Breaking the Rules: A cozy, Cornish small‑town romance

check, be professional and a little bit less of a grouch. She knew that her mood today had been tetchy – she had even scowled at four-year-old Billy during maths when she had to firmly remind him, twice, that in school one kept one’s trousers on.

Heading towards the kitchen door, book in hand, Rosy spied a small metal tin on the worktop. Her smile returned. That was just what she needed. A nutty millionaire’s slice. She flipped the lid and snatched a piece, ramming it into her mouth before it crumbled into nothingness and the caramel wrapped around her fingers. Perhaps one more bit, maybe two.

Now she really did have to move! She raced to her car, hopped in and started to reverse down the drive.

Screech! She was forced to jam the brakes on, a peanut falling from her mouth onto her dress as she was jolted forward. Where on earth had that come from? Blocking her drive was a removal lorry, big enough to house a circus and not showing any signs of moving. That had definitely not been here when she had arrived. With only a few minutes left before she was due to sit in a teeny-tiny chair with a woman reputed to down entire careers with one glance – rumour had it she could take out small island nations in less than three minutes – she was going to need to move fast.

She blared her horn as hard as she could. No movement. She needed to get out of the car and

careered past the pub and then the beach, heaving in the summer months but empty at this time of year, and the ice-cream shop, boarded up until Easter when hordes of barefooted families would suddenly appear, snaking all the way back to the sands.

Nearly home and with min

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