About the Author

SARAH BENNETT has been reading for as long as she can remember. Raised in a family of bookworms, her love affair with books of all genres has culminated in the ultimate Happy Ever After: getting to write her own stories to share with others.

Born and raised in a military family, she is happily married to her own Officer (who is sometimes even A Gentleman). Home is wherever he lays his hat, and life has taught them both that the best family is the one you create from friends as well as relatives.

When not reading or writing, Sarah is a devotee of afternoon naps and sailing the high seas, but only on vessels large enough to accommodate a casino and a choice of restaurants.

You can connect with her via twitter @Sarahlou_writes or on Facebook www.facebook.com/‌SarahBennettAuthor

Also by Sarah Bennett

The Butterfly Cove Series

Sunrise at Butterfly Cove

Wedding Bells at Butterfly Cove

Christmas at Butterfly Cove

The Lavender Bay Series

Spring at Lavender Bay

Summer at Lavender Bay

Snowflakes at Lavender Bay

Snowflakes at Lavender Bay
SARAH BENNETT

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

This edition 2019

1

First published in Great Britain by

HQ, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Copyright © Sarah Bennett 2018

Sarah Bennett asserts the moral right to be

identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is

available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters

and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s

imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or

dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise,

without the prior permission of the publishers.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade

or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without

the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than

that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this

condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Source ISBN: 9780008321079

E-book Edition ISBN: 9780008281342

Version: 2018-10-30

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Also by Sarah Bennett

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Extract

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

This one is for my Aunty Andrea, with fondest love x

Chapter 1

Owen Coburn stared at the bottles lined in neat rows on the mirrored shelves opposite him. He’d never been one to drown his sorrows, but the collection of single malts seemed to whisper a lullaby more seductive than the songs of the mythical siren which the seafront pub had been named after. With more effort than it should’ve taken, he wrenched his eyes from the array of spirits and studied the rest of the busy bar as he waited to be served. Like his bedroom upstairs, the place was spotlessly clean, if a little worn in places.

Black-and-white photographs studded the pale-blue walls, showing scenes of Lavender Bay from times gone past. Ladies in white dresses clutching parasols in one hand, the fingers of the other tucked into the arms of besuited gentlemen as they strolled the promenade. Fishermen sorting their nets in the old harbour, faces leathered from years of exposure to sea and sun.

On the side of the wooden upright beside him a ragged line of young men dressed in their Sunday best beamed out of the past, their expressions a mixture of shy pride and cocky confidence. With their hair neatly slicked and battered suitcases at their feet, not one of them looked older than he was now. Owen wondered if any of them had understood what awaited them on the bloody fields of Europe and how many—if any—had returned. Faint writing at the bottom of the photo caught his eye. Hating the need inside him, Owen scanned the cramped squiggles on the photo. No Blackmores among them.

With a snort of disgust at himself, he turned away. What the hell was he doing chasing shadows? According to the piece of paper burning a hole in his pocket, Deborah Mary Blackmore had been 17 when she’d given up her son for adoption. She’d listed Lavender Bay as her place of birth, but extensive searches had yielded no trace of her. Either his mother was a ghost, or she’d lied about her name.

Requesting his original birth certificate had seemed like a good way of setting the final pieces of his past to rest. After a childhood in care where the kindest thing anyone had ever done was ignore him, compartmen‌talisation had become his daily survival technique—what hadn’t killed him didn’t make him stronger so much as it got stuffed in a mental box and shoved to the furthest reaches of conscious memory. As a result, he’d managed to convince himself that delving into his origins could be an exercise in intellectual curiosity, nothing more.

Unprepared for it, the emotional tsunami caused by the arrival of the innocuous brown envelope had swept him so far off course he wasn’t sure who he was anymore. With the words ‘father unknown’ thwarting half of his search before he could even get started, finding Deborah had become a near-obsession. He’d joined every online genealogy website he could find, and spent hours trawling through scanned images covered in spidery writing to no avail. After those efforts came up blank, he’d switched his focus to the whimsically named Lavender Bay. If he couldn’t find his mother, perhaps he could forge a connection with her birthplace instead. And, as the owner of his own building and property development company, if he could turn a profit in the process, so much the better.

When he’d boarded the train from London the previous morning he’d been full of foolish optimism. Walter Symonds, a local solicitor Owen had been cultivating a relationship with for the previous six months, had called to give him the heads-up on a potential property. Located directly on the seafront at Lavender Bay, it had looked ripe for development from what he’d been able to tell via Google Maps. The previous owner had died, leaving everything to a young woman who, from what Owen had been able to tell, had moved away from the area some years before. Hoping to jump the queue, he’d taken the unusual step of visiting in person to extend an offer to buy.

Expecting her to be grateful for an excuse to offload the place, Owen had been disappointed to find her well ensconced behind the counter of the emporium with zero interest in selling the place. An afternoon touring the local estate agents as well as a good recce on foot had yielded nothing in the way of other empty or struggling properties. In a last-gasp attempt to find any sign of the Blackmore family, he’d spent the past couple of hours tromping around the local churchyards and come back to the pub with nothing to show for his efforts other than a nasty nettle sting on his arm. In other words, his entire weekend was a total bloody bust. Time to put this foolishness behind him—he’d managed thirty years without any family to speak of, he’d manage the next thirty just fine.

‘Pint, lovey?’

Startled, Owen blinked at the smiling older woman on the other side of the bar. ‘What? Oh, yes. Lager, please, Mrs Barnes.’

‘Right you are. How’s your room, have you got everything you need?’ Oh great, she was the chatty sort.

‘Yes, it’s fine thanks.’ In so far as it had a bed and a kettle. Egyptian cotton and designer coffee machines hadn’t made it to Lavender Bay, that much had been clear from the moment he’d set foot in The Siren the previous day. Not that it mattered, now he wasn’t staying. ‘What’s the earliest I can check out in the morning?’

Mrs Barnes placed his drink before him with a wry laugh. ‘I’ll try not to take offence at your eagerness to leave. You can settle your bill before you turn in tonight and then you’re free to leave as early as you like. You’ll be wanting some breakfast before you go, though, surely?’

Owen shook his head. ‘Not the time I’m planning on leaving.’ He pulled a card out of his wallet, then hesitated. ‘Do you need cash?’

Her laughter shook her whole body. ‘Oh, you city folks! The magic of contactless payment has made it as far as the south coast, I assure you.’ She produced a card reader from beneath the bar. ‘Tap away, dear.’

Valiantly fighting a blush, Owen moved his card towards the machine, then hesitated. ‘Can I buy you a drink by way of an apology?’

‘That’s sweet of you, and I’ll take a glass of red for later, but not because you owe me an apology. You’re not the first to assume we’re a bit behind the times here, and you won’t be the last.’

Owen watched her tap the keypad a couple of times before offering him the machine once more. Mrs Barnes might not have taken offence over his assumption, but he was annoyed with himself. He’d had enough of people passing judgement when he was younger, and had always thought himself better than that. Being in the bay had thrown him off his stride far more than he could’ve imagined. Just as well he was going to cut his losses and head back home.

‘Didn’t you come down on the train?’

Placing his card on the screen, Owen felt a sinking sensation in his gut at the question. ‘Yeah, what of it?’

Mrs Barnes gave him the kind of pitying smile that did nothing to ease his increasing bad mood. ‘Well if you’re hoping for a swift getaway in the morning, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. The first train on a Sunday isn’t until 9.30—proof we’re behind the times on some things, I suppose!’

Bloody marvellous. ‘Well in that case, looks like I will be staying for breakfast, after all.’ As he was stuck there, he might as well make the best of it. A thought occurred to him. ‘Have you lived in Lavender Bay all your life, Mrs Barnes?’

‘Please, dear, call me Annie. And in answer to your question, I’m born and bred here, though compared to my husband’s family, we’re newcomers to the bay. There’s been a Barnes behind the bar of The Siren since before Nelson lost his eye, as Pops would say.’

‘Pops?’

The smile on Annie’s face was full of warmth, with just a touch of wry exasperation. ‘My father-in-law. He used to run this place—and interferes often enough for anyone to think he still does.’ That warm expression slid into something more considering. ‘Is there a reason for you asking?’

Kicking himself for letting his guard down, Owen gave her his best smile. ‘Not at all, Annie, just making conversation.’

A raised eyebrow told him she wasn’t taken in by his glib response, but she didn’t push, thank goodness. ‘Of course, dear. Well, I’d better get on. Enjoy the rest of your evening.’

Not filled with any expectation of finding much enjoyment, Owen cast a quick glance around the bar. A few families; a handful of old men playing dominoes; a gaggle of teenagers who, in spite of the thickness of their eyeliner and the shortness of their skirts, barely looked old enough to be drinking the cider they were giggling over.

A couple of the girls caught him staring, and he cursed himself as they nudged each other. Owen turned swiftly back towards the bar, hoping he hadn’t drawn their attention. He wasn’t ignorant to the way he looked, and the last thing he wanted was to spend the evening fending off the clumsy flirtations of girls using him as target practice. Perhaps an early night might be better after all.

Shoulders braced, he waited with dread for the clip-clop of high heels on the wooden floor behind him, but when he heard nothing he began to relax. Perhaps the girls had decided not to try and tangle with him. Shaking his head at his own arrogance, Owen took a mouthful of his pint—perhaps they weren’t remotely interested in a bloke a dozen or more years older than them. He’d just convinced himself the coast was clear when the hairs on his arm prickled and he felt the presence of someone at his elbow.

‘Even if I didn’t know everyone who lives in Lavender Bay, I’d know you’re not from around here.’ The slightly husky voice carried the soft burr of the local accent.

Owen didn’t look around. He supposed she meant it as a compliment, but the reminder of his outsider status rankled. Nothing had worked out liked he’d expected it to, but wasn’t that the story of his bloody life? It was ridiculous, really, to have supposed he would feel any connection to a place he’d never heard of even six months ago, but the barb struck, bringing a sharper edge to his tongue than he might otherwise have intended. ‘The lack of webbed fingers gives it away, no doubt.’

‘And the lack of manners. Wow, Beth wasn’t kidding about you.’

