to his bedroom, but I return to the kitchen, unwilling to pry.

I sit at the island bench and message Mum and Ellenor to say I’ve arrived. Ellenor replies instantly with emojis. Mum’s typing lingers for a long while, and I brace for a thesis, but all she says is: Thanks love. Glad you’re safe. Talk soon.

I send her an extra heart and pocket my phone just as Brandon steps back into the hall. He hangs his coat on a hook before rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

“Found a carpark?” I ask.

“Barely—just outside Kent.”

It takes me a moment to realise he’s joking.

“A few streets away,” he clarifies.

“Oh, right.” I stand, gesturing around. “Your place is nice, by the way.”

“Thank you. But I think you’ll like upstairs more. Come with me.”

He leads me up a narrow spiral staircase, carrying my suitcase like it weighs nothing. I’m slightly embarrassed by how much I packed, cramming that thing full of outfits and shoes that Ellenor insisted I borrow. I hadn’t had a chance to un-Tobify my wardrobe yet.

Still, seeing how nicely Brandon dressed just to collect me from the airport makes me wish I’d bought the daisy dress back in Sydney.

At the top of the stairs, the light shifts. It’s brighter, pouring in through a round port-style window near the tiny landing.

“This is your flat,” Brandon says, holding the door open for me. “You can lock it if you’d like to, but I’ll leave my side unlatched. You’re welcome to come down whenever you like.”

“Thanks,” I say as I step inside. The flat is… coastal, yes, with whitewashed walls, soft blue accents, and linen curtains. But there’s more to it. So much more.

“Oh my gosh…”

A silver chandelier hangs from the living room ceiling, sparkling blue crystals catching the light like water droplets. Built-in bookshelves line one wall, half-filled with a mix of classics and weathered paperbacks.

There’s a kitchenette with a kettle and sandwich toaster, along with the most adorable floral teacups hanging from little brass hooks.

A wide canvas painting of a phoenix dominates the space above a cream couch, upon which sit cushions embroidered with stars.

When Brandon hands me my keys, my eyes widen at the snowy white owl charm dangling from the ring.

“Wait. You didn’t—” I whirl around, spotting a full set of Harry Potter books lined neatly on a high shelf. Beside me, a tree stump coffee table bears an ornate lantern, and I notice I’m standing on a fluffy rug, the green and silver shades suspiciously Slytherin-green.

“Did I get it right?” he asks, hands in his pockets. “I had a navy rug picked out, but Ellenor texted to say it should be green.”

A surprised laugh escapes me. I can’t believe it. He did all this because of some silly, throwaway list Ellenor badgered me to send? She’s going to scream when I tell her that Brandon’s followed through.

“Yes, you have. But I didn’t really expect you to…” I spin slowly on the spot. “How on earth did you find time to do all this?”

“Most of the renovations were already complete—it was just the bathroom I’d been putting off.”

“Yes, but…the chandelier…the bookshelves!”

He shrugs. “I had help from a good friend of mine who used to be a cabinetmaker.” A faint smile touches his lips. “There’s no rolling ladder, though, I’m afraid. It wasn’t clear from your instructions on where, precisely, you would be rolling to.”

“Anywhere,” I say breathlessly. “But it doesn’t matter. This is already so incredible.”

Most of the bedroom is taken up by a double bed with soft, pale blue covers. It’s a small space, and I’m relieved to find no pop culture references in here. Less is more, and Brandon’s nailed it.

He shows me to a glass door leading outside, where a metal fire escape runs down the side of the house. “Those stairs lead down to the backyard. And you’ve got the key to the side gate, which takes you back out to the street. That’s your separate entrance, as promised. But you’re welcome to come through the main house anytime.”

He gestures towards a small kitchenette. “This is fine for the basics, but feel free to use my kitchen. You saw the espresso machine?”

“I did, but I wouldn’t know where to start with an espresso machine. And I’m not much of a cook. However…” I lift my chin with mock solemnity, “I do make a mean cheese toasty.”

“Glad to hear it,” he says. This time, his smile lingers longer.

He nudges the bathroom door open, and my stomach drops.

“Are you kidding me? A clawfoot bathtub?”

It sits proudly beneath the window like a centrepiece, deep and porcelain-white, with curved edges and ornate golden feet shaped like lion’s paws.

“Is that real?” I ask, slightly breathless.

“Yes,” he replies dryly. “But it’s docile, I assure you.”

I’m too much in awe to think of a comeback. Brandon had sent me photos of the bathroom a couple of weeks ago, but it was only plasterboard then. Now, there are black-and-white checkered tiles underfoot, the pedestal sink has been replaced with a vanity, and a pink glass sconce glows softly above a mirror, the walls painted—

“Beige, as promised,” Brandon says, brushing the walls as if to check they’re dry.

