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She hadn’t noticed the low door set in the wall next to the dresser. It was painted the same bright yellow as the kitchen walls and was hidden in a dark corner away from the window. A small circular handle, in the same yellow, was on the top of the door. David dropped her hand and pulled at it and the door came open with a creaking groan. As he bent down, Megan crouched next to him and peered in. A dark narrow space ran the length of the wall and it was just high enough to step in if you bent your head.

For her anyway; he was too tall and wide to fit in.

He stepped back and gestured to the cellar. “Do you want to choose a bottle of wine to go with that delectable-smelling sauce?”

“Is it okay to use one, do you think?” Megan stepped in and squealed as a cobweb drifted down onto her face. She brushed it away and peered around in the dim light. Dozens of bottles lined the walls, all covered in a fine layer of dust. She reached up for one and coughed as the dust flew up into the air.

“Seeing as Alice has gone, I am sure she won’t mind.” His deep voice followed her in. “And the family rarely stays here.”

“Who looks after the cottage? Beth—my friend who offered me the cottage—didn’t tell me much about it.”

David reached over for the bottle Megan held in her hand and waited for her to step out of the small space.

While he closed the door, Megan went over to the stove and stirred the tomato sauce before filling another pot with water for the pasta. She turned the tap on carefully, relieved when the water shut off on the first go.

David wiped the wine bottle on his jeans before placing it on the table. “Alice was a bit of an eccentric. I met her…a few years back when I first bought the cottage and she liked to have company. I used to look after the garden for her when I was here, and I’ve just kept it up. The cottage is empty most of the time now.”

“The woman in the shop told me she haunts the cottage.”

David stared at her for a moment before his face creased into a huge grin. “Did she now? Don’t worry about Jules. I think she smoked a bit too much of the happy weed in her time. She’s a relic from the seventies. New age spiritual beliefs, and all that. You know, back in the seventies the villagers put up signs about hippies not being welcome in the shops and cafés in town.” David laughed but he looked away and didn’t meet her gaze. He picked up the wine bottle and looked at the label. “Alice was quite partial to a good drop.”

Megan wandered over to the table and looked at the bottle he was holding up.

“Oh my God, we can’t drink that. What a waste with a pack of bolognaise sauce.” She did her best to read the label in her schoolgirl French accent. “Château Fombrauge 1971 Grand Cru Classé de Saint Emilion.” She put her hands on her hips. “1971!”

“A good year.” David smiled at her.

“It must be worth a fortune.”

“If it bothers you so much I’ll replace it next time I go up to the city.” Megan looked at him curiously. He mustn’t be too much of a struggling artist if he could afford to replace a bottle of wine that old. She knew enough to know it must be worth a few hundred dollars—pounds—at least.

“Well, if you’re sure the family wouldn’t mind…and if you’re going to replace it.” Megan scrabbled in the drawer by the sink for a corkscrew and then watched as David pierced the cork with the metal prong. She kept her gaze on his fingers as he wound the corkscrew, slowly round and round. His hands were slender and she could see the rough callouses on the pads of his fingers from playing his guitar. Her breath caught as she imagined those rough fingers caressing her skin.

Turning away, she went across to the stove and busied herself tipping the pasta into the bubbling water, and she blamed the rising steam for the heat in her face.

God, what is wrong with me? If he sings I’ll probably go into a quivering heap. She’d never been so physically affected by the mere presence of a man before.

By the time she’d served the meal, David had found some large crystal goblets and poured the cherry-red wine into them.

“To you, Megan.” He raised his glass and waited for her to lift hers to clink on his. “May your holiday and your visit to the festival be everything you dreamed.”

She lifted the glass to her lips and sipped, closing her eyes as the luscious fruity flavor fizzed on her tongue before sliding smoothly down her throat. Instant warmth hit her stomach and she opened her eyes to meet his gaze.

“Beautiful.” His voice was soft and he held her eyes with his as he sipped from the crystal. Confusion filled her at his ambiguity and she decided to assume he was talking about the wine. Her guard went up and she put the goblet down on the table. Her feelings were erratic enough without enhancing them with wine.

“It is.” Reaching for the steaming bowl in the centre of the table, she held it out to David and he served the pasta onto both of their plates.

“It’s a fairly basic meal to eat with such a good wine.” She grinned at him and returned the conversation to the mundane. “I am sure the French winemaker would be horrified to know it was accompanying a dried pasta sauce.”

They ate silently for a few moments and Megan racked her brain to think of something, anything, to fill the awkward silence.

“Tell me about your music. You said you just do covers?” She cradled her face in one hand while she sipped at the wine. She’d just finish this glass. “Tell me how you came into music. Is it a hobby for you or a profession?”

She stared at him, waiting for his answer, blaming the breathless feeling in her chest on the potent wine.

“Music is my life,” he said. “It is as necessary to me as the air I breathe and the food I eat. I couldn’t survive without it.” He held her gaze and his eyes darkened. “I have written many…many of my own songs too.”

Megan sat up straight, her interest piqued. It seemed important to him that she knew he played more than covers of Davy Morgan’s songs. Her fingers itched to write down the words he’d said about music being his life. It would make a great quote in her work. “So you’ve been to a few Glastonbury festivals?”