It was her scathing tone as much as the mention of an unfamiliar name that caused Owen to turn. Expecting to see a giggling teen tottering on a pair of heels, he found himself instead staring down into a pair of bright blue eyes half-hidden by a shock of luridly dyed fringe. A snub of a nose—as though whoever had conjured her had left it unformed with the intention of returning to it later—sat between that vivid stare and a bow-shaped mouth plastered in scarlet lip gloss. A chin bold enough to be labelled stubborn finished off her heart-shaped face.

As if she’d used up every available colour between her hair, eyes and mouth, the rest of her tiny frame was shrouded from neck to toe in unrelenting black. Even the fingernails tipping the slender hand braced against the bar were coated in a glossy black polish. She looked otherworldly, like some pixie, or sprite hellbent on causing mayhem. Attraction punched him in the gut—raw, visceral and entirely unexpected. She was nothing like the women he normally dated. Too small, too scruffy, too individual. Owen never made a move without knowing exactly what the end outcome would be. Her impish smile told him all bets would be off if he took her into his bed.

Bed. Just thinking the word sent a kaleidoscope of images through his head and all the blood rushing to his groin. Too busy trying not to do something stupid like throw her over his shoulder and march her up the stairs to his room, Owen’s brain lost control of his jaw muscles and allowed it to sag open in disbelief.

The pale skin around her piercing azure gaze tightened. ‘What are you staring at?’

‘I…I have no idea.’ His brain still hadn’t caught up, apparently, because there could be no other explanation for allowing those words to escape from his lips. Scarlet stained her pale cheeks, creeping down her throat to disappear beneath the black material of her shirt. His eyes followed the blush as he wondered just how far down it went.

The sharp snap of her fingers mere inches from his nose startled his gaze back to her face. A fierce scowl twisted her rosebud mouth into an ugly pucker. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ Shoulders suddenly drooping, she folded her arms across her chest and curled into herself as she turned away. ‘I should’ve listened to Beth; you really are a colossal arse,’ she muttered more to herself than him.

Damn, somehow he’d managed to offend her. A panicked feeling rose in his chest; he couldn’t let her slip through his fingers. He cast around for something to say. ‘You keep mentioning this Beth like I should know who you’re talking about.’

Keeping her eyes averted, the pixie gestured with a flick of her fingers to where a pretty brunette cuddled close against the side of a man he recognised. Sam was Mrs Barnes’ son and had served him at breakfast that morning, had even gone to the local shop to fetch the papers when he’d requested them. And the woman next to him… ‘Ah’.

He hadn’t known her first name, but Beth was the owner of the shop next door who had turned down his offer to buy the place. She’d also turned him down when he’d tried to suggest they negotiate over a drink, which had irked him at the time. With long brown hair curling over the shoulders of a navy Fifties-style tea dress, the well-turned-out woman was much more his usual type.

His eyes strayed to Beth once more but found little to hold his attention compared to his little sprite. He slid a couple of inches closer then leaned against the bar to be sure he was in her eyeline. ‘I thought I’d been very charming in my dealings with your friend.’

The pixie sniffed. ‘You wouldn’t know charming if it bit you on the arse.’ She turned her attention to Mrs Barnes as she moved towards them. ‘Can I get a bottle of champagne and a couple of glasses for me and Beth please, Annie? We’re celebrating her inheriting the emporium.’

Owen suppressed a grin as he watched the pixie try her best to ignore him while she chatted with Mrs Barnes as she served her. She might be only a slip of a thing, but she seemed to contain enough energy for a woman twice her size. If he held his hands towards her, he’d expect to see a current arcing from her towards his fingers, like one of those plasma energy balls. Though she did her best to pretend she was ignoring him, he couldn’t miss the way her eyes flicked in his direction every few seconds. This might get interesting, after all.

He let his gaze trace the pixie from the tips of her black boots to the peacock shock of her hair before leaning into her space a touch closer than was strictly polite. ‘You were wrong in what you said about arse-biting, you know. I’ve always found it very charming.’ That bright red flush mottled her cheeks once more, and he wondered if he’d miscalculated. It had been a harmless bit of flirtation, something that came as easily to him as breathing. Her bold appearance and brash words had given the impression of an experienced woman. The blush told a different story, however.

Clutching the ice bucket holding her bottle of champagne like a shield before her, she started to edge past him before stopping to stare up at him through her thickly mascaraed lashes. ‘What did you want with the emporium anyway? I hope you weren’t planning to sling up a load of ugly apartments like they did at the other end of the prom. They’re a dreadful eyesore, and not the kind of thing we need around here at all.’

The disdain in her tone shattered any sympathy he might have been harbouring towards her—and any other kind of feelings for that matter. The fact she’d hit the nail on the head about the kind of project he was interested in didn’t help either. Owen bristled. ‘Those flats bring a much-needed touch of class to the prom. People want more than donkey rides and kiss-me-quick hats, these days. This place is dying on its feet. You should be grateful anyone wants to invest in a provincial little backwater like Lavender Bay!’

Shock widened her azure eyes, and in their depths he read a deeper emotion, almost like pain. Expecting her to lash back, he squared his shoulders in preparation. When she spoke, instead of sharp and spikey, her voice was soft and full of disappointment. ‘I was right, you’re definitely not from around here.’ With a shake of her head, the pixie walked across the bar and out of his life.

If she’d slid a knife up under his ribs, she couldn’t have scored a more fatal blow. Turning his back, Owen gripped the edge of the bar as her words ricocheted around his brain. Not from around here. Myriad insults and accusations from the past swelled up to join them, forming a tortuous chorus. Bad blood will out. Rotten little bastard. No wonder your mother dumped you. Get back to where you belong. That last one was ironic to the extreme because Owen didn’t belong anywhere. Not in any of the foster homes he’d passed through, and most definitely not in this one-horse excuse for a town.

Bile burned the back of his throat and he swallowed it down with the last dregs of his pint. It was just as well the deal to buy the emporium had gone nowhere. Whatever he’d thought he was doing coming down here—looking for his bloody roots or some such bollocks—it had been a mistake. The only person he had ever been able to rely on was himself and he had the bitter experience to prove it.

Having slammed his empty glass down, Owen marched from the bar. Sod Lavender Bay, and sod big-mouthed pixies who didn’t know a good thing when they saw it. The sooner he got away from this godforsaken little town, the better.

Chapter 2

A few weeks after his impulsive visit to Butterfly Cove, Owen was finally starting to feel back on track. Things were running smoothly at CCC—Coburn Construction Contractors—the company he’d built from the ground up. Who needed a grotty old shop in some old-fashioned seaside town when he could be inches away from a securing a client that could propel the business to the next level? After eighteen months of submitting unsuccessful bids to them, one of London’s most prestigious property developers was seriously considering CCC for part of their overall conversion package for a huge disused warehouse area. If Owen could get a foot in the door with Taylors, he’d be made for life.

Feeling pretty bloody pleased with himself, he decided an early celebration was on the cards and put in a call to Claire, a woman he’d been seeing. They’d been out for drinks a couple of times and now seemed like the perfect time to up the ante with a date at Fabiano’s, one of the most exclusive restaurants in his local area. Taylors wasn’t the only deal he was hoping to secure that night.

Placing a hand on Claire’s back a few inches below the end of the glossy blonde mane flowing over her shoulders, Owen steered her through the front door. As a server helped his date out of her jacket, Owen let himself appreciate the way her neutral-toned designer dress clung to every curve. Owen wasn’t on top of the latest female fashion trends, but he knew quality when he saw it. The logo on the handbag hanging from her arm was large enough to be seen from space. Good for her. If you’ve got it, sweetheart, flaunt it.

A couple waiting at the bar for a table turned at their entrance, the man’s eyes lingering on Claire for a few more seconds than was strictly polite. To Owen’s satisfaction, Claire made a point of slipping her free arm through his as she leaned into him, making it clear who she was with. There was no hiding the little smile on her face, though, but that was all right. There was nothing wrong with a woman enjoying being admired; if he hadn’t already been with her, Owen would’ve taken a second glance himself.

‘You have a reservation, signore?’ The maître d’ asked.

‘Coburn. Eight o’clock. I believe you have a corner booth for us?’ Owen slipped the man a tip large enough to make his eyes gleam.

‘Most certainly, let me escort you to your seats.’

They’d just got settled when Owen’s phone vibrated in his pocket. Alex, his second-in-command at CCC had promised to let him know the moment they heard anything from Taylors. Owen glanced across the table to where the maître d’ had been replaced by a waiter who was fussing and fluttering over Claire. Figuring he had a couple of minutes’ grace, he slipped out his phone and opened his emails.

‘Owen? Owen?’

‘Hmm? Whatever you want to order is fine with me.’ He glanced up from the email response he was hesitating over and caught Claire’s exasperated glare. His fingers clenched around the phone. Contrary to his expectations, the news from Taylors wasn’t good. Far from offering to sign on the dotted line, they were demanding a fifteen per cent reduction on a contract already pared down to the bone. Swallowing down his frustration, Owen gave his companion his most winning smile. ‘I’m being rude. Forgive me?’

The ice around her eyes melted a fraction. ‘You’ve not heard a word I’ve said, have you?’ He stared across the corner booth at his dinner date. The perfectly made-up face he’d first admired at a local networking event was currently twisted into a disappointed pout. Owen bit back a sigh. One of the things he’d found attractive about her was that she ran her own business and would therefore—he’d assumed—understand his erratic schedule. Apparently not.

Eyes on the prize, mate. Reaching over, Owen took one of her hands and raised it to his lips in a calculated gesture he’d melted many a frosty heart with in the past. ‘I’m sorry, Claire. I just need a couple of minutes to resolve a work problem, and then you’ll have my undivided attention, I promise.’

As expected, her pout transformed into a delighted smile. Nails lacquered in the same café au lait shade as her lipstick dug briefly into his palm as she squeezed his hand. ‘Don’t mind me, I’ve just been looking forward to this evening ever since you told me you’d booked us a table here.’

