Nigel was fast asleep, curled beneath his favourite blanket, when the sharp yapping of the neighbour’s terrier shattered the morning peace. He groaned. The last thing he wanted was to leave the comfort of his bed—but the barking was relentless. Muttering curses under his breath, he stumbled out of bed, threw on a pair of shorts, and shuffled outside, grumbling about the nerve of anyone disturbing his quiet Sunday.
Just across the lane stood Auntie Margaret’s house. She’d left for London the week before and had roped him into checking on things—and more importantly, feeding Binky, her wildly energetic terrier who, if Nigel was honest, scared him more than a little. Still half-asleep, he trudged over.
But today, something was different.
At the gate stood a young woman he didn’t recognize. Binky, ever the self-appointed guard dog, was barking his tiny head off, bouncing like a wind-up toy gone rogue.
“Hello!” she called out, offering a slightly sheepish smile. “You must be Nigel? I’m Emily—Auntie Margaret’s granddaughter. She’s decided to stay in town a bit longer and sent me to take over dog duty.”
There was something open and unguarded about her that caught Nigel off guard. He blinked, nodded, and let her in, showing her where Binky’s food was kept and explaining the routine—not without mentioning he’d been strong-armed into pet-sitting himself just days earlier.
The conversation flowed easily. Time slipped by, and before she left, Nigel—without really thinking—asked if she’d like to come for dinner. She declined, claiming jet lag, but smiled and promised to cook him dinner soon instead.
Back home, Nigel sat on his sofa, blinking at the ceiling. Something had changed. Emily wasn’t polished or overly charming—she was just… real. Not like Fiona, his ex-wife, who had been all sparkle and surface, a walking Instagram filter. No, Emily was something different altogether.
Two days later, he knocked on her door to deliver a letter addressed to Auntie Margaret.
“Ah, that’ll be from Mrs. Wilkins,” Emily said with a laugh. “She still writes letters—no time for phones, apparently.” Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, “You were expecting that dinner, right? Come by at six!”
Nigel floated home, stopping by the florist for a bouquet and picking up a Victoria sponge from the bakery. He hadn’t felt this light in years.
That evening, though, didn’t quite go to plan.
Emily opened the door covered in flour, wearing a worn apron and an expression that said she was losing a battle with the oven. The roast was scorched, the potatoes half-raw, and smoke hung in the air like a guest who refused to leave.
They ended up eating off the tray in the kitchen, laughing between bites of lopsided vegetables and slightly singed chicken.
And Nigel couldn’t remember the last time dinner had felt so right.