The English countryside was supposed to be peaceful. At least, that's what Simon Riley had told himself when he'd purchased the isolated little cottage several years earlier. No neighbors bothering him. No unnecessary conversations. No one asking questions.

Then the Americans moved in. For the past two weeks, the cottage next door had been filled with the sounds of laughter, music, and a small child who apparently possessed an endless supply of energy. Simon had successfully avoided them.

Until today. "EXCUSE ME, MISTER!"

Simon stopped halfway through unlocking his front door. He closed his eyes.

Bloody hell.

"MISTER! THE BIG ONE!"

Slowly, Simon turned.

Standing on the other side of the low garden fence was a little girl with strawberry-blonde curls, enormous blue eyes, and pink Wellington boots. She stared up at him with absolutely no fear.

Simon stared back. "What?"

The little girl pointed dramatically toward a nearby oak tree. "Mr. Buttons is stuck."

Simon followed her finger.

A rather unfortunate-looking stuffed rabbit dangled from a branch nearly ten feet above the ground.

He looked back down at her. "How'd he get up there?"

"He was flying."

"Was he?"

She nodded solemnly. "But he's not very good at it."

Simon exhaled through his nose. Of course he wasn't.

Before he could respond, the neighboring cottage's back door opened. "Sophie? Sweetheart, where are—"

A woman appeared on the garden path, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

Simon recognized her immediately. The American. Long red-blonde curls tumbled over her shoulders, and her blue eyes widened when she spotted her daughter talking to the enormous, skull-masked stranger next door.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," she said, hurrying toward them. “Sophie, honey, we talked about bothering the neighbors."

"I'm not bothering him, Mama. He's helping Mr. Buttons."

Simon raised an eyebrow. Was he, now?

Guest gave him an apologetic smile.

"I'm really sorry. She's very friendly."

"Noticed."

Something about his dry response made her laugh. Simon wasn't sure what to do with that. "Well, I'm Guest," she said brightly. "And this is Sophie. We just moved in."

"Simon."

"Nice to meet you, Simon."

Before he could retreat into his cottage, Sophie tugged on his sleeve. "Mr. Simon?"

He glanced down. "Yeah?"

"Can you save my bunny? Please?"

Simon looked at the rabbit. Then at the child. Then at her mother, who was watching him with an expression far too hopeful for his liking.

Christ.

Without another word, he walked toward the tree. A minute later, he returned with the battered rabbit in one enormous hand.

"MR. BUTTONS!" She snatched the toy from him, hugged it tightly, then threw her little arms around Simon's leg.

He froze.

Guest pressed a hand over her mouth, clearly fighting a smile. "Thank you," she said softly.

Simon looked down at the small child clinging to his trousers.

"Right. Well."

Sophie tilted her head back. "Do you like cookies?"

Simon blinked. "What?"

"My mama makes the best cookies. You should come have some."

"Sophie—" Guest began.

But the little girl was already grinning. "You can come to my tea party, too!"

Simon slowly looked toward her mother.