Booking Fabiano’s gave the right message to a woman like Claire who valued symbols and linked them to her own sense of self. She’d worked hard for those rewards, and he understood the desire to control perceptions and project the right kind of image. As a child, he’d been powerless to do so, and been judged by people who couldn’t see past hand-me-downs and bargain basement rubbish. Those days were gone now, and he wouldn’t stint himself, or anyone he spent time with. ‘Why don’t you order us some champagne, while I finish this up?’

Eyes sparkling, Claire waved their waiter over. Owen let her grand production of perusing the wine list amuse him for a moment before turning back to his phone. He’d done enough to seal one deal for the evening, time to put the other one to bed, so to speak. Thumbs poised over the automatic keyboard on his phone, he considered the best way to phrase his response. Taylors had enough money to buy Owen a thousand times over and still wanted to bleed him dry. The fifteen per cent they were demanding would mean less than nothing to a business as large as them, but would cover decent year-end bonuses for Owen’s staff or help to replace a couple of their older company vans. And what if all the other companies he was hoping to attract through this new contract were just as tight? Kudos wouldn’t pay the bills.

What was he doing risking the company he’d built from scratch? Was his ego so bloody fragile he’d throw away everything he’d worked so hard to build for the chance to link his name to people who wouldn’t give him the time of day if they knew his background? There were better jobs to chase than Taylors. Jobs which would bring a decent profit margin and be a damn sight less stressful for all concerned.

Mind made up, Owen tapped a quick reply. Tell them, thanks but no thanks. We’ve offered a damned good package and if they can’t see that there are plenty of others who will. Send the email then GO HOME! Debrief at 8 a.m.

The waiter returned just as he was putting his phone away. ‘Your champagne, sir. An excellent vintage, and if I may suggest the perfect accompaniment to the chef’s dish of the day. The salmon is truly exquisite.’

Owen’s eyes travelled from the distinctive shield-shaped label on the bottle to the slight smirk on the waiter’s face. He might well look pleased with himself considering Claire had ordered the most expensive offering on the menu. The commission on a bottle like that would be a nice boost in the waiter’s pocket. Well, it served Owen right for being an arse and ignoring her, he supposed. Some days, being the boss sucked, but he’d take the hit to his wallet. ‘Ladies first.’ He gestured the waiter towards Claire and watched her simper and fuss over tasting the straw-coloured wine like she knew the difference between a two-hundred-pound bottle of Dom Perignon and a supermarket prosecco. The champagne matched her hair, nails and dress to perfection. Fifty shades of beige.

Out of nowhere, the image of the black-clad, wild-haired pixie from Lavender Bay popped into his head. He bet she’d never set foot in a place like Fabiano’s, and likely wouldn’t give two hoots about it. No sexy high heels and skin-tight dresses for her. He couldn’t imagine her sulking over his need to deal with a work problem if they’d been out on a date. She’d have either understood and let it go or turned on her heel and walked away. A wry grin teased the corner of his mouth. She’d already done the second, so a date with her was never going to get beyond the hypothetical. Not that she was his type.

Resting his chin on the tips of his fingers, Owen studied the woman opposite him. He could admit to a grudging admiration for the audacity she’d shown in ordering the top-priced champagne the waiter was currently pouring with a flourish. It was all just business at the end of the day. Owen had let his guard down and she’d taken advantage. Score one for Claire. It was what people did. What she hadn’t realised yet, was that he would only let someone get away with it once.

His gaze roamed around the room, more than half a mind still on the pretty, spiky girl who’d marched away from him clutching an ice bucket. She’d bought champagne that night, too, and likely enjoyed it as much if not more because her eyes hadn’t watered at the cost of it. The sleek lines and discreet lighting of Fabiano’s were a world away from the cosy, slightly shabby taproom at The Siren, and a deep desire to be standing at the bar with Mrs Barnes smiling up at him filled his heart. A bone-deep weariness crept over him as the disappointment over the failed Taylors deal struck home. Whilst he didn’t regret saying no, there was still a big hole in their projected work schedule which needed to be filled. He should be at home with a takeaway, a cold beer and his laptop, not trying to prove his success by being seen at the right place with the right kind of woman.

Owen gave himself a shake. This was why digging around in the past had been a bad idea. He wasn’t one for self-doubt and deep introspection. He’d built this life for himself, and it was a damn good one. A night off with a beautiful woman would do him good. All work and no play makes Owen a dull boy, and all that. Accepting a crystal flute from the waiter, he raised it in toast to Claire. ‘What shall we drink to?’

Mirroring his pose, she fluttered her eyelashes. ‘How about to the future?’

‘Perfect.’ Owen drained the sparkling liquid from his glass and tried to ignore the ping of his phone. Claire’s mouth tightened as he reached for it. With a swipe of his thumb he turned it off then tucked it in the inside pocket of his jacket. Work could wait for a couple of hours. He’d been the one to suggest their date, the least he could do was give her a nice evening. Reaching across the table, he took her hand. ‘I’m all yours. Why don’t you tell me what you’ve been up to lately?’

The rest of the evening went well. Once she’d got over her initial mood, Claire proved to be as interesting and knowledgeable as he’d originally hoped. Beneath the labels and the perfect spray tan sat a sharp mind and a level of ambition to match his own. As they lingered over coffee, the spectre of the lost deal with Taylors came back to haunt him. Regardless of his gut instinct that turning down the deal was the right thing to do, he hated losing something he’d worked so hard for.

Fingers touched his. ‘Earth to Owen.’

Shaking his head, he pushed his work worries to one side and offered Claire a smile. ‘Let’s get out of here, shall we?’

Her lashes flicked down then up. ‘I’d like that.’

The taxi stopped outside a neat block of flats and he ducked his head to study them through the window. Not the best part of the area, but by no means the worst and he knew the local council were working with investors on several regeneration projects. Give it a few more years and the place would be worth considerably more than current market value.

‘Are you coming up for coffee?’ Ah. The universal code for extending the evening. On autopilot, he paid the cab fare and slid out after Claire. As she fumbled around in her oversized handbag, an image of the two of them a few years down the line formed in his mind. They were sitting at a long dining table in an immaculate flat full of chrome and granite and all the latest gadgets. To his left and right sat two rows of shiny, well-to-do couples in grey suits and neutral body-con dresses chattering about their latest holidays to somewhere exotic. The right place, the right wife, the right friends, it was exactly the kind of thing he’d dreamed of as a kid scuffing along streets like this in a too-thin coat picked up from the local charity shop for a couple of quid. Now, though, it seemed cold and lifeless, more nightmare than fantasy. A shudder rippled down his spine and he took a step backwards.

‘There it is!’ Claire gave a little laugh of relief as she slid the errant key into the lock and pushed open the door. She’d made it a couple of steps inside before she realised he’d made no move to follow. ‘Owen?’

His feet were glued to the pavement. His future was right there in front of him, but all he wanted to do was run. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me, Claire. I’ve got a bit of a headache, so I’m going to pass on that coffee.’ And anything else that might come after it.

‘Oh.’ Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. ‘Well, if you’re sure?’

If he crossed her threshold, she’d want something more from him than one night and she deserved it—just not from him. Owen nodded. ‘Goodnight, Claire.’ Tucking his hands in his trouser pockets, he forced himself to stroll down the front steps—rather than sprint as his brain was urging him to—and turned randomly to his left, desperate to get away from the eyes he could feel boring into his back. At least he’d done the right thing and walked away now before things got any further down the road between them. The thought didn’t make him feel any better.

He wandered aimlessly for a few streets, trying to get his head around the jumble in his brain. Claire was perfect for him, so why didn’t he want her? The blue-haired pixie’s face popped into his head and he shoved the image away with a silent curse. He needed to forget about her, and everything else about Lavender Bay in the process. There was nothing there for him. He’d made it through the last thirty years without his mother, hadn’t he?

A fine drizzle drifted from the sky adding another layer of misery to his mood. Ducking into an empty shop doorway, he withdrew his phone and switched it back on in order to summon a cab. He’d barely clicked on the app when the phone started ringing. Hoping it wasn’t Claire checking up on his non-existent headache, he was relieved to see an unfamiliar dialling code on the screen. Did he even know anyone who used a landline these days? He swiped to answer. ‘Hello?’

‘Oh…umm…hello, is that Mr Coburn?’ The deep country burr was about as far from Claire’s clipped tones as Owen could imagine. He’d spent a weekend surrounded by that rich accent, and all thoughts of his disastrous date fell away as a sense of anticipation filled him.

‘Speaking.’

‘Ah, right then. I hope you don’t mind the lateness of my call, it’s been a very busy day and I’ve been in two minds over whether I should even be bothering you at all. I want the best for me and my girl, see, and I heard on the grapevine you might be looking to buy a property down here in Lavender Bay, and it seems like too good an opportunity to pass up. I was thinking about retiring next year, so I think we could help each other out. You’d have to promise not to breathe a word about it until after Christmas as I need to get a few things in order and I haven’t talked to my girl about it. I know she’ll be on board though, once I explain it all to her properly. She’s had no life here, you see, and I’ve not been able to give her the chance she deserves to get out and see the world for herself. Well, not until now, that is…’ The stream of consciousness pouring into Owen’s ear trailed off leaving him not much the wiser.

‘I’m not quite sure what you’re saying, Mr…?’

‘Stone. Mick Stone. I heard you were looking for a business to buy in Lavender Bay and I’ve got one to sell, but maybe I got that wrong? Beth was talking about it in the emporium, see, and there was your business card sitting on her counter so I popped it in my pocket.’

All those good intentions of forgetting about Lavender Bay fell away in an instant as his heart began to pound. If he believed in providence, he’d take this as a sign. Getting himself established in the community might be the key to finding some answers about his family. It didn’t have to be forever, but people might open up to him if they got used to seeing him around the place. Worst case scenario, he could spend a couple of months doing up the place, turn it around for a profit and walk away again. Hope bloomed inside, and he had to fight to keep the excitement out of his voice. ‘No, Mr Stone, you didn’t get it wrong. Please tell me more…’

Chapter 3

‘Now you’re sure you don’t mind me popping out for a bit, Libby-girl?’