That’s when I notice the faint smell of new paint.

He must have worked around the clock to finish this.

“Brandon, this is too much…”

He sighs. “I knew it. Beige can be quite overwhelming, can’t it?”

“Funny,” I mutter. I’m about to say that he shouldn’t have gone to all this trouble for me, but he’s already returned to the hall.

It gives me a moment to realise how presumptuous I’m being. As much as I love the flat, I’m only here temporarily. He would have chosen the decorations with future holiday guests in mind.

It makes me even more aware that he’s not charging me to stay here. While I’m grateful, it also makes me uncomfortable.

I step back into the hallway, heart ticking faster. “Brandon? I probably should have clarified when I was back in Australia, but… How come you’re letting me stay here for free?”

His brow furrows slightly, and I rush to fill the silence.

“I mean, this flat is amazing. Beautiful and modern, with a seafront view… basically right on the beach—”

“Not quite on the beach. You’ve got to cross the road.”

“Seriously.” I gesture around me. “It’s coastal meets Hogwarts meets Beauty and the Beast.”

“That’s a lot of pop culture.”

“Most people would kill to stay in a place like this even for a weekend. And you’re just handing it over for the summer?”

It doesn’t make sense. I’d expected something smaller, simpler, less picture-perfect. This flat is begging to be on Instagram. His lip quirks, and I pivot. “I know you were friends with my dad, but even so—”

“There’s a bit more to it than that.”

“Oh?” I fumble for humour. “I don’t suppose there’s a skeleton hiding in the closet?”

The joke hangs in the air. His smile fades before it’s fully formed, and something tightens around his eyes.

“Not quite.”

The shift is small, but I feel it, like the room exhales. He leans back against the wall, gaze drifting past me to the balcony where rain speckles the glass door.

“I owe your father more than I could ever repay,” he says quietly. “I lost someone, once, and it nearly broke me. He got me through it.”

A hush falls between us at the mention of my father.

He’s watching the rain, sleeves rolled, profile sharp in the muted light. Serious. Self-contained..

With his gaze turned away, I let myself study him—the thoughtful brows, the strong line of his jaw and prominent nose, the way his shirt pulls when he shifts. There’s an intensity in his stillness that draws me in.

When he turns, I don’t look away fast enough. His dark eyes catch mine, calm and unreadable, and my pulse skips hard.

“I’m not here because of some debt,” I stammer.

“You don’t understand. The woman I lost, Natalie, she was…” He shakes his head. “I cared about her.”

My stomach tightens. “A partner?”

He nods faintly. “At one stage, yes. We dated for a time, until it became clear we weren’t right for each other.”

I fold my arms, unsure what to say. What began as a casual question now feels like a doorway to something deeper.

“When you say you lost her… “

“She died.”

I wince. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have… It’s none of my business.”

“That’s quite alright. It’s a fair question.” His shoulders shift, gaze distant. “She took her own life.”

The words hit like a cold wave.

“We hadn’t been together for a while, but I tried to stay in touch. To offer support. But…” He rubs his face. “My apologies. I didn’t mean to stray into such a heavy topic.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” I say softly. “Sometimes it’s good to talk about these things.”

“I never do,” he admits. “I only wanted to make the point that if it wasn’t for your father, I honestly don’t know how I would have managed.”

The silence thickens, pressing in around us. It’s heavy with grief, as if it could transcend time, stretching into the past—and stretching endlessly into the future. A storm that will never pass.

“I’m sorry,” I say quietly.

He nods, turning away to stare out the window again, his hands in his pockets.

Rain taps against the glass, louder now.

I want to ask more: about my dad; about who the woman in his past is; about the man standing in front of me, whose grief is so carefully contained. He’s holding himself unnaturally still, like any movement might let something slip.

And even though I’ve just met him, my heart aches. I’ve stepped into something raw, something that doesn’t quite belong to me. He’s shared a sliver of his pain with me, and it creeps under my skin, bleeding into mine.

I don’t want to be the reason he has to feel this way now.

“Brandon…” I hesitate, urging myself to stay quiet even as I search for the right words.

“Hm?” He doesn’t turn. Maybe he doesn’t trust himself to.

Maybe I shouldn’t have come. It’s on the tip of my tongue, but all I can think of is the fact that we both lost someone. We’re both hurting.

And we both knew my dad.

Words crystallise, uninvited.

“I still can’t believe he’s gone,” I mumble to his back. “My dad, he’s—” I cut off, sucking in a breath as tears spring to my eyes. Damn it. Don’t cry.

How bloody disappointing, to realise I’ve dragged all my emotional baggage to England.

New country.

