Cupid Country Challenge
Cupid Country Book Two
Opposites attract in this charming small-town romance.
When Niamh O’Connor’s best friend urges her to contact Olly Braithwaite on rural dating app Cupid Country, Niamh isn’t keen. Niamh’s a maths nerd perfectionist, while Olly’s likely to be a hippie organic farmer who probably only bathes once a week, composts his own hair and eats too many lentils.
Except Olly turns out to be sweet, passionate about his geese and ducks, and weirdly hot. He’s also far too tall and habitually late. Faults that would normally be deal breakers for punctual, petite Niamh.
Her head and heart have opposing ideas, and when Olly makes his feelings clear, Niamh can’t resist. But Niamh’s hang-ups are soul deep, and their differences seem insurmountable. One night of delicious passion won’t change that.
Can Niamh get past her quirks and embrace love, or will she give in to her fears and forsake the sexy farmer?
Amazon US | Amazon AU | Amazon UK | Apple Books | Kobo | Google Play | Barnes & Noble
Excerpt
Her watch showed fifteen seconds to eleven o’clock. It was time. Niamh kept her chin up as she crossed to the pavilion entrance. Olly could be waiting in the shade inside. Or perhaps he was having a duck emergency. Although what form that would take was beyond her. She’d spent a solid part of her week studying duck and geese breeds and their management, and while she was far from expert, she’d absorbed a great deal of information.
At precisely eleven o’clock Niamh parked herself to one side of the door, out of the flow of traffic, and tried to keep a pleasant expression as people who weren’t Olly glanced her way and hurried on.
At one minute past, she dipped her head around the corner and peered inside. The concrete-floored room was dusty and gloomy and filled with rows and rows of cages. The nearer ones housed chickens. Noisy, smelly chickens. Every now and then, one would poke its head through its cage bars to take in the fuss and wobble its vivid combs and wattles before deciding the view was all too much and neatly ducking out of sight.
The noise was astonishing. Clucks and coos and the occasional cock-a-doodle-doo echoed off the floor and walls in a cacophony, worse than a schoolyard lunch break. Then there were the visitors, laughing at the range of strange and sometimes exotic breeds, and making clucking noises as if they’d suddenly learned to speak poultry.
And still no Olly in sight.
Niamh twisted her watch again and ran her tongue over her teeth. They were getting that funky feeling that always developed when someone was late, like the nerves inside were vibrating.
To soothe herself, she began to count cages. The first stand comprised two tiers, each row containing ten individual cages. It was impossible to see through the murk, but the rows seemed to go on forever. There had to be hundreds of birds inside. She rubbed her brow. Her fingers came away damp and slightly gritty.
Marvellous. Now her make-up was clogged. She’d have to apply a deep pore cleansing mask to get the grime out when she got home.
‘Niamh?’ said a voice.
Niamh whirled around. Behind her stood a stupidly tall, athletic man in a checked shirt, faded jeans and boots, his light brown hair knotted into a shaggy man bun, and a smile beaming across his face. In each hand he held a dagwood dog—a ridiculously phallic fairground snack of battered and deep-fried sausage—with its tip covered in tomato sauce.
‘Yes?’ she squeaked and hastily cleared her throat. ‘Olly?’
‘The one and only. I’d shake your hand, but …’ He held up the dagwood dogs. His wrists were bare. No watch. Ugh.
‘You’re late,’ she snapped, then clamped her hand over her mouth. What was wrong with her? Niamh prided herself on her composure. Teaching teenagers demanded it. Yet she’d just snapped at her date like he was a recalcitrant thirteen-year-old instead of an adult.
Shock. It had to be shock. At no point had Amber mentioned his height and she should have. Olly had to be one hundred and ninety-five centimetres at least—six foot four in the old, imperial measure. Niamh barely reached one hundred and fifty. Forty-five centimetres, or a-foot-and-a-half difference. They’d look ridiculous together.
She’d be having words with her so-called friend and her equally culpable boyfriend when this was over.
Olly shrugged, unfazed by her rudeness. ‘There was a queue.’ He thrust a dripping dagwood dog towards her like it was a bouquet of flowers instead of a heart attack on a stick. ‘For you.’
Niamh shied away.
‘Not your thing?’ Olly gave another easy shrug and bit into the proffered snack, eyes assessing as he chewed, gaze lingering on her white shoes and trousers. She couldn’t tell if his expression was appreciative or amused.
Niamh set her teeth. He’d better not be laughing at her. All her life people had mocked her petiteness. Though Niamh had learned to ignore the most patronising looks, ones coming from a potential lover were not on.
Not that sex with Olly was on her mind. Not at all. Nope. Nup. How would that even work?
Niamh forced herself to ease off the mental griping. This was not going well, but she was damned if she was going to waste a morning of primping by stomping off because her date was late, chewing a horrid snack and looking at her like she was an overpainted doll. Besides, she wanted to see his ducks.