Libby bit back an exasperated sigh and turned instead towards her father with a smile. ‘Of course not, Dad.’ Taking in the whiteness of the collar of his shirt half-trapped beneath the lapel of his best jacket, she cocked her head. ‘You look smart, got yourself a hot date?’ She’d meant it as a tease—though nothing would please her more than if her long-widowed father found a companion to share his life with—but regretted the words as an ugly flush mottled Mick Stone’s cheeks.

Gaze dropping to the cap clutched between his fingers, Mick shook his head. ‘Nothing like that, lovey, just a bit of business. The accountant wants to discuss last quarter, the usual stuff.’ Libby relaxed. The books were all in order, but their accountant still liked to keep in regular contact. It was a personal touch she knew her dad appreciated. And just maybe the conversation would work its way around to plans for the future.

Stepping forward, she eased the wayward point of his shirt collar free and straightened it before letting her hand drop to smooth over the rough tweed covering the big heart which had given her all the love a girl could ever have needed growing up. ‘Ignore me, Dad. It’s nice to see you looking smart, that’s all. Take as much time as you need. Eliza’s still at a loose end, so she’s going to give me a hand with lunch club.’

Friday lunch club was a tradition her parents had started when they’d first opened their fish and chip shop on the seafront promenade at Lavender Bay. The tradition of eating fish on a Friday might have waned in popularity, but the pensioners still flocked through the doors for a bargain meal. Rain or shine, through the high heat of summer and the cold depths of winter, they turned up like clockwork and went away smiling with a small cod and chips, and a pot of mushy peas for those so inclined. What they lost in profits through the discounted price was more than covered by the return in numbers—and community goodwill.

It was not lost on either Libby or her dad that for some of their customers, lunch club was a highlight of the week. Nobody was rushed through their order, and on warmer days such as that morning they put a handful of folding tables and chairs outside the front door for those who wished to linger and share their meal.

Her father paled. ‘Oh, lovey, I forgot all about blooming lunch club when I made my appointment. I…I could put it off.’

This time she didn’t hide her sigh. ‘Give it a rest, will you? I can manage the shop with my eyes shut. It’ll do Eliza good to do something other than mope about the place.’ Libby scrunched her nose. ‘That sounds awful. I don’t mean it like that, I’m just really worried about her. Nothing’s been the same since she came home.’ Eliza, one of Libby’s two best friends, had recently split from her husband and returned to live with her parents who ran The Siren, the main pub a few doors along the promenade from the fish and chip shop. Her other best friend, Beth, lived next door in a flat over the shop she’d inherited earlier in the year.

Since leaving Martin, Eliza had been at something of a loose end and Libby worried that if she didn’t find her way soon she might think about leaving Lavender Bay again. Both she and Beth had moved away permanently following their university courses, leaving Libby alone. University had never been on the cards for her, not that she’d ever been that academically inclined to begin with. From the first moment the careers advisor had called her in to talk about the future, Libby had had only one answer: she would work alongside her dad in the chippy.

Though the loss of her friends’ physical presence had sat on her heart like a stone, she’d never felt jealous of them. Lavender Bay was her home, and she couldn’t imagine herself anywhere else. This was where her mum was: in every grain of sand upon the beach; in the cry of the wheeling gulls high over the rolling waves; in the weft and warp of Libby’s daily routines.

There was no denying her relief that both Beth and Eliza had returned to the bay, nor that she’d been completely lost without them. Oh, they’d each done their best to keep in touch with regular Skype chats and not-so-regular visits home, but it had only served to emphasise the difference between their lives. While they grew and expanded their life experiences through both successes and failures, like a fly suspended in amber, Libby’s life had remained resolutely the same.

And then there was her dad. Mick Stone had always hung the moon and stars for Libby, and his quiet strength had been the rock she clung to through the maelstrom resulting from her mother’s painful illness and eventual death when Libby had been barely 13 years old. Her resultant teenage rebellions as she struggled to adjust to their new status quo had bounced off Mick’s solid frame without seeming to make a single dent at the time. It was only as she grew older that Libby had begun to come to terms with just how difficult she’d made things for him.

Mick’s weathered face softened. ‘Poor Eliza, she’s been through the mill, hasn’t she? Let me get this business out of the way, and then I’ll pick up the slack here.’

She snorted. He wouldn’t know slack if it pinched his nose. No one worked harder than her dad. Though she did her best to ensure they split the work as evenly as possible, he was forever looking for an excuse to give her a break. She adored him for it, even as it drove her crazy. They were partners in crime, a team through thick and thin, though she didn’t plan on selling fish and chips for the rest of her life. The future she’d mapped out for herself lay under this roof, and her dream was to turn the chippy into a café and bakery. But those plans were for other days, and she was happy to bide her time until her dad decided he’d had enough and was ready to hand over the reins.

In spite of it being the hottest day of the year so far, lunch club had proven as popular as ever, and without Eliza’s help, Libby would’ve been rushed off her feet. With the fryers on, the heat inside the shop had been punishing, even with the little air-con unit on the back wall running at full blast. With the last customer served, she clicked off the power to the fryers and the heating cabinet then moved to stand beneath the air-con and let the cold air wash over her. Eyes closed, she stood there until the combination of the frigid air and her sweat-soaked T-shirt sent a shiver through her entire body.

‘Oh, that looks good.’ Opening one eye was almost too much effort, but Libby cracked a lid and watched as Eliza propped the folding chairs she’d been carrying against the wall then came to stand beside her. ‘Okay, I’m never moving from this spot.’ Eliza dragged the hygiene covering from her hair and gathered the mass of curls spilling loose in one hand to expose the nape of her neck to the chilly blast.

Since they’d been little girls, Libby had always envied Eliza for her hair. The curls always seemed full of life and vitality, not like the limp, brown mop her own hair would be without all the dye and gel. Picturing the horror show lurking beneath her hat, Libby shook her head. ‘How is it possible for you to work non-stop for two hours in Lavender Bay’s own version of Dante’s Inferno and still look like some pre-Raphaelite goddess at the end of it?’

Eliza laughed. ‘You must be joking. I caught sight of myself in that mirrored sign over there as I walked past, and my face is glowing like a neon sign.’

Libby didn’t agree but was too hot and tired to argue the point. With a healthy flush on her cheeks and a bit of life back in her eyes, Eliza looked better than she had since returning home. ‘Have you thought any more about what you want to do?’

Laughter fading, Eliza scrunched up her face. ‘Not a clue, but I’ll have to find something soon before Mum and Dad get too used to the idea of me being behind the bar again. It’s great to be home, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t fancy the idea of pulling pints for the rest of my days. Do you know what I mean?’

Not really. With the death of her mum, it had been only natural for Libby to step into her shoes and help her dad with the business. At first it had been a case of pitching in around their two-storey home above the shop, keeping the place clean so her dad didn’t stay up half the night doing chores after being on his feet all day. It had progressed to prepping the batter, stocking the cold drinks fridge and taking orders whilst Mick manned the fryers. The day he’d deemed her old enough to work them herself was still one of the proudest moments of her life. Not a grand achievement to most, but it had been a milestone on her path from adolescence to adulthood. She loved the shop, loved the ebb and flow of people’s lives through the door. Shared their triumphs and commiserated their disasters as she shook, and salted, and wrapped the food which kept them going at the end of a long day.

It was the people she loved the most. Her people. They came through that front door in good times and bad. If someone was having a hard time, it showed in the way their orders changed. When a regular customer reduced their order, her dad would often slip them an extra piece of fish or add another scoop of chips to their standard portion size. He greeted each and every customer with the same ‘What’ll it be then?’, even those whose order never deviated in the dozen years she’d been helping him out. She’d asked him about it once, and his answer stuck with her.

‘When we started out, your mum and I made a point of learning what people liked, thinking it added a personal touch when we asked someone if they’d like their usual order. Then one Thursday Bill Curtis came in, same as he always does, and when I said “the usual?” he burst into tears. Poor sod had just been laid off and he didn’t know how he was going to pay for supper, never mind tell his wife when he got home. Your mum took him out the back and told him in no uncertain terms that until he was back on his feet, Thursday supper was on the house. Wouldn’t take no for an answer, and I agreed with her. Took him four months to get a new job, another year after that to catch up on overdue bills and the like. The moment he was square again, he insisted on paying us back for those free suppers, not that we expected him to, but his pride had taken enough blows so we didn’t argue.’ Mick wiped his hands on his apron then put an arm around her shoulders. ‘This place is more than a chippy. We’re a community centre, a safe haven for people in trouble. I don’t have a lot, but what I have got I’ll share with anyone that needs it. Asking people what they want rather than assuming I know gives them the space to change their order without any sense of embarrassment, do you see?’

She did, and her heart swelled with love for his big, generous soul. Libby leaned into the reassuring bulk of his body. ‘I see what you do, Dad, and I think it’s brilliant.’

With that memory warm in her heart, Libby took a deep breath, then opened her heart. ‘I’ve found my place in the world, Eliza, and it’s right here.’ She gestured around the shop. ‘I love what my parents built here, and I want to keep playing my part at the heart of our community, but I want to do it my way. Ignore the smell of hot fat and vinegar and picture little wooden tables painted in pastel shades laden with pretty plates full of cakes and sandwiches, sparkling cutlery and real cotton napkins. Replace the fryers with a glass-fronted refrigeration counter holding fresh-baked quiches, flaky sausage rolls and glass bowls full of salad. Shelves along the back wall full of specialty teas and coffees and a fridge full of traditional bottles of lemonade, ginger beer and elderflower water. I’ll paint the walls soft lemon and buttermilk with watercolour paintings of scenes from around the bay, and hang frothy lace curtains at the windows.’

A long silence followed the tumble of words and butterflies began to chase each other around Libby’s stomach. It was the first time she’d let anyone else in on her plans for the future, and she could hardly bear to meet Eliza’s gaze. Her best friend had the kindest heart and would say all the right things, but would she mean it? If she looked into Eliza’s eyes and saw pity, it might break her heart. Needing to keep busy, she took a cloth to the already spotless counter and began to clean it.

