I stood with my back to the closed door and stared at the ceiling, a grin splitting my face, something doing a tango in my stomach. H was… no, not perfect, but simply… Right. He’d coped spectacularly with the ceilidh; Sandra, 16 at last, would be going on for months about how she’d taught him to strip the willow.

Taking a glass of water up the stairs, I looked at the paper in my hand. H’s phone number. I smiled again, feeling his lips on my lips, his tongue on mine. The note had been torn from a larger piece; on the back, I could just make out “Chief Rabbit,” written in the same neat script. I put the paper on my bedside table and headed for the shower.

Later, on the very cusp of sleep, I jolted awake.

Chief Rabbit.

Hazel.

Absurdly, as the tears soaked into my pillow, the only thing I could think was Phil’s threat: “you’re a dead man.”