Same Lily.

Same problems.

To make matters worse, Brandon’s noticed. He turns back, concern etched deep across his brow, his dark eyes glassy in the glow. There’s something haunted in his expression. “Lily-Anne…”

“You don’t owe him anything. Okay?”

My voice cracks on the last word.

He looks stricken. “I’ve upset you.”

“No! You haven’t. I’m just…tired.”

He nods, but his jaw flexes. “I should let you rest. The heating’s there if you want to turn it up. And…we can sort out dinner later if you’d like to sleep. Unless you want to push through to beat the jet lag, of course.”

I shake my head, already thinking of bed. I’m exhausted, and too emotional for my own good. “Sleep sounds good. And dinner. I’ll come downstairs at…seven?”

“Seven works. I was thinking of a pub—there’s a good one nearby, owned by a friend of mine.”

“Not the same friend who made the bookshelves?”

“The one and the same. He took over an Irish pub a few years ago. The food is excellent.”

My stomach gives a faint rumble, one I’m glad Brandon doesn’t hear. “Sounds perfect. I’m glad I don’t have to cook tonight. Cheese toasties require a lot of concentration, you know.”

“Of course.”

He thinks I’m joking, but Ellenor was always the foodie. Next to her over-achieving in the kitchen, I didn’t see the point in learning to cook.

Still, Brandon’s smiling, and the tension eases a fraction more.

“I’ll leave you to settle in,” he says, closing the door behind him. Faintly, I hear his footsteps on the spiral stairs.

I unpack my things, take a hot shower, and pull on leggings and an oversized pink t-shirt. In the minifridge, I find fruit and yoghurt.

How thoughtful.

After eating, I make myself a strong instant coffee, thinking maybe I’ll skip the nap after all. I sit on the cream couch, trying not to doze off as I wait for the caffeine to kick in. By the time I’ve drained the mug, however, I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.

Just a small nap, I tell myself as I drift toward the bedroom. I collapse onto the soft mattress and drag the covers over me, trying to picture what sharing a meal with Brandon will be like.

He’s not what I expected. There’s no swagger, no showiness. Just a quiet confidence that has a charm of its own. He intrigues me, and I’m anticipating dinner a little too much.

Chapter 6: A Missed Course

Lily-Anne

I startle awake, hunger pangs tightening my stomach. It’s dark. Barely a trace of twilight gracing the sky outside. I scrabble for my phone, squinting at the bright screen.

11:47pm. I’ve overslept.

Shit.

A notification sits on the lock screen, sent nearly four hours ago.

Brandon: Everything alright?

And then two hours ago:

Brandon: Didn't want to wake you - just sorting dinner if you surface.

He was waiting. A tiny flush warms my chest, but its swept up in embarrassment.

Groaning, I roll out of bed and nearly trip over my guitar case.

“Shit, fuck!” I yelp, massaging my toe.

“Language, Lily. It’s not very becoming of a lady to swear.”

“Oh, fuck off, Toby,” I snarl, hurrying to pull my shoes on.

I race downstairs, raking my fingers through my hair in a bid to look presentable.

I rush toward the bright kitchen—only to collide with Brandon’s chest as he steps out.

“Oh—sorry,” I blurt, stumbling.

He catches my arms and steadies me. “Whoa there. I thought I heard you come down.”

“Yes, sorry. I just woke up,” I mumble, tilting my chin up to meet his gaze. His hands are warm on my arms, his face close. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves, the air humming between us as heat prickles my cheeks. Then, as if by unspoken agreement, we step back, leaving a careful distance.

“Sorry,” I say again. “I think I slept through my alarm. Or maybe I forgot to set it.”

A small smile plays across his face. “That’s quite alright. Are you hungry? I’m afraid the pub won’t be serving food now, but I made us some dinner.”

“You did?” Guilt prickles beneath my relief. “You must have been starving.”

He shrugs. “A little peckish. But I can fend for myself.”

“I hate that I kept you waiting. And that you had to cook.”

His mouth quirks faintly. “I really didn’t mind. Gave me something to do while you caught up on sleep.”

“Still—”

“Come,” he says gently. “I left you a plate. Might still be warm.”

As I follow him down the hall, my eyes wander. He’s changed, wearing just a T-shirt and dark jeans now, his reserve softened by the casualness of it. The fabric stretches across his shoulders as he moves, lean strength in every quiet step.

It’s comforting that he doesn’t keep up the formal front at home. It makes me feel less like an intruder.

And yet, my cheeks are heating again.

Ridiculous. I came here for professional guidance, not to get flustered over an older man still nursing a broken heart.