‘Libs?’ Soft fingers touched her arm, stilling her hand mid-sweep. She couldn’t bring herself to turn around. It mattered too damn much. Eliza released her only to slip her arms around Libby’s waist and prop her chin on Libby’s shoulder. ‘God, Libs, it sounds wonderful. Just perfect.’

The husky warmth in those words eased the tension holding Libby’s frame rigid. ‘You really think so?’

Eliza gave her a squeeze. ‘I know so. Watching you today was a revelation. Feeding people, taking care of them, it’s in your blood.’

Blushing, Libby stared down at the cloth now wound between her fingers. ‘I’m not exactly in Sam’s league. A few sarnies and cakes won’t hold a candle to the Cordon Bleu experience he’ll be offering.’

A finger jabbed in her ribs, making her turn with a yelp to meet a soft scowl from Eliza. ‘Don’t do that,’ she admonished. ‘Don’t talk yourself out of it before you’ve even started. Sam’s restaurant will be for people wanting a one-off experience, somewhere to celebrate a special occasion. What you’re talking about is a place people will return to time and again for everyday comforts.’

Everyday comforts. Libby liked the sound of that. She’d never seen herself as in competition with Sam, that was just her insecurity digging in its claws. Deep down, she knew her plan was a sound one. The café would fill a gap in the current market, offering healthier alternatives alongside luscious cream teas. Friday lunch club would continue, but she’d offer salmon quiche or tuna melts and salad in the summer, and thick bowls of hearty chowder or fish pie in the winter. She also had plans for a pensioners’ afternoon tea special once a fortnight. Lavender Bay had plenty of takeaways and pubs serving hearty meals and one or other of them would likely expand their menu and add fish and chips—and good luck to them. The day she never had to wash the smell of the chippy out of her hair again couldn’t come too soon, not that she’d ever admit that to anyone other than Eliza or Beth—and they’d never say a word.

‘You know I’ll make the curtains and whatever for you when it’s time. I’m making all the soft furnishings for Sam’s restaurant, and I’d love to help you in whatever way you need.’ And there it was, the reason why Libby had told Eliza before anybody else. In the same way they’d pitched in to help Beth fulfil her dreams with the emporium, Libby knew they’d throw their all behind her.

Eliza had always been a whizz with her sewing machine, whereas Libby could barely manage to sew on a button. Stick her in the kitchen, though, and that was another story. She’d learned to bake at her mother’s hip and the café was a way of honouring those precious moments and keeping them fresh in her mind. Beth was the organised one, who would help her sort out the business side of things. Libby had experience helping her dad keep the books for the chip shop, but it would still take a lot of work to adapt to a more extensive menu. Work that would be much easier with Beth to guide her through it.

Eliza removed the apron she’d been wearing over a mint green shirt and matching capri pants and hung it on one of the pegs. ‘So, what does your dad think about your plans?’ Libby screwed up her face but didn’t say anything. Her dad would be 65 next year and the years of hard work were starting to show. He’d dropped a few hints about retiring after his birthday, and that was one of the reasons she was hoping their accountant might be raising the topic at today’s meeting.

She hadn’t mentioned it herself, because she didn’t want her dad to feel like she was pushing him out the door. When he was ready to take that step, she’d sit him down and go through her ideas. ‘You’re going to have to tell him some time.’ Eliza laughed. ‘Listen to me, Little Miss Assertive telling you what to do, when I’m just as bad.’

Libby slung an arm around her friend’s shoulder and leaned close until their heads were touching. ‘We’re hopeless. Remember when we were kids how we couldn’t wait to be all grown-up and be in control of our lives?’ She sighed.

Humming sympathetically, Eliza nodded. ‘We thought it would be so exciting, only no one told us how difficult it would be. I can’t for the life of me remember why we were in such a hurry.’

‘Because we wanted to have all that great sex we kept reading about in those copies of Cosmopolitan we used to steal from Beth’s mum.’

‘Ha! We should sue them for false advertising because we’re still bloody waiting.’ Eliza pulled back to regard her. ‘Well, I am, at least, although you’ve been very quiet in that regard. Any scorching hot love affairs you want to tell me about?’

As it had far too frequently in the past weeks, the image of Owen Coburn sprang to mind, all cocky smile and hard-bodied perfection. The fluttering that followed dissolved into a deep stab of humiliation. He’d stood out—a bright flame among the usual Saturday night crowd in The Siren, and she’d floated across the bar like a mesmerised moth driven by a fatal combination of bone-deep loneliness and a haze of hormones. And damn, had he burned her with that incredulous look in his eyes.

Men who looked like him probably had women throwing themselves at him all the time. He’d have his pick of gorgeous women with pretty hair and curves in all the right places, so she couldn’t really blame him for dismissing her unconventional looks and a figure that barely rippled from shoulder to hip.

And if the way he’d stared at her like she’d escaped from the local freak show hadn’t been bad enough, his sneering dismissal of her beloved bay had killed her attraction to him stone dead. Well, apart from when she closed her eyes at night and her treacherous brain wove alternative versions of their disastrous meeting that left her blushing in the dark and aching for something she shouldn’t want, and could never be.

Catching a curious glance from Eliza, she realised she’d been quiet for too long. In an effort to distract her, Libby pasted on a grin and waggled her eyebrows. ‘Only in my dreams. I keep trying to persuade Beth to dish the dirt on Sam so at least I’d have something to fuel my fantasies, but she just gives me that “cat that got the cream” look and refuses.’

As she’d hoped, one mention of Sam was enough to turn Eliza off the scent. Scrunching up her delicate nose, Eliza grimaced. ‘Ugh, and ew, that’s my brother you’re talking about.’ Her expression turned from disgust to something more encouraging. ‘Once the summer gets underway there’ll be lots of guys around desperate to snap you up. You’re just having a dry spell, that’s all.’

‘More than a spell, parts of my anatomy have been officially declared a desert zone.’ As they laughed together, Libby considered what Eliza had said. The influx of visitors over the summer might well increase her chances of finding someone she half-liked the look of. If she could only get a certain arrogant smile out of her head for five minutes. Owen Coburn wasn’t her type, and he’d made it crystal clear that she most certainly wasn’t his, so why couldn’t she forget about him and move on?

Not that there was anything to move on from. Those few cross words they’d exchanged had been the closest she’d come to intimacy with a man for nearly a year, which was embarrassing to the point of being pathetic. There’d been guys in her life before—even one a few years ago who’d got serious enough to start hinting at something more permanent, but he’d been hell bent on leaving the bay and couldn’t understand her desire to stay so they’d gone their separate ways—and there’d be guys again. She needed to snap out of it, and Eliza was right. Someone nice was bound to show up at some point over the summer, and Libby intended to be ready to catch him when he did. From this moment onwards, Owen bloody Coburn no longer existed.

Chapter 4

‘I can’t believe he’s back in town. What the hell is he doing here?’ Libby muttered as she sank down on the toilet seat in Beth’s little bathroom where her friend was putting the final touches to her make-up for the evening. She’d managed little more than a quick shower and a change of clothes after helping her dad with the early evening rush. There wasn’t any point in dressing up, it wasn’t like she would be seeing anyone worth making an effort for. ‘Liar,’ whispered the traitorous voice in her head.

Beth ran a pale-pink lipstick over her lips and pursed them together before she met Libby’s eyes in the mirror. ‘I don’t know why he’s here, but it sounds like he might be interested in what Sam’s doing with the restaurant, so it looks like we’ll be stuck with his company.’ Turning her gaze back to her own reflection, Beth ran a brush through her glossy mane of chestnut hair. ‘I don’t get what the big deal is, Libs. I know he’s a bit up himself, but you’re acting like we’re supping with the devil.’

Libby pulled a face, knowing she was overreacting to the whole business. When she’d walked away from Owen after that first meeting, she’d fully intended to forget him. He might have been the most gorgeous man ever to set foot in the county, but he’d made her feel like a bug under the microscope and been rude about her beloved Lavender Bay to boot! Unfortunately, her subconscious had other ideas and Owen kept popping up in her dreams, the details of which were lurid enough to make a sailor blush. With no prospect of Owen returning, it had seemed harmless enough to distract herself with a daydream or two.

And then Eliza had casually dropped his name into conversation during their recent girls’ night and butterflies had been somersaulting in her middle ever since. Not only was the object of several embarrassing fantasies back in the bay and staying at The Siren, he and Sam were somehow considering going into business together! In the hopes of getting him onside, Sam had asked Beth—and by association, Libby— to join them for a drink that evening.

How the hell she would be able to look him in the eye and not burst into flames from sheer embarrassment, she had no idea. ‘I don’t like him.’ It wasn’t exactly a lie… Hiding her discomfort behind a scowl, she folded her arms. ‘If I remember rightly, you’re not exactly his biggest fan, either.’

Beth turned on the stool, and it was all Libby could do not to wilt under the sweet concern in her eyes. ‘What’s got into you? The main reason for tonight is to meet Jack, and give Eliza a bit of moral support, remember? Owen’s arrogant, yes, but I don’t remember him being unpleasant. All we have to do is exchange a few pleasantries with him and leave the rest to Sam. It’s not like you to let anyone get under your skin like this.’ Beth held out her hand. ‘If it’s going to bother you, then why don’t you give tonight a miss? Eliza won’t mind.’

Their friend had met a local farmer during a visit to the lavender farm which covered the sprawling hills above the bay and they’d hit it off. Still a bit raw from her separation with Martin, Eliza was feeling a bit uncertain about things, but it was clear from the way she’d glowed when talking about him there was more than a spark of attraction between them.

Libby was delighted for her, of course, but it only served to highlight her own lack of success on the romance front. And now the source of her own personal humiliation was back in town and she’d have to deal with it somehow. It wasn’t his lack of interest in her so much as her inability to brush it off and forget him that embarrassed her down to her marrow. That and those ridiculously hot dreams. Libby shuddered, and hoped to hell the man wasn’t some kind of mind-reader or else she’d die on the spot.

Squaring her shoulders, she took the hand Beth offered to her and tugged her from the stool into a quick hug. Eliza needed their moral support, and for that Libby could cope with a little discomfort. ‘I’m being ridiculous. I know how much the restaurant means to Sam, so I can grin and bear it. Let’s go and check out Eliza’s gorgeous farmer. I promise to be on my best behaviour.’

