I’ve loved every book I’ve read by Lily Morton and when I listen to her audiobooks performed by the fantastic Joel Leslie, I love them even more. I actually hadn’t read Spring Strings with my eyes so I listened to this one very intently; I was totally captivated. The story is told in first person, alternating between Malachi and Cadan.

Cadan Landry’s life gets turned upside down when he leases his farm to be used in a photoshoot. He doesn’t expect to fall in love with supermodel Malachi Booth.

I loved this opposites-attract, grump/sunshine story. Cadan comes to Malachi’s rescue when Mal falls ill during the photoshoot. He helped nurse Mal back to health but kept finding excuses for Mal to stay with him on the farm. The heat between them won’t be denied but Cadan’s farm is deeply in debt and he doesn’t feel like he can start a serious relationship.

These two have a lot to work out before they can get their HEA but Lily Morton does a spectacular job of finally getting them there. The epilogue set three years later was like the perfect desert after a wonderful meal.

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“There’s no need for a hospital. It isn’t pneumonia yet, and I’ve given him something to make him sleep. I’ll also give you a prescription for some very strong antibiotics. He needs plenty of sleep and taking care of. He’s very run down.” He huffs and pats his big belly. “Damn good job I wasn’t a model. I’d have collapsed if I was as thin as that lad in there.”

I try hard to repress the image of Doctor Samuels modelling the very tiny underpants that the model called Malachi was wearing. “And surely he’ll get that care in a hospital,” I say with emphasis.

He shakes his head. “Cadan, I’m not sending him to hospital. He needs rest and then fresh air and feeding up.”

“Have you somehow got mixed up and forgotten that I run a farm and not Champneys health spa? I can’t have him here. I’ve got too much to do.”

A look of disappointment crosses his face, and I resist the impulse to shuffle from one leg to the other like I’m once again the child he used to see and give lollipops to. “Cadan, your mother would have a fit if she heard about your lack of hospitality. We look after our own in Cornwall.”

“But he isn’t our own,” I argue. “He’s somebody else’s own. I don’t know whose. Maybe Yves Saint Laurent.”