He was working in the garden of his cottage when Nicola walked past. Handsome, craggy, probably in his late 50s, like her, he was shovelling snow off the path between white-coated shrubs.
‘Hello!’ she called. ‘Lovely day, isn’t it?’
He stopped, glanced at her, then turned away.
‘Oh well, can’t win them all,’ Nicola murmured, making her way down the track to her own cottage.
The ‘un-neighbourly neighbour’, she christened him as she hung out fat balls for
