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Pippa’s Cornish Dream
Debbie Johnson
‘The perfect summer story – a funny and moving read set in glorious modern-day Poldark country.’ – Bestselling author Jane CostelloSet on the gorgeous Cornish coast at the height of summer, this is the perfect romance to take on your hols!Since Pippa Harte was forced to take over her parents’ farm, she’s barely had time to shave her legs let alone make time for a date. Now she’s more likely to be getting down and dirty mucking out the pigs – and avoiding those of the human male variety.When Ben Retallick walks out of her childhood and back into her present it seems that perhaps Pippa has more time than she thought. All Poldark smoulders and easy-going charm, Ben’s definitely worth whipping her wellies off for!But Ben is a man with his own past and his own issues – and as much as she’s enjoying having him around, she’s got to get a grip. After all life isn’t always a beach … Then again, this is Cornwall.Every summer has a story…Debbie is the author of Cold Feet at Christmas, the #1 Christmas bestseller!
Pippa's Cornish Dream
DEBBIE JOHNSON
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
HarperImpulse an imprint of
HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2015
Copyright © Debbie Johnson 2015
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2015
Cover design by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
Debbie Johnson asserts the moral right
to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is
available from the British Library
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is
entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International
and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
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No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,
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hereinafter invented, without the express
written permission of HarperCollins.
Digital eFirst: Automatically produced by Atomik ePublisher from Easypress.
Ebook Edition © May 2015 ISBN: 9780007594566
Version 2018-02-15
Praise for Cold Feet at Christmas (#u01435c6e-b5a2-5214-8409-8c3629d7d4a5)
‘Fun, sexy and fabulously festive…I enjoyed every minute of it.'
Bestselling author Jane Costello
'A real feel-good book that had me smiling, purring and laughing in equal measure'
Becca's Books
'It is without a doubt one of the best Christmas reads I’ve ever read…It is fabulous!'
The Book Geek Wears Pyjamas
'A fun and flirty Christmas romance with plenty of steamy moments, this book is anything but cold.'
Book Chick City
'This is the most wonderful Christmas novel to curl up with during the cold months. I loved it.’
Girls Love To Read
'Currently holding a spot in my heart for favourite Chick Lit heroine of the year (possibly of all time…).'
Chick Lit Love
Contents
Cover (#u65f8be40-4a4a-527c-b70f-3d29032250c4)
Title Page (#u5f8de348-859c-57d6-b51b-0681c9f8ef05)
Copyright (#ued3a02f8-b85b-5f00-ae92-c46c480efdac)
Praise for Cold Feet at Christmas (#ua0d08e5a-b8f0-568c-ab62-1f18ab819887)
Chapter 1 (#u5d7f420e-90b3-523c-b9c3-baef4aba65af)
Chapter 2 (#udb4bcb5a-9258-50d7-b2fb-2cd8d77df64b)
Chapter 3 (#u31c02d18-d42c-5e70-a71c-d9a5a4f35e48)
Chapter 4 (#u517b828a-bea0-5127-9028-67a661e2f170)
Chapter 5 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 6 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 7 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 8 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 9 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 10 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 11 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 12 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 13 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 14 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 15 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 16 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Also by Debbie Johnson … (#litres_trial_promo)
Debbie Johnson (#litres_trial_promo)
About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter 1 (#u01435c6e-b5a2-5214-8409-8c3629d7d4a5)
“Looking hot today, babe,” Pippa Harte said out loud as she caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror.
If, she thought ruefully, your definition of “hot” ran to electric-shock hair dragged back into an elastic band, smudges of oil as blusher and WD40 as perfume. Not to mention the glamorous accessories – elbow-length green rubber gloves, fresh from the Paris catwalk. Ooh la la!
In her hand she was wielding a toilet brush, the bristles wrapped in a plastic carrier bag from the local supermarket, the handles tied in a dangling bow around the pole.
“Well, here goes nothing…” she muttered, gazing down into the bowl of the loo. The very blocked bowl of the loo. The water was already up to the rim and one more flush was likely to send it over the edge. She’d been there before and knew that this one bit of dodgy plumbing was capable of recreating scenes from the Titanic.
Not, she thought, this time. This time, she would triumph – using her scientific know-how to defeat the Evil Bog of Destiny. She plunged the toilet brush in, shoved it hard and as far into the U-bend as she could. Create a vacuum, she recited in her head, then nature will fill it…
She sent up a quick prayer to the Patron Saint of Holiday Home Owners and tugged the flush handle, simultaneously pulling the wrapped brush out with a flourish. She stood back, prepared to jump aside if the floodgates opened, and looked on with something akin to joy as the water ebbed, flowed and swirled – all the way down the pipes!
“Yay!” she shouted, doing a victory jig around the room and out into the landing of Honeysuckle Cottage, “I did it! I am woman! I created a vacuum! Yay! Thank you YouTube!”
She was so happy, she managed to ignore two things – the tiny drops of toilet water flying from the plastic bag as she danced, and the man who had been standing outside in the hallway watching her. She jigged her way smack bang into him and dropped the brush in shock. It landed with a soggy, plastic plop on his expensive-looking walking boots. Oops!
“Oh!” she said, jumping back in surprise. “I’m so sorry…don’t worry, it was clean water…” she added, using her wellies to toe the offending item away. “Not like last time…that was, well. Yuk. You probably don’t want to know…”
She looked up, a wide grin cracking her oil-smudged face – nothing could bring her down, she decided, not after that minor miracle. And really, nothing she was looking at could dissuade her that the patron saint hadn’t been listening after all – he was gorgeous. Six-two or thereabouts; broad shoulders packed up in a khaki-green Berghaus; long legs in denim; and the deepest, darkest brown eyes she’d ever seen on a human. Really, even the dairy cows she knew up close and personal couldn’t compete. A wide mouth, kissable lips and dark, longish hair drifting over tanned, outdoorsy skin, damp from the drizzle outside. Or possibly the toilet brush, she thought with a twinge of guilt. Welcome to Cornwall.
“Are you Mr Retallick?” she asked, knowing the names of all her guests in advance. This one was early, but she wouldn’t let that sour her mood. Not when the gods of the toilet had smiled upon her so warmly.
“I am – I hope it’s okay to be here a few hours ahead of schedule? You seemed to be having some kind of rave…” he said, gesturing into the bathroom. His voice was deep and sounded like chocolate would if it could talk.
“Yes, that’s what we do for fun around here, bathroom raving – the more the merrier, Mr Retallick, feel free to join in!”
She rubbed her face, realising that using a flirtatious tone with a handsome stranger might work better if she didn’t look like a teenage grease monkey. The dungarees she wore were practical when she was doing her jobs around the farm, but it wasn’t what you’d call chic. Mr Retallick – Ben, if she remembered rightly – looked like money. And style. And sex. He wouldn’t look twice at a girl like her, even if she did have world-class DIY skills.
“I was just celebrating,” she added. “I used my superior intellect to defeat the evil toilet, you see.”
“You’re celebrating the fact that you have a superior intellect to a toilet?” he asked, shrugging off his backpack and raising an amused eyebrow.
“Well, us country girls have to take our victories where we can find them, Mr Retallick…Retallick…that’s a local name, isn’t it?” she asked. It didn’t seem likely that anyone from North Cornwall was coming on holiday to North Cornwall, but stranger things had happened. Maybe his wife had kicked him out, she thought, glancing surreptitiously at his ring finger. His bare ring finger. Not that she cared.
“Yes, I had family here once,” he answered. “Long gone now.”