Beth made a beeline straight for Sam, who was sitting on his own. A quick glance around showed no sign of Owen’s close-cropped dark head. Maybe he’d changed his mind about the drink? Feeling hopeful, Libby scooted over to the bar towards where Eliza was positioned behind it. Head swivelling, Libby scanned the patrons looking for Jack. ‘He not here yet then?’

‘Not yet, but there’s a lot of work to do on the farm so it’s not exactly a nine-to-five job.’ Libby couldn’t miss the hint of uncertainty in her friend’s voice as she fished a bottle of white wine out of the fridge behind her, and resolved not to tease her. Eliza held up the wine. ‘You having a large one?’

‘Does the Pope shit in the woods?’ Libby grinned as Eliza shook her head at the deliberately crude comment, but she was laughing too, which was the point.

‘Charming as ever, I see.’ Oh, great. Of course, Owen would choose that moment to pitch up. Bracing herself, Libby turned and gave herself a mental high-five for not fainting dead away. Her fevered memory had done the man a serious misjustice. From the severe crew cut to the tattoo covering his upper arm from the edge of his T-shirt sleeve to his elbow, and the faded jeans clinging to his hips, he looked dangerous and utterly delicious.

Fury at her reaction combined with embarrassment, and all her good intentions flew out of the window. ‘You didn’t fall under a bus then? That’s a pity.’ Ignoring the pounding of her heart, she deliberately gave him her back. ‘If you’re going to let any old riff-raff in here, Eliza, I might have to start drinking somewhere else.’

She could sense him step up beside her, feel the heat of him like a stroke against her skin and it was all she could do to keep her eyes fixed on Eliza. ‘A pint of lager, and I’ll buy your friend a drink if you slip some arsenic in it for me.’

He was only giving back as good as she’d given, but the dig hurt more than it should’ve. Eliza giggling like he was the most hilarious man on the planet didn’t help. And when she slid the money he’d offered back with a simpering smile, Libby barely restrained a hiss at her friend’s traitorous behaviour. ‘What the bloody hell is that all about?’ Libby demanded the second Owen walked away to join Sam and Beth. ‘“It’s on the house.” God, you were practically drooling.’

The moment she’d snapped the words, she regretted them. She’d been the one in danger of needing a napkin whilst Eliza had been nothing more than polite to a man who was not only a paying guest, but who might hold the key to her brother’s future prospects. If she carried on projecting like this, she’d end up having to confess her messy feelings to her friends. The too-keen glint in Eliza’s eye said Libby’s dramatic reaction had already piqued her curiosity.

‘What’s the problem? You’ve barely exchanged more than two words with the guy and yet there’s all this animosity between you. Has he done something to upset you?’

Libby shrugged, knowing she was acting like a sulky teenager. There was nothing she could say without confessing she’d been dreaming about him like some love-sick schoolgirl. Having no boyfriend when her friends were getting cosy was bad enough without admitting the best she’d been able to do was dream about a bloke she didn’t even like! Feeling embarrassed and awkward, she couldn’t help but overreact to every mention of him.

It didn’t help that he looked better than ever tonight. The black T-shirt he’d teamed with a pair of faded jeans stretched across a set of surprisingly broad shoulders. She’d only ever seen him in a suit before, and the cut of his jacket hadn’t done justice to his physique. Libby ripped her gaze away before she did something ridiculous like climb him like a monkey. ‘He’s a stuck-up git, that’s all. Why are you and Sam so chummy with him all of a sudden?’

Eliza frowned. ‘I thought Beth would’ve mentioned it to you. Owen stumbled across Sam going over the plans for the restaurant and he offered to take a look. Having someone with his experience involved in the project can only strengthen Sam’s position, and he might even agree to invest because the bank have been dragging their heels apparently. You know how important this is to Sam—to Beth as well. This is their future in the balance. Owen told Sam he was still on the lookout for projects situated here in the bay to invest in.’ She took Libby’s hand. ‘If he’s bad news then we need to warn Sam.’

What a hash of things she was making thanks to a bit of singed pride and a ridiculous crush. Sam had been working so hard on his plans for Subterranean and Libby would be damned if she’d throw a spanner in the works. Owen seemed determined to find an investment opportunity in the area, why else would he be back down here after things had fallen through with his plan to buy up the emporium from Beth? And where better for his money to go than supporting her friends? ‘Ignore me, he…’ It was on the tip of her tongue to confess her embarrassment, but she couldn’t face Eliza’s sympathy just then. Eliza would be lovely and sympathetic and Libby would feel like even more of a failure on the romantic front. Why couldn’t she bump into a gorgeous farmer like Eliza had, or fall in love with the boy next door, like Beth? Libby snorted to herself; the ‘boy’ who lived next door to the chippy was 70 if he was a day. ‘He just winds me up for some reason.’ It sounded pathetic, but Libby was determined not to dig the hole she was in any deeper. Taking a sip of her wine to steady herself, she decided to shift the conversation onto more solid ground. ‘I wonder why he’s so fixated on our little town; you can’t get much further from the glamour of London than Lavender Bay.’

Eliza shrugged, her attention now on the small group across the room rather than on Libby, thank goodness. ‘Maybe that’s the point, who knows? Sam and I thought a friendly drink would help grease the wheels a bit.’ Which made perfect sense, much to Libby’s chagrin, and Eliza’s next words did nothing to make her feel any better about her ridiculous behaviour as she echoed Beth’s earlier sentiment. ‘If you really don’t like him then I don’t want to spoil your evening. We can probably just leave him and Sam to chat…’

Darling Eliza, always the mediator, even when she must have been beside herself with nerves over Jack coming to meet everyone. Libby gulped another mouthful of wine. ‘If it means that much to Sam then I can put up with Mr Full Of Himself for a few hours. But I’m not going to kiss up to him, so don’t expect me to.’

Eliza raised on tiptoe to give her a quick hug across the bar. ‘I’m not asking you to, just don’t shank him with a wooden spork from the chippy, all right?’ They both snorted at the idea and just like that, Libby’s bad mood evaporated.

Thankfully, Jack arrived not long afterwards and Libby’s conflicting emotions about Owen were pushed to the back of her mind as she did her best to make him feel welcome. It wasn’t exactly a chore—Jack went out of his way to be charming, and it was clear from the way they looked at each other that there was the potential for something special between him and Eliza. She could even forgive him for refusing an offer to tour the skittle alley beneath the pub which would be the location for Subterranean in favour of spending a bit of quiet time with Eliza, leaving her without a buffer as she trooped downstairs behind Beth, Sam and Owen.

Sam’s enthusiasm for the project was infectious, and Libby couldn’t wait to see his vision come to life. Owen seemed to have forgotten their little snit at the bar, and she was only too glad to do the same. She’d chosen a seat beside him, and even managed to shift it further away from him without being too obvious about it. At least this way she could keep her eyes on the others and not stare at him like a complete idiot. They didn’t address each other directly, but the conversation flowed easily enough thanks to Beth’s subtle efforts. As they worked their way through a second round of drinks, Libby finally found herself relaxing enough to enjoy herself. Owen would be back on the train to London soon enough, and she could get back to pretending he didn’t exist.

The men drifted into a discussion over some football competition Jack’s nephew was involved in and Libby let the conversation wash over her as she checked the time on her phone. She’d have to make a move in a minute—though her dad had said he’d be fine on his own, Libby wanted to be back in the shop to lend him a hand with the late-evening influx of customers. Five more minutes and then she really needed to be off. Glancing up, she caught the intent look on Owen’s face and started to pay more attention. From the way he was talking it sounded like he intended to help Jack out at the football. ‘But if it’s next weekend, you won’t be here!’

All her worst fears were realised when Owen aimed a broad grin at her. ‘Now that Sam and I are going into business together, you’re going to be seeing a whole lot more of me about the bay.’

Oh. God.

‘You’re serious?’ Sam asked Owen, and for one desperate second Libby’s hopes rose because maybe Owen had just been trying to wind her up.

‘Absolutely. We can hammer out the details over the next few days. I’ll need to go back to London on Sunday night, but most of my current projects are well in hand so I can be here next weekend. See if you can make an appointment with the bank manager for the Monday or Tuesday afterwards. We should have things sorted between us by then I reckon.’

Monday or Tuesday afterwards? He was talking like he intended to become a permanent resident. And if he was working with Sam and playing football with Jack, then there would be no avoiding him. After her dad, Beth and Eliza meant everything to Libby so she would either have to spend less time with their group or find a way to get over this nonsense with Owen. Hanging around with two couples, how long would it be before the suggestions and teasing about them getting together started? Her stomach churned at the thought. He’d already made it clear he had zero interest in her. How humiliating would it be to have her nose rubbed in it again?

Unable to bear the thought, she stood abruptly. ‘I need to get back and give Dad a hand with the late-evening rush. I’ll see you later, B.’ There was time enough yet, but if she sat there a moment longer, she’d give the game away.

To her absolute horror, Owen stood up. ‘I’ll walk back with you. Sam was telling me earlier how you make the best fish and chips in the county. I missed dinner, so I’m starving.’

Well, what on earth was she supposed to do now? ‘Fine.’ Turning on her heel, Libby marched towards the door.

Chapter 5

Tucking his hands in his pockets, Owen affected an air of utter relaxation as he strolled along in the angry wake of the tiny pixie—Libby. He couldn’t quite get his head around her having such a sweet name. With all her spiky edges, and not just the rainbow-coloured ones radiating from her head, she should have been called something bolder. Libby was for a soft, sweet girl who knitted blankets for stray kittens, or some such nonsense. Maybe she did, it wasn’t like he knew the first damn thing about her—other than the fact she clearly couldn’t stand to be within five feet of him, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Oh, and the fact he’d agreed to buy her father’s business.

