“The part she hated most in mystery novels was where someone had a key piece of information but didn’t tell anyone. That was always the precise moment that got conked on the head and thrown into a ditch. Obviously she had to tell someone, and quickly.”

“Without warning, he felt a familiar tug. Eilidh. If the intensity of the sensation was anything to go by, she was coming back and moving quickly. He had no way of knowing how long she would take, but it made his heart lighter to know he would see her soon.”

“A pang filled her chest at his absence, especially so soon after having decided she loved him. With a shake of her head, she chastised herself for acting like such a girl and got dressed.”

“His mum had loved her ornaments, as she called them, but when she died, his dad waited about a week before boxing them up and giving them to a charity shop. “I loved your mum, Quinton,” he’d said, “but I hate them fuckin’ porcelaincats.”

“Her tone held a challenge. She did not need his condemnation or what his pity. Once, she had wanted his love, but that time had passed into dust. There was no point wanting things that could never be.”

“She hadn’t planned any of this, but her thoughts ran away with her, and she hated how pathetic she must sound. Poor little human needed the big bad angel to rescue her. Yuck.”

“Although she had a slight build, Eilidh was solid and heavier than she first appeared. Rather than throw her over his shoulder, he tried to carry her as though propping up a drunken friend. People would accept the latter without question, but a burly guy carrying a woman fireman-style? That might draw second looks.”