Malachi Booth is a supermodel. He’s used to moving about the world, sleeping with whoever takes his fancy and watching the money roll in. The last place he expects to find himself is on a run-down farm in Cornwall, but a bad bout of bronchitis means that he’s stuck there. The only compensation for this dismal state of affairs is that the farmer is very good looking, even if he’s the grumpiest person that Malachi has ever met. Cadan Landry’s farm has been in his family for hundreds of years but that doesn’t make it any easier to make ends meet. As a consequence, Cadan could be called grumpy. Most men would consider a supermodel collapsing at their feet while dressed in the skimpiest pair of briefs ever made to be a sign of good fortune. Cadan just resents the fact that the young man is taking up space in his cow field. These two men are from different worlds, but can they ever meet in the middle? From bestselling author Lily Morton comes a novella about snarky models, misconceptions, and finding a home in the most unlikely of places.
I try to breathe in and get some air, but I can’t get a full breath, and instead, it catches in my throat, and I have to stop for the huge coughing fit that follows. I bend over, putting my hand on the fence to brace myself and resting my forehead on my hands. They feel cold as ice and lovely against the hot skin.
“Goodness, I do hope you don’t die where you’re standing,” comes a cool voice from behind me. “It would be incredibly inconvenient.”
I turn to find the angry man from earlier who Bobby said was the farmer. I lean against the fence and eye him, glad that the coughing has stopped. “Why?” I say hoarsely. “Would it disturb you to have an extreme example of manly beauty dead on your property?”
“No, it’s just that you’re blocking the entrance to the cow field.”
I bite my lip to stop smiling. Worthy adversaries are so hard to find. “You won’t be able to use it for the cows again anyway. I presume it’ll become a shrine to my beauty and then weeping men will travel from all over the world to prostrate themselves over the spot where I breathed my last.”
“Would breathing your last stop you from talking? Because I’m all in favour of that.”
“Alas, probably not.”
He stares at something behind me. “Someone appears to be signalling you rather wildly.”
I look back. “Oh, it’s just the photographer.”
“Actually, he’s not so much signalling you, as waving his fist at you. He doesn’t appear to be very happy.”
We both turn and stare at Andrei, who is practically jumping up and down. “He’s frightfully energetic,” I say. “It has a terrible effect on his moods.” I shrug. “Not my problem, thankfully.”
“It looks like it might be your problem soon.”
I shrug. “They can’t do the shoot without me. I’m the star.”
“I never knew modesty was such an integral part of being a model.”
I wink at him. “It certainly is. Along with permanent hunger and a jolly big cock.”