The kitchen is warm and smells of garlic and butter, rich and homely. A breeze drifts in through the open window, lifting the curtains and cooling my flushed face. I’ve always felt the cold easily, but tonight it feels almost good, raising goosebumps on my arms and reminding me that I’m alive.

“You didn’t have to go to this much trouble,” I say as he sets the plate before me and removes the tin foil covering.

“It’s nothing special,” he replies, drying his hands. “Just some roast chicken and potatoes.

“It smells amazing,” I sigh.

I take a cautious bite, and he watches for a second before looking away.

“So,” he says after a moment, leaning back against the counter, “what’s your plan for tomorrow?”

“Plan?”

“In regards to your music.”

My plan was to come here. That was the plan, I nearly say.

“I might check out town,” I dodge. “And then…I’ll see.”

He nods, folding his arms loosely. “You mentioned wanting to write again. Is your goal to perform them one day?”

I pause, fork halfway to my mouth. “Honestly? It was, but I don’t know anymore.” My gaze drops to my plate. “Is that bad? To not have my goals figured out?”

“Far better than to be following the wrong ones. But, if I may… you don’t strike me as someone without a goal.”

Before I can think of a reply, he checks the clock. “I should turn in. Early tide tomorrow.”

I’d momentarily forgotten he still has work. I’m already in holiday mode. “How early is early?”

“Five-ish.”

“Ouch.”

I toy with a piece of roast carrot, my voice innocent. “I suppose the cows will need milking.”

A faint smile tugs at his mouth. “Indeed. As do the oysters.”

I snap my head up, then realise he’s joking. Oysters don’t need milking. I’m fairly certain.

Still, I hold his gaze, trying to look like someone who knows that—and who also wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if it turned out that oysters had udders.

Brandon chuckles softly. “Call me if you need anything. I’m usually home mid-afternoon. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. And… thank you for dinner,” I call after him.

“You’re welcome.” He pauses by the door, glancing back with a faint smile as he indicates the light switch. “Lights are here once you’re done.”

His footsteps on the floorboards fade, the house settling into quiet once more. The silence feels too big for me, too new. It’s surreal to realise I’m actually here. In an Englishman’s cottage, on the other side of the world, far from everyone I know.

I hope I know what I’m doing.

A faint rush of water drifts down the hall—the muted sound of a shower starting. It’s strangely intimate, the reminder that he’s still here, moving through the same space.

Chapter 7: A Shot of Red

Lily-Anne

I pad downstairs in my flannel pyjamas at five thirty a.m. hoping to catch Brandon, but he’d already left, his keys gone from their hook.

He’s left instructions for using the espresso machine.

How sweet.

Unfortunately, the gleaming thing hisses and spits at me like an offended cat. No matter how many buttons I press, all I get is something bitter that tastes faintly of seaweed.

After a few failed attempts to coax caffeine from its shiny depths, I surrender.

I fear we’ll be mortal enemies.

I mop up the evidence, change into jeans and a shirt, tug on my cardigan and white sneakers, and head into town, locking the door behind me.

I’m not ready to face my guitar—I desperately need a good coffee.

And so, my quest begins.

I consult my phone only once, just long enough to see that the heart of town is a few streets over, a fifteen-minute walk if I don’t get distracted. Then I tuck my phone away, deciding to leave the rest to chance.

There’s something nice about not knowing exactly where I’m going as I follow the esplanade. The shingled beach stretches alongside me, waves whispering over smooth stones. Near the harbour, I pass beneath colourful bunting strung between buildings, the pennants fluttering as if to welcome me.

Whitstable is already waking by the time I reach the town centre, the low hum of early-morning chatter rising around me. Delivery vans edge along the narrow road, a cyclist coasting past while a man in a flat cap pauses to greet someone outside the greengrocers.

I hear the hollow tap-tap-tap of coffee grounds being knocked out from a nearby café, and the rich scent of roasted beans draws me closer.

Before long, I’m settled with a mug of cappuccino and a plateful of English Breakfast. I send Mum and Ellenor a photo of my fried eggs, sausages, bacon, grilled tomatoes, mushrooms, baked beans, and toast.

It’s not something I’d normally do; Ellenor’s the one who always photographs her meals. But it feels nice, somehow, to share a small piece of my morning with them. Everything still feels dreamlike, and sending proof helps me believe I’m really here.

Or maybe it’s just the satisfaction of seeing Ellenor’s jealous emoji—the huffy one blowing steam out of its nose.

By the time I finish breaky, the sun’s higher and the street is bustling with shoppers.

I lose an hour within a tiny bookshop crammed with curling paperbacks, then talk myself out of buying a sea glass tiara in the next shop over.

