‘Why didn’t you tell me that you’d hurt your knee when you fell?’

Ellie had seen Dr Faulkner striding towards her on those long, fine legs, and her pain had been overridden by a flutter of pleasure that, had she had time to analyse it, would have brought a blush to her cheek. As soon as he opened his mouth, however, it was clear that he was no knight in armour riding to her rescue.

She lifted her shoulders a millimetre or two.

Okay, so she was no Guinevere, but even so a little sympathy would have been welcome, instead of the undiluted irritation that appeared to be his standard response to her.

What was his problem?

She hadn’t gone out of her way to get under his feet. On the contrary, he was the one who’d got under hers. He was the one who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, not her.

‘My mother taught me that discretion was the better part of valour,’ she said. ‘It seemed like an excellent moment to put her advice to good use.’

‘It might have been more useful if she’d warned you about the dangers of daydreaming at the top of ladders,’ he replied.

Ellie watched as he picked up the bike and propped it against the wall, out of harm’s way.

Hello! I’m here! Crumpled up on the driveway in agony-well, maybe agony was pushing it a bit, but still, it’s me you’re supposed to be picking up and-

Maybe not.

Having dealt with the bike, he turned to her.

‘Can you stand?’ he asked.

‘I’m going to have to, unless I plan on staying here all evening.’

She could do ‘you’re a dumb idiot’ responses, too.

Then, as she finally made a move, he said, ‘Wait!’ She looked up at him.

‘For what? Christmas?’

By way of reply, he offered her his hands.

Better. Especially as they were the kind of hands a romantic novelist expected of her hero. Broad palms. Long fingers. Wide thumb-tips. Not smooth, soft, like most academics, but callused, scarred with small cuts and abrasions. Dull red marks that looked as if they might have been burns.