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were others, she knew, but they were her first three and they would be waiting. Even now. Patiently watching the clock in her waiting room.

      The screen on the wall in front of her gave a beep and she looked up to see if she was being called in. It wasn’t, but the person next to her got up out of her chair and left. Sydney was glad for the space, but it didn’t last long, Mrs Courtauld, owner of a retired greyhound, settled into the newly vacant seat.

      ‘Hello, Sydney. How nice to see you. How are you doing?’

      ‘Mrs C! I’m fine. How are you?’

      ‘Oh, you know. The usual aches and pains. That’s why I’m here. My knees are giving me a bit of gyp. They have been ever since Prince knocked me over in the park and broke my wrist.’

      ‘You did get quite a knock, didn’t you?’

      ‘I did! But at my age you expect a bit of wear and tear in the old joints. I’m no spring chicken now, you know. I get out and about each day if I can. It’s good to keep mobile.’

      Sydney nodded, smiling. ‘But you’re still looking great, Mrs C.’

      ‘You’re too kind, young Sydney. I do have mirrors in the house—I know how old I look. The skin on my neck is that red and saggy I’m amazed a farmer hasn’t shot me, thinking I’m an escaped turkey.’

      Sydney laughed. ‘Ridiculous! I’d be happy to look like you if I ever make it to pensionable age.’

      Mrs Courtauld snorted. ‘Of course you’ll make it to my age! What are you now? Thirty-three? Thirty-four?’

      ‘Thirty-five.’

      ‘You see? Loads of years left in you.’ She thought for a moment, her eyes darkening, and she looked hard at Sydney in concern. ‘Unless, of course, you’re here because there’s something wrong? Oh, Sydney, you’re not dreadfully ill, are you?’

      Mrs Courtauld’s face filled with motherly concern and she laid a liver-spotted wrinkly hand on Sydney’s arm.

      ‘Just not sleeping very well.’

      Mrs Courtauld nodded, looking serious. ‘No. ’Course not. The anniversary is coming up again, isn’t it? Little Olivia?’

      Sydney swallowed hard, touched that Mrs Courtauld had realised the date was near. How many in the village had forgotten? Don’t cry.

      ‘Yes. It is,’ she answered, her voice low. She wasn’t keen on anyone else in the waiting room listening in.

      Mrs Courtauld gripped Sydney’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Of course. Understandable. I’m the same each year when it comes round to my Alfred’s birthday. Ten years since I lost him.’ She paused as she looked off, as if into the distance. But then she perked up again. ‘I laid some flowers at Alfred’s grave the other day and I thought of you. Your little Olivia’s plot is so close. I hope you don’t mind, but I put an amaryllis against her headstone.’

      Oh.

      Sydney wasn’t sure how to respond. That was sweet. It was nice to think that Olivia had a bright, beautiful flower to brighten up her plot. Nice for her to be remembered in that way.

      She hadn’t been to the graveyard for a while. It was just so impossibly bleak and devastating to stand there and look down at the headstone, knowing her daughter was…

      She swallowed hard.

      Don’t even think it.

      It hurt too much. Going to the grave just kept proving that she was dead, making Sydney feel helpless and lost—a feeling she couldn’t bear. She’d found that by staying away, by existing in her dreams and her memories, she could still see her daughter alive and well and she never had to stare at that cold, hard, depressing ground any more.

      Blinking back the tears, she was about to thank Mrs Courtauld when the computer screen that announced patient’s names beeped into life and there was her name. Ms Sydney Harper. Dr Jones’s room.

      She got up quickly, then did a double-take, looking at the screen again. Dr Jones?

      But she’d booked in with Dr Preston. He was her doctor, not this Jones person! And who was it? A locum? A new partner? If it was, and she’d been passed on to someone else…

      She shoved her book back into her bag, wondering briefly if she ought to go and check with Reception and see what had happened, but the doctor was probably waiting. If she faffed around at Reception she might lose her appointment altogether—and she needed those tablets!

      Clearing her throat, she pushed through the door and headed down the corridor. To the left, Dr Preston’s room. To the right, Dr Jones’s.

      Sydney hesitated outside the door, her hand gripping the handle, afraid to go in. What if this new doctor wanted to ask questions? She wasn’t sure she was ready to tell the story again. Not to a stranger. Dr Preston knew everything. There was no need to explain, no need for her to sit in front of him and embarrass herself by bursting into tears, because he knew. Knew what she’d gone through and was still going through. He often saw her in the village and would call out with a cheery wave, ask her how she was doing. She appreciated that.

      A newcomer might not understand. A locum might be loath to hand out a prescription as easily.

      Please don’t ask me any probing questions!

      She sucked in a breath and opened the door, not knowing what or who to expect. Was Dr Jones a woman? A man? Young? Old?

      She strode in, her jaw set, determined to be as brief as possible so she could get her prescription and get out again but she stopped as her gaze fell upon the extremely handsome man seated behind the doctor’s desk.

      Her breath caught in her throat and somehow paralysed it. He was a complete shock to her system. Totally unexpected. It was like walking into a room expecting to see a normal person—some old guy in a boring shirt and tie…maybe someone bald, with old-fashioned glasses and drab brown trousers—but instead laying eyes upon a movie star in all his airbrushed glory.

      The man was dressed in a well-fitting dark suit, with the brightest, bluest eyes she’d ever seen. There was a gorgeous smile of greeting upon his face. The type that stopped your heart. That stopped you breathing for a moment.

      Oh, my!

      Sydney had not noticed a good-looking man since Alastair had left. There was no point. Men were not on her radar. She wasn’t looking for another relationship. What was the use? She’d only end up getting blamed for everything.

      She was sure those men were out there. Somewhere. Even though Silverdale Village wasn’t exactly overrun with hot guys. The type who ought to star in Hollywood movies or get their kits off for a charity calendar. She’d just never noticed. Living too much in her own head.

      But this guy? Dr Jones?

      I’m staring at him! Like a goldfish with my mouth hanging open! Speak, Sydney. Say something. Anything! So he knows he’s not dealing with a mute.

      She turned away from him to close the door, shutting her eyes to compose herself and take in a steadying breath. Hoping her cheeks had stopped flushing, hoping he hadn’t noticed the effect he’d had on her.

      He’s just a guy.

      Just.

      A.

      Guy.

      She blew her breath out slowly before she turned around, telling herself to try and sound haughty and distant, whilst simultaneously feeling her cheeks flame hot enough to sizzle bacon. ‘I…um… I don’t mean to be rude, but I made an appointment to see Dr Preston…?’

      An angel had walked into his consulting room.

      An angel with long, luscious waves of chocolate-coloured hair and sad grey eyes. Big,

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