As I admire a florist’s stall, I find myself wondering how Brandon’s morning is going. Is he out on a boat, sleeves rolled, the wind biting at his face? Or trudging through waist-deep water? I noticed the waterproof overalls he set out by the door last night. I hope the water isn’t too cold.

I press my lips together. I really shouldn’t be thinking about him at all. Giving the flowers a wistful look, I continue down the lane.

That’s when I spot it: a window display of summer dresses, the morning light catching on a flash of red lace.

I stop cold. It’s a skater dress, the style almost identical to the daisy one I’d seen in the airport, with short sleeves, a modest V-neck, and a lacy hem stopping just above the knees.

There’s one key difference, however: the colour is a bright, unapologetic chilli red.

“Wow,” I breathe, unable to tear my eyes away. My fingers twitch, as if I could reach through the glass and touch the fabric.

Toby’s voice slithers through memory.

A dress like that leaves nothing to the imagination, he’d explained after our first date, when I’d borrowed one of Ellenor’s bodycons. Don’t you want to be classy?

Yes, I did. Just like I wanted to please him. He seemed so impressive to me back then, with his sleek black hair, sharp glasses, and air of quiet authority.

Which is how I’d ended up wearing Mary Jane heels, red lipstick, and cake mascara everywhere I went, emulating the Hollywood starlets of the forties Toby was so enthralled by.

My face feels lighter now, with only a hint of mascara and lip balm.

I stare up at the red dress longingly. Where the daisy dress had been all sweet innocence and sunshine, this one radiates something else entirely. It’s bold. Sophisticated. A little sexy, even.

It wouldn’t hurt to try it on.

I take one step towards the door when Toby chides, “And what do you think you are doing?”

I grind to a halt. His shadow has found me, even here. I turn to leave, but the dress is stamped red into my vision.

Ignoring the urge to retreat, I take a breath, straighten my spine, and march myself into the shop and ask if I can try it on.

Minutes later, I’m staring at my reflection in the change room mirror.

I shift, the skirt swishing lightly as I catch myself from another angle. The woman looking back is the same as she ever was—average height, slim frame, Mum’s brown eyes, natural blonde waves—yet something feels altered.

I smooth the skirt, a tentative smile gracing my features.

The dress might be Hollywood red, but this time, the colour is my choice. And it transforms everything. Where Toby’s choices had made me look like a cut-out from his world, this feels foreign in a different way.

I’d hoped to see the version of myself I’d forgotten, but instead I’m seeing someone I barely recognise. Someone I could be. A woman who is unafraid, carving her own path without waiting for permission.

It’s a new Lily.

I don’t feel like her, but I think I could be.

I didn’t even realise how small I’d become, trying to fit Toby’s mould.

Never again.

I step out of the change room wearing the dress.

“Oh, that’s beautiful,” the shop assistant beams.

I smile back, though I pull my green cardigan over it as I pay. It’s silly, maybe, but it makes me feel safer.

Then I leave the shop with a stupidly pleased smile on my face, the warm breeze rustling my skirt.

Toby’s shadow lags behind, unable to keep up.

He spent so much time being dissatisfied with everyone and everything around him. I thought he was wise and discerning, that he knew something the rest of the world didn’t.

In reality, he was just a controlling asshole.

I’m about to turn back when the sound of a guitar drifts through the air—bright, rhythmic, alive.

My pulse quickens, my feet moving before I even realise I’m following it. I’m lured across a small courtyard where a drizzle catches the sunlight, turning the air to glitter and speckling my skin with cool pinpricks. The mix of sun, rain and music is refreshing, and when I spot the chalkboard sign outside the café the sound is coming from, my mood lifts even more.

WILLOUGHBY’S – LIVE MUSIC, COFFEE, COMMUNITY

Beneath it, someone’s scrawled: Try the house blend. Strong enough to wake the dead.

Today’s specials: tomato–basil soup, focaccia melts, and lemon drizzle cake.

The menu almost makes me wish I hadn’t filled up on a big breakfast, but it’s the musician silhouetted through the window that has my attention.

He begins to sing, his easy tenor and lazy vowels curling pleasantly around the room, a pop beat thrumming beneath the guitar. It’s a Dustin Willoughby classic—one of those soft rock songs still played on wedding playlists, somewhere between Paul Simon and Ed Sheeran.

Intrigued, I enter.

Most of the walls are lined with old concert posters and signed photographs of a single artist: Dustin Willoughby. It’s quite the tribute—the owner must be a die-hard fan. Maybe the rock legend was even a regular once; it would explain all the autographs.

I glance around, half-hoping to see the man himself.

Alas, no Dustin.

The lunch rush is in full swing, the air humming with conversation and clinking cutlery. The musician man stands on the low stage near the front window, playing a semi-acoustic. He looks to be in his mid-to-late twenties—far too young to be the retired star whose face fills the walls. Cables snake around his feet, the lights catching the scuffed varnish of the floorboards as he sings with practiced ease, every note pitched to draw the room’s attention. It’s a shame most people are focused on their food.

I order a coffee to go, but on my way out, I linger by the door. A poster catches my eye—Open Mic Night. It’s on Wednesday, day after tomorrow.

I lick my lips. Hope flickers, but it’s pointless. I haven’t even opened my guitar case yet. Not that I’ve been here long, but still…

I glance down at my red dress, frowning.

Was wandering around aimlessly, eating and clothes shopping, really the best use of my morning?

Without warning, the door swings inward and slams into me. I jolt, clutching my takeaway cup too tightly, the lid flipping off as hot coffee splashes across my chest.

“Ow!” I yelp, stumbling back and swiping uselessly at the spreading stain. “Oh my god—”

“Oh no, I’m so sorry, love!” cries the woman who barged in, a business type balancing a laptop bag and phone. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” I lie, though the coffee burns and the entire front of my dress is drenched.

“Here.” A smooth male voice cuts in. A hand appears, offering a stack of folded napkins.

“Thanks,” I gasp, pressing them against my chest. It’s no use—the liquid’s already seeped through the fabric. I can feel the beads trickling down my stomach.

Ugh. So much for ‘New Lily’.

“Bit silly of us to put the poster there,” he says, tearing the poster from the door.

I look up and realise it’s the musician from the stage.

His guitar is gone, and he’s wearing a linen barista’s apron, the light fabric streaked with cocoa or coffee grounds. A black T-shirt stretches across his arms, and his jeans are more ripped than mine could ever aspire to be. Glossy black curls graze his shadowed jaw, silver bands glint on his fingers, and a neat row of studs line one ear.

Up close, he’s devastatingly handsome, with piercing blue eyes that can see straight through me. And that smile—the kind that breaks hearts, teeth so bright I’ma need sunglasses.

He’s a different kind of handsome to Brandon. Less stillness and polish, more ruggedness.

I swallow hard. Remember to breathe.

“Sorry about that,” he says. “Let me get you a fresh coffee, on the house.

“Oh, no, it’s not your fault—” I begin, but he holds up a hand.

“I insist. What are you having?”

“A cappuccino,” I say, still dabbing at my dress.

“You got it.” He begins working the machine himself, the churn of beans grinding filling the air.

I abandon my attempts to rescue my dress.

“Here,” he says, taking the sodden napkins from me. “I’ll chuck it.”

“Thanks,” I say, my cheeks warming as I fidget with my sleeve. “Are you the owner?”

“Yep. I’m Willoughby, I run the place. And before you ask, Dustin’s my uncle.” He nods at the tribute wall of posters and photos.

“Oh, wow.”

He extends his hand. “And you are…?”

“Lily-Anne,” I reply, shaking it. “Nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure.” He leans on the counter, surveying me with interest. “Is that an Australian accent I hear?”

I laugh. “Yes. I’m here on sort of a holiday. I’m staying with a…friend.”

I hesitate for a beat, unsure how to refer to Brandon.

My father’s friend?

Family friend?

My friend?

The last one seems the least accurate, but it’s too late to call back the words.

Willoughby hasn’t noticed my hesitation. “Fantastic! Welcome to Whits. You’ll love it here.” He hands me my coffee, along with a paper bag.

I blink. “What’s this?”

“A complimentary muffin. Sorry again about the dress.”

“Oh, that’s okay.” I shrug, trying to look unfazed by the giant pool of brown on my chest. “It’s new—I just bought it in town—so I probably should have washed it first before wearing it anyway. You know, chemicals and stuff.”

I cringe inwardly at my rambling.

“Well, it’s a real showstopper.” He gives me a movie star smile, gaze unwavering, and I feel heat creep up my neck. “I hope you’ll be back. Will I see you this Wednesday at the open mic?”

“Oh—” My throat catches. “I don’t know… I’m not sure I can play.

“All good. We can’t all be performers.”

He chuckles, easy and unbothered, and I remember—of course he doesn’t know I’m a musician.

“You should come and watch,” he continues. “It’s a good night. Live music, plenty of atmosphere. Bring your friend. And share our page—hashtag Willoughby’s Café.”

I open my mouth to speak, but he’s already on his phone. “Hold on, what’s your handle? I’ll invite you to like our page.”

“You can’t. I’m not on social media.”

He lowers his phone and stares at me like I’m crazy. “Really? Okay. Wow. That’s rare these days. And…” He bites his lip. “Kind of mysterious.”

Flirting was not on the agenda today. But neither was soaking up my caffeine via osmosis. So, for the sake of not appearing meek, I roll my shoulders back and smile.

“Mysterious is what I was going for.”

He gives me a salute, and I wave goodbye as I leave the café. There’s nothing mysterious about me, but I don’t care. I feel like a million bucks. That stupid smile is back on my face, and it stays with me the entire afternoon.

Back in the cottage, I change into fresh clothes and find Brandon’s washing machine. I might not have had much luck making espresso, but I’m willing to give this a shot. It looks just like Mum’s machine back home.

“We’ll be friends, won’t we?” I whisper as I pop the dress in with my cardigan and press START.

It gurgles in response as it fills with water. A promising sound.

Chapter 8: Wrung Out

Brandon

I step out of the Audi, surveying the row of pastel-coloured cottages. Roses stretch between my place and the pink house next door, freshly watered if the droplets are anything to go by. I’d allowed Barbara and Rupert to plant in my front garden too, on the strict condition that none be red. No sign of the said neighbours, thankfully—though I’m sure they’ve spotted me.

I’ve forbidden them from visiting on Lily-Anne’s first day, asking that they give her time to settle in. I know they’re counting the seconds.

I glance up at my blue cottage as I shut the car door, its white trim bright in the afternoon sun. It feels different today, knowing there’s a woman inside.

The thought lingers as I pull off my wellies and leave them in the boot, not wanting to drag half the estuary with me. The socks beneath are still damp from the tide, so I tug on the sandals I keep for such occasions and head up the path. I’m still wearing my yellow waterproof overalls over my clothes. It’s a ridiculous colour to anyone who’s never worked the docks, but I’ve never minded. The lads all fought over the grey and camo ones when the order came in, but I took these. It’s all the same to me.

I half expect to find Lily-Anne at the dining table, the way I’d seen her last night when I bid her goodnight, but there’s no sign of her.

Probably for the best. I’m not sure I’d want her to see me like this, socks squelching and bright yellow oilskins streaked with mud. Still, a flicker of disappointment sneaks in before I can stop it. Foolish.

As I pass the stairs, a sound stops me—the faint, unmistakable resonance of a guitar being strummed. Just once, drifting from upstairs. I hold my breath, waiting for more, but all is silent, heavier than before. She stopped.

I head through to my ensuite and strip down for a shower, the sting of hot water biting pleasantly at my chilled skin.

All I can think about is that single, fragile chord echoing down the stairwell, disturbing the cottage’s silence.

I’d like to hear her play more.

What would it sound like, to have her music bloom in the empty space? It’s something I hadn’t realised I’d been waiting for.

I shouldn’t be thinking of her at all. I shut off the water in irritation and rake a hand through my hair, shaking the droplets from my face. It’s going to take some getting used to, having her here.

I towel off. By the time I’m freshly shaved before the fogged mirror, I feel almost human again. I pull on a pair of dark jeans and a pale blue button-up in soft cotton, which I tuck loosely and roll the sleeves to the elbow. Comfortable. Unpretentious.

Still making an effort, though God knows why.

That’s when I hear it—a rhythmic beeping from down the hall.

Frowning, I follow the sound to the washing machine and crouch down. The cycle light blinks accusingly. I tug open the door, and a rush of steam and damp air escapes, carrying the scent of fabric softener and something distinctly hers. Her sodden green cardigan slumps against the drum in a puddle.

“Of course, you would embarrass me in front of our guest,” I mutter to the machine.

It’s never handled light loads well—nor heavy ones. Or regular ones, for that matter. A temperamental old beast, like most things were when I bought this house.

There are no traces of soap, at least. As usual, it’s just the spin cycle that’s failed. I consider resetting it, but with a load this small, it’s easy enough to wring out and hang on the clothesline.

Or so I intend to do as I pull the cardigan free, until a slash of red fabric catches my eye.

I freeze.

Lace, snagged on a button. Bright, even in the dim light of the hall. I reach for it carefully, but the material catches on my fingertips, soft and intricate.

Disoriented, I stare at it a moment too long. Lingerie.

It’s unexpected and private, and my body reacts before my thoughts can catch up. Something flares, deep and low—heat I shouldn’t feel, but do.

Then the lace slips free, the rest of the garment unfurling between my hands. Not lingerie at all. A scarlet dress.

I hold it out in front of me, as though it poses some kind of threat.

“Oh my,” says a familiar voice. Nova’s perched on the edge of the washing machine, slender legs crossed, voice dripping with amusement and sarcasm. “A dress. How risqué.” She cackles.

I stare at the red fabric pooling from my hands like liquid.

It’s just colour. Just fabric.

But once, red had meant attraction. Heat and roses and one glass too many of Claret. Until it came to mark something else.