He’d assumed Mick Stone’s cloak and dagger act over selling the chip shop to Owen—insisting on meeting him miles away from the bay and then extracting his promise to wait until New Year’s Eve to assume final possession of the chip shop—was a bit over the top, but maybe not. If Libby had any idea her dad was selling up, she’d made no indication of it. He’d snooped a time or two during her conversations with her friends, and all talk had been around long-term plans. It was never too early for women to start talking about Christmas, apparently.

Not the kind of thing someone who was preparing to leave the bay and strike out on her own would be talking about, though her dad had talked more about the freedom the sale of his business would give his daughter than his own plans for retirement. He needed to dig into it, find out what he was getting himself caught up in. ‘So, selling fish and chips is your ideal career then?’

Libby stopped so suddenly, like she’d slammed into an invisible wall, that he almost trod on her heels. As a result, when she spun to face him, they were almost nose-to-chest. Christ, she really is tiny. A gentleman would stand back so she didn’t have to crane her neck to meet his eye. Owen might be a lot of things, but a gentleman had never been one of them, so he stood his ground and waited for the tirade. It didn’t take long.

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean? Running a chippy might not live up to your lofty standards, but it’s good honest work. We help the community and provide a decent meal at a reasonable price. Why is that something to sneer at?’

Well, that didn’t sound like someone ready to move on, did it? He was starting to get a really bad feeling about this. Holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender, he sought to smooth her ruffled feathers. ‘Sorry. I have a habit of shoving my foot in my mouth every time I talk to you. I just wondered if you were satisfied with what you’re doing.’

She fixed a suspicious squint on him, before the tightness in her frame eased. ‘I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat, you just…’ She paused long enough he thought she didn’t mean to continue the thought, then muttered, ‘you rub me up the wrong way.’

The idea of rubbing her in any kind of way destroyed several brain cells and most of his self-restraint. With effort, Owen forced himself to move until a reasonable amount of space opened up between them. ‘We did start off rather badly.’

To his surprise, Libby threw back her head and roared with unrestrained laughter. ‘That might be the understatement of the century.’

Her laughter was infectious, and he found himself joining in. ‘At least I know I’m safe as long as I stick to the pedestrian promenade.’ At her quizzical look, he made a shoving motion. ‘No passing buses for me to fall under.’

‘Oh, that.’ The faintest hint of a blush coloured her cheeks, before she straightened her shoulders. ‘I seem to remember something about webbed fingers and arsenic, so don’t be playing the hard-done-by card with me.’ She crossed her arms, drawing his attention to the slimness of her frame as it drew her baggy top taut. ‘You started it.’

Scowling at her faulty memory, Owen mirrored her pose. ‘You started it. You called me a colossal arse.’

‘That’s because you were being a colossal arse. Look, I get that you’re some kind of sex god throwing off pheromones left, right and centre, and I’m just the weird-looking local you wouldn’t look twice at, but you didn’t have to stomp me down quite so harshly just for approaching you.’ The colour drained from her face, leaving her skin a waxy shade. Holding her hands out as though to ward him off, she backed up a few steps. ‘Oh, God! Get away from me. I can’t control my mouth when I’m around you.’ She turned on her DM-booted heels and started running.

Well now, that was all very illuminating. It would appear he wasn’t the only one feeling a spark of attraction beneath those layers of animosity. And, unlike him, Libby seemed very unhappy about it. A gentleman would turn on his heel and give her time to gather her equilibrium, but as had already been established, Owen was no gentleman. He was a sex god, apparently. Time to throw off a few more pheromones and see what happened next. With a grin he had no doubt most would call smug playing about his lips, he hurried after Libby.

With the difference in their strides, he was only a few paces behind her as Libby rushed through the front door of the chip shop. The clatter of her boots on the tiled floor turned all eyes towards them, including those of the man behind the counter. Mick Stone took one look at Owen and blurted out, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Thankfully, Libby assumed the question was aimed at her. ‘I’ve come to help you with the late shift, what do you think I’m doing here?’ she asked as she edged past the queue to slip around the edge of the counter. ‘Give me two seconds to get my coat on.’ She placed a quick kiss on her father’s cheek and disappeared out the back.

Joining the back of the queue, Owen made a show of studying the large menu on the wall above Mick’s head. ‘I heard in the pub this is the place for the best fish and chips for miles around and I had to check it out for myself. Anyone have recommendations?’ As he’d hoped, the people ahead of him were all happy to offer an opinion and a friendly, if heated, discussion started of the merits of cod over haddock.

Libby returned, still buttoning up a white coat with her wild hair tamed beneath the ugliest hair net he’d ever seen. She took one look at him, bristled, then fixed a brilliant smile on the woman at the front of the line. ‘Evening, Rose, what’ll it be for you tonight?’

Fascinated, Owen watched as Libby and her dad paid particular attention to each and every customer. Conversations rose and fell like the tide washing on the beach as others waiting joined in with their own observations and chatter. Ten minutes later and he still hadn’t made it to the front of the queue, and to his shock it didn’t bother Owen one bit.

Had he been in London, he’d have complained long before now, would likely have already walked out in disgust at being kept waiting, but the likelihood of the scene before him unfolding in any of his local takeaways was about on a par with a unicorn charging down Kensington High Street. He’d used the Chinese at the end of his street pretty much every week for the past three years and still didn’t have a clue what the couple who ran it were called. Thanks to the ordering app on his phone, he didn’t even need to speak to them beyond giving a number and saying thank you when they handed over his usual crispy beef, chicken and pineapple with a side of special fried rice in a white carrier bag. Not that they went out of their way to be chatty, either.

There was definitely a different pace to life down here, and he would have to make some readjustments now he’d be spending more time in the bay. The deal with Sam over his restaurant had come out of nowhere. Owen had been on the hunt for an early morning coffee and come across the plans spread over the kitchen table in the pub.

A day spent poring over the plans for Subterranean had left him genuinely excited by the project. Sam had a fantastic vision, and plenty of top chefs had proven success with regional restaurants. It would be a gamble, but if they could position a couple of features in the right newspapers, the punters would flock to the coast for the chance to say they’d been the first to discover a hot new talent.

As for the chip shop, it occupied an absolute prime piece of real estate right in the centre of the promenade. Like many of the buildings along the seafront, it sprawled over three storeys, with living accommodation occupying the top two floors. He hadn’t yet decided whether he’d retain the retail space below, but with a bit of rejigging—and the requisite planning permission—the upper floors could be transformed into a couple of luxury duplexes complete with roof terraces. With some discreet planting, no one would be any the wiser about the terraces and he’d be able to provide a secluded spot for the discerning sunbather without altering the façade of the building.

His eyes strayed to Libby, red-faced from the heat as she lifted a basket of piping-hot chips from the fryer and wondered if he should tell her she’d directly influenced his plans. Her comments about ugly modern apartments changing the appearance of the promenade had stuck with him. It would be important to get the locals on side as any protests from them might put a spanner in the works. Only he couldn’t tell her anything about it, thanks to the ludicrous deal he’d struck with Mick about keeping quiet until after Christmas.

The back of his neck itched. When Mick’s ‘girl’ had been some amorphous, unknown individual, Owen hadn’t given two hoots about what she did or didn’t know about the deal. He’d never referred to her by name during their discussions and it was only during a chat with Sam that morning that Owen had put two and two together. Mick had assured him he was the sole title holder to the property since the passing of his wife, so whatever family drama selling up might cause would be his problem. He’d asked Owen to hold off so he could have one last Christmas with ‘his girl’, and as the timing had suited him, Owen had no objections.

Now he knew Libby was involved, it didn’t sit so well with him, especially when his new business partner was so closely connected to her two friends. It was clear the three women were very close, and if she objected to the sale of her childhood home and place of work, it could make things very awkward for everyone. He’d have to dig a little deeper, try and get to know Libby without giving the game away. Getting a bit closer to her wouldn’t be a hardship in the least.

It was finally his turn to be served. With a polite nod to Mick, Owen fixed a big grin on Libby who was doing her best to pretend he wasn’t there. ‘Evening, Libby.’

The glare she flicked his way all but scorched the skin off his face, but she was saved from responding by Mick. ‘You two know each other then?’

Resting one elbow on the counter, Owen turned partly towards him, but made sure to keep Libby in his eyeline. ‘Yup. We’ve met a couple of times in the pub. Just spent the evening together, haven’t we?’

Mick’s eyebrows climbed high enough to disappear beneath the brim of his white trilby as Libby made a strangled noise in her throat. She coughed, then muttered, ‘This is Owen. He’s investing in Sam’s new restaurant, they were talking about their plans while I was hanging out with Beth and Eliza.’

‘The restaurant? I didn’t know Sam was looking for a partner.’ The concern in Mick’s voice was palpable and it suddenly occurred to Owen he might think it would put their own deal in jeopardy.

‘He wasn’t. I’m staying at the pub while I follow up on another investment opportunity and I kind of stumbled across the plans. I’ve got room in my portfolio for both, and Sam’s vision for Subterranean is very exciting.’ He made sure to hold Mick’s gaze as he emphasised ‘another’ hoping he would understand he was referring to his purchase of the chip shop. Bloody hell, talking about something whilst not being obvious he was talking about it was too much like hard work. Surely Mick couldn’t mean to keep this up until after Christmas?

Mick visibly relaxed, much to Owen’s relief. ‘He’s a grand cook, is Sam. I’m sure he’ll make a roaring success of the place.’

‘And he was singing your praises, too. Told me you serve the best fish and chips in the county, so I’m sure you’ll have something here to satisfy my appetite.’ Owen aimed his last remark squarely at Libby and was rewarded with a hot blush, and another of those fantastically filthy glares for his trouble. She had spirit in spades, and he wanted all that fire inside her focused on him. ‘What does the lady recommend?’

Narrowing her eyes, Libby reached for a vicious-looking two-pronged fork and used it to spear a battered sausage with enough force to make Owen glad there was a solid counter between them. Oblivious to the tension between them, Mick shook his head. ‘We can do a bit better than that. How does a large cod and chips sound, Owen?’

Not wishing to be rude, Owen turned his attention to Mick. ‘Sounds great, thanks very much.’ He watched as Libby returned the poor abused sausage to the warming container before dishing up a huge portion of chips upon which she laid a long cod fillet wrapped in a pale golden batter. His stomach gave an appreciative rumble as the scent of the hot food hit him.

