Is Glastonbury Tor the fabled Avalon of Arthurian legend? Or where Joseph of Arimathea buried the Holy Grail? Even more fantastic, does the Tor — as the locals call it — hide the doorway to the kingdom of the fae, Annwn, ruled over by their king and leader of the Wild Hunt, Gwyn ab Nudd?

I ponder the myths surrounding Glastonbury’s natural hill while walking through the open doorways of St. Michael’s Tower, all that’s left of the early fourteenth-century church that used to exist on its summit. Emerging from it, the eastern view of the Somerset Levels fan out before me. Yellow fields bordered by rows of green trees or hedges look like patchwork squares stitched together to make a scenic quilt.

“Feel the power, let it flow through you!” The loud urging wrenches my focus back to the old church tower behind me. A girl in a brown velvet mini skirt and frilly cream shirt has her forehead and hands pressed against the building’s gray sandstone bricks. At her bare-chested, bare-foot companion’s cajoling she does the same at several points in and around it.

“Quite dramatic, aren’t they?”

The deep male voice murmuring in my ear startles me into spinning around. I freeze, captured by dark green eyes. A visceral shiver runs through me. Hours pass. Or is it seconds? The scent of petrichor is what breaks my trance. It’s the middle of the hottest English summer on record. There wasn’t any rain forecast for today?

Looking up, there’s only blue sky. Looking back down, I become aware a stranger’s chest is two inches from mine. Instinctively retreating a few steps allows the world to expand, and me to take in all of the man who spoke.

He’s tall. A head taller than my five foot, seven inches. I peer up, admiring his shoulder length hair. Amongst the chestnut brown waves strands of gold shine in the sunlight. Looking past his square jaw and over a broad muscular body, butterflies take flight in my belly.

Returning to his face, there’s a quizzical smile and a raised eyebrow waiting for me. Shit. Heat flares along my cheekbones. And he’d asked me a question. What was it? The sun-burnt grass offers no distractions as I try and remember. What … did … he …? Oh yeah, he’d asked if I thought the couple at the church tower were being dramatic? Well, before he’d spoken, I’d definitely been absorbed in what they were doing.

Turning back to them, I finally manage, “Yes, they are.” And roll my eyes at my uninspired reply.

What has he made of it? Chancing a peek over my shoulder, his amused look is gone, replaced by a warm smile and kind eyes. Ugh. He thinks I’m an airhead, doesn’t he?

Oh god. It’s too embarrassing to stick around and find out. It’s time to flee this circus.

My insides twist. A gorgeous man speaks to me and I’m going to run away. Should I stay, find out who he is? How he knew where I was looking and what I was thinking? Curiosity makes me hesitate, though it’s only for a moment until my need to leave overrides it.

My step forward must alert the stranger to my intention. He comes around, halting my getaway, stretches his hand out, and introduces himself. “I’m Quinn.”

I had been determined to leave, but my hand acts on auto-pilot and joins itself with his. A jolt of electricity shoots up my arm. I smother a gasp, my face on fire. Can I be any more awkward? Yes, yes I can.

“Umm … hi … I’m Rory. Well, Aurora actually, but everyone calls me Rory.” Ugh. Where is my brain today? I’ve never been good at talking to attractive guys, because they make me too nervous. In all of my twenty-two years, though, I’ve never been this tongue-tied. I release Quinn’s hand.

I need to think of something to say. Something intelligent. All that comes to mind is the cliché, ‘Do you come here often?’, making me choke back a snort of laughter. The only sensible thing to do now, after fumbling this meet cute so badly, is to get out of here.

“I have to go,” I chirp, holding my left arm up and glancing at my watch, to indicate time is of the essence and there’s someplace else I need to be. Hopefully, the performance is convincing. He’ll have guessed, correctly, from my accent I’m a tourist, and he might assume, again correctly, I’ve all the time in the world to hang around and chat.

Quinn’s smile slips. Several emotions flit across his face, too fast for me to name them. A lopsided smile replaces his previous one. Like he’s reached a decision? One he doesn’t like but is resigned to? “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Rory. I’m sure we’ll run into each other again soon.”

Is he? He doesn’t say anything more. He doesn’t go on to ask how he can contact or find me. Glastonbury isn’t a small enough town to guarantee we’ll see each other again. I mightn’t be staying here anyway. This lack of securing another meeting makes me sure it hasn’t been, ‘a pleasure to meet,’ me. He’s only being polite.

Okaay. Definitely time to go. By way of goodbye, I fling a quick smile and wave at him as I walk past.

Though I’m scurrying off, mortified, I don’t want it to look like that’s what I’m doing. I make sure to keep my strides measured. Fighting the urge to look back like a scared little mouse checking to see how close the big hungry cat is.

When I’m half-way down the path on the long western slope of the Tor, which will take me into town, the space between my shoulder blades starts to prickle. I can’t help peeking over my shoulder.

Quinn has followed, stopping at the top of the path and staring after me.