“Brandon?” Lily-Anne calls softly, her footsteps light as she comes down the stairs.

Nova laughs and vanishes.

“Yes, I’m down here,” I say distractedly, stuffing the clothes back into the washer and straightening.

“Oh no,” she groans, spotting the water trickling onto the floor. “What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. Looks like it’s just unbalanced.”

“What? But it wasn’t even a heavy load.”

“It’s not your fault. The sensor’s temperamental.” I risk a glance at her, noticing her white t-shirt, torn-knee jeans, hair in a messy bun—cute, but my mind jumps straight to red lace.

God help me.

I clear my throat. “If the load’s too light, it doesn’t distribute evenly and the whole drum wobbles.”

She blinks at me. “So… you’re saying the load wasn’t heavy enough?”

“As I said—temperamental. I need to get it replaced.” I wipe my damp hands on my jeans and nod at the washer. “Your things are wet, but otherwise done. If you don’t mind wringing them out, there’s a line on the patio. Should dry quickly, what with the sun still out.”

“Good idea,” she gathers her wet clothes. I show her out back, opening the glass sliding door.

I avert my gaze as she pegs them up.

“How was the farm?” she asks. “Milk some cows?”

It takes me a moment to recall our joke from the car ride yesterday.

“Yes. It was good. We had a calf today.”

She glances over, her expression shrewd. “That’s nice. But it’s a bit late for calving season, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never worked on a farm with animals.”

“But oysters are animals,” she points out. “They’re marine molluscs. Part of the same group as clams and scallops.”

I arch a brow. “You Googled oysters, didn’t you?”

“Maybe.” She smiles coyly, a brief flash that’s gone almost as soon as it appears, but it sparks heat beneath my ribs all the same. “I had to verify your milking claim.”

“I see.” A smile tugs at my mouth. “And how about you? Good day?”

She nods. “I walked into town, checked out the harbour and some shops. It’s such a beautiful place.” She hesitates, fiddling with a peg. “I didn’t play my guitar, though.”

Guilt drags her tone, subtle but unmistakable.

“That’s quite all right,” I say gently. “There’s no rush. It’s only your first day.”

Her shoulders ease a little, though I can tell it still nags at her.

“Speaking of which,” I continue, “how about that pub dinner? Since you missed it last night. Nothing fancy, just to mark your first day.”

“That sounds great. I promise not to nap through it this time.” She gives me a quick, bright smile before heading inside to call her Mum.

I smile after her, but it fades when I catch sight of the clothes line. A red ghost sways, caught in the breeze.

Thank you for reading the first few chapters of Madly Deeply Always.

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📚 Book Search Engine Metadata for Madly, Deeply, Always

• Title: Madly, Deeply, Always

• Author: Jules Starbrook

• Genre: Contemporary Romance

• Ebook ASIN ‏: ‎ B0FHFPCPNF

• Paperback ASIN: B0G4RTR5CH
  

• Hardcover ASIN: B0G4K2JMPQ
  

• Paperback ISBN (Amazon): 9798277043714

• Hardcover ISBN (Amazon): 9798276668222

• Publication date : ‎ 14 February 2026

• Language: ‎ English

• Part of series: ‎ Unspoken Longing

• Subgenre Tags: Slow burn romance, grief and healing, music-themed romance, Jane Austen-inspired, emotionally rich fiction, coastal romance

• Tropes: Grumpy/sunshine, found family, wounded MMC, emotionally closed-off heroine, quiet pining, close proximity, creative healing, forbidden feelings

• Tone: Tender, introspective, atmospheric, quietly hopeful

• Setting: English seaside village; shared cottage; Willoughby’s Café

• Inspiration: Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility 1995 (film), BBC period dramas, coffeehouse aesthetic, Harry Potter by J. K. Rowling, Alan Rickman's portrayal of Colonel Brandon in Sense and Sensibility 1995 (film), Kate Winslet's portrayal of Marianne in Sense and Sensibility 1995 (film), Alan Rickan's portrayal of Severus Snape in Harry Potter

• Main Themes: Grief, healing, starting over, emotional intimacy, rediscovering passion through music

• Point of View: Dual POV (female and male lead)

• Age Rating: Adult (soft-spoken but mature themes)

• Length: ~100,000 words

• Publishing Status: Currently querying agents - Indie publication under consideration

• Comparative Titles: Beach Read by Emily Henry, Evvie Drake Starts Over by Linda Holmes, The Flatshare by Beth O’Leary, Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen(modern retelling tone)

• Keywords: slow burn romance, emotional romance, respectful romance, musician romance, seaside cottage romance, creative healing, good man MMC, contemporary heartfelt romance, heartbreak recovery, women’s fiction with romance, character-driven love story.