‘Salt and vinegar?’

He waited to reply until she lifted her eyes to meet his. ‘Lovely.’ Her lips twitched in spite of herself and Owen wanted to pump his fist at winning even that tiny reaction from her. ‘And I’ll take a Diet Coke as well, please.’

Mick rang up the cost and Owen retrieved his debit card to pay. ‘Well, thank you both for this. I’m sure I’ll enjoy every bite.’ With a quick wink at Libby, Owen retreated to the door, clutching his drink and the large paper parcel. He didn’t go far, though. A lamppost hung above the railing running along the promenade directly opposite the shop window. Owen perched on the top rail beneath the bright light, unwrapped his meal and set it on his lap, and waited.

The chips were hot, crispy on the outside, and fluffy on the inside. In other words, perfect. Picking his way through the mountain of food, he watched Libby puttering around behind the counter, serving the next few customers. All smiles, there wasn’t a hint of the animosity she showed him, not even towards a group of noisy lads who spilled through the door clearly a little worse for wear. As they staggered out, clutching their food and laughing, her gaze followed them as they crossed in front of Owen’s position. Any second now…

Libby froze, jaw gaping and he couldn’t resist giving her a jaunty wave with the chip in his hand. He could almost see steam pouring from her ears as she very deliberately turned her back. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the melt-in-the-mouth fish and didn’t look up again until he’d finished every last morsel. It was enough that she knew he was out there. If he was a betting man, he would’ve taken any odds that she wouldn’t be able to resist watching him, and sure enough he caught a flurry of her white coat turning away the moment he raised his head.

Having crumpled up his empty paper, he drained the last of his can of drink then hopped down from the railing. A bin sat outside the chip shop, so he crossed the promenade to deposit his rubbish. The shop was empty of customers, and there was no sign of Mick, only Libby making a huge performance of spraying and wiping down the front of the counter. Waiting until she glanced over her shoulder, Owen gave her a little wave then strolled back to retake his position on the top railing. A quick check of his watch told him last orders in the pub had come and gone. He scanned the prom in both directions. Apart from a couple walking their dog, it was pretty much deserted. Not much longer to wait.

Resting his elbows on his knees, Owen watched as Libby flipped the closed sign and slid the top bolt home before disappearing out of view. The lights went out, and he waited, eyes straining for any hint of movement inside. After ten fruitless minutes, he slipped down from the railing with a sigh. He’d been so sure she wouldn’t be able to resist coming out to speak to him—even if it was only to tell him to sod off. Ah well, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and spiky, intriguing little pixies weren’t easily tamed which was probably just as well.

Tucking his hands in his pockets, Owen glanced up and down the promenade. Other than security lights mounted high on their walls, the businesses were all dark. He supposed he should return to the pub, but he wasn’t the least bit tired. Maybe a walk would help to ease the restlessness inside him. He’d made it maybe half a dozen paces when a soft snick came from behind him. Not wanting her to catch him smiling, he made sure his face was in the shadows before he turned around. ‘I thought you were going to leave me out here like a stray cat.’

‘It was tempting, but then I was worried you’d start yowling underneath my window or scent marking the steps.’ She’d swapped her white coat for a black cardigan hanging loosely off one shoulder to reveal the spaghetti straps of her vest top. Tempted by the soft material, he hitched it up then smoothed his fingers down her arm to tangle with her own. She flinched back. ‘Hey, keep your hands to yourself!’ She hauled the two sides of her cardigan around her body like a shield. ‘Do you think I’m so desperate I’ll fall into bed with any man, even one who doesn’t fancy me? That you can flash your smile and splash your cash, and the poor little country mouse will swoon at your feet? I might be desperate, but I’m not that desperate.’

Owen felt his temper rise in response to her outrageous accusations. ‘Christ, you’re full of assumptions about me, aren’t you? Shame you’re wrong on every single one of them.’

‘Wrong? Don’t make me laugh. What was that all about in the shop earlier, making sure everyone heard that you’re investing in two different projects in the bay other than you showing off to all us poor locals? And then spending an hour hanging around outside my door pretending to flirt with me. What are you even doing here? Did you figure out I’ve got a stupid crush on you and decide to grit your teeth and make the best of it? It’s all the same in the dark, I suppose.’

Moving before he knew what he was going to do, he grabbed her around the waist and hauled her against him. ‘Can’t you just be quiet for one minute?’ He mashed his lips down upon hers before she could spew forth any more accusations.

Hands braced upon his chest, she shoved hard against his hold for a couple of seconds before her fingers curled up and over his shoulders to pull him closer. The stubborn moue of her lips softened beneath his to release a little gasp. Shifting his grip from her waist to her hips, her raised her higher up against his body until she hooked her legs around him, the weight of her boots thudding against the back of his thighs. His mouth still locked on hers, he took a couple of staggering steps until he had her pinned against the shadowed wall of a nearby shop.

The scent, feel and taste of her swam through his senses until nothing else existed. When he tested the seam of her lips with his tongue and she yielded for him with a hungry little noise, he feared his knees might give out from the desire spearing through him, and he kissed her like his life depended upon it. Her nails pricked his skin through the cotton of his T-shirt for a long moment before she released her grip to press once more against his chest. This time he let her ease him away.

Gasping for breath, they stared at each other through the gloom. ‘But…but you don’t like me,’ Libby said, her tone full of bewilderment.

‘I don’t know what gave you that idea, but you’re wrong.’ He shifted his body where it notched between her thighs to prove just how wrong. ‘I like you plenty, Libby Stone.’

Chapter 6

Had it not been for Owen’s firm grip upon her waist, Libby might have melted into a puddle of goo right there on the promenade. Perhaps the town council would erect one of those little blue plaques on the wall to record the moment? It was here in the summer of 2018 that Libby Stone was relieved of her senses by a single kiss. Confusion wasn’t a comfortable state of mind. She liked things straightforward, to know where she stood in life. The sun rose in the east and set in the west, the tides followed the cycles of the moon, a seagull would always try and steal your chips, Owen Coburn was bad news wrapped in a very sexy package. All incontrovertible truths. Or so she’d thought. When he was being brash, she could tell herself she’d dodged a bullet, that her bruised feelings would heal soon enough. And then he showed up, flirted with her, kissed her until her head swam, even told her that he liked her.

She couldn’t think straight, and it wasn’t just from his kisses which had been even better than all those fantasies she’d spun about him. Gripped with the sudden panic that perhaps she’d fallen asleep slumped over the counter in the chippy, she unhooked her arms from around his neck and gave herself a pinch. Nope, not asleep.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Owen asked.

‘Just checking.’

He laughed. The low rich sound vibrated through her threatening to turn her already liquid insides to mush. ‘You really aren’t like any other woman I’ve ever met.’ She stiffened and would’ve wriggled free of his hold had his mouth not grazed softly across her own. ‘Damn, you’re spikier than a hedgehog. That was a compliment, by the way,’ he murmured against her lips.

She let herself melt against him once more as he traced his way from her lips to her throat in a series of butterfly soft kisses. ‘You really aren’t like any other man I’ve met either,’ she confessed.

Owen raised his head and she found herself straining to read his expression in the near dark. ‘I’m not what you think I am, Libby. Everything I’ve got in life has been earned through my own sweat and determination. No one gave me a hand up, along the way. It’s taken me eighteen years to get from being a jobbing labourer to having my name above the door of my business.’

Thankful for the shadows, Libby felt her face flush at the hint of accusation in his voice. She’d done to him exactly what she hated people doing to her—judged him by appearance. The designer suits, the confident way he talked about investing in the restaurant like it was no big deal had blinded her. From what he was saying, he’d worked his way up from nothing. She did a quick calculation in her head. ‘You must’ve started straight from school, unless you’ve got one of those Dorian Grey paintings hiding in the attic.’

‘Is that a roundabout way of asking how old I am? I’m 34.’

‘Oh.’ She’d assumed him to be a bit younger—closer to Sam’s age.

‘Oh?’ His arms slid from beneath her thighs to cup her bottom, the proprietorial hold sending shivers through her. ‘Is that going to be a problem for you?’

He was too close, the heat of him too distracting for her poor lust-addled brain, but she couldn’t back up when he had her pinned against the wall. ‘Why…why would it be a problem for me?’ Damn him for putting that breathy note in her voice. She didn’t do breathy, she didn’t do sweet, melting compliance. And she’d tell him so if he’d just stop touching her like that.

‘Because when I get you into bed, I don’t want you to suddenly decide the age gap between us is an issue.’

When. Not if. There was not even a hint of doubt in his voice and she liked it far more than she should. ‘So arrogant,’ she said, scrambling to regain the upper hand.

‘Confident.’

‘I hate you.’ But she was laughing as she said it, and he’d found that sweet spot just beneath her ear with his lips, and suddenly there was no more room for words.

She didn’t know how long they stood there in the shadows, the harshness of their breathing and the waves lapping upon the distant shore the only sounds as they kissed and caressed each other. It might have been minutes or a matter of seconds before Owen broke away with a gasp. ‘Take me home, Libby.’

Yes. She had her legs unhooked and was sliding back to the floor before reality kicked in. ‘Dad’s there.’

‘Damn.’ He smothered his own word with another round of feverish kisses. ‘Then come back to the pub with me.’

And do a walk of shame along the promenade in the morning, presuming she could even sneak in and out of there without her friends finding out? ‘That’s even worse.’

‘I need you.’ Three of the most intoxicating words she’d ever heard spilled from his lips. It was the tone of his voice as much as anything that blew the last of her common sense away. No man had ever spoken of her with such urgency, with such blatant need and just the right edge of demand.

If it hadn’t been so long since anyone had touched her like this, if she hadn’t been so bloody lonely, she might have pushed him away and run for the safety of her little bedroom above the shop with its walls still the same pale pink of her childhood. But it had. And he was making her body sing with anticipation. For the first time in her life she knew what it was to be the sole focus of a powerful man. ‘Come with me.’

Not stopping to think, she dragged Owen down the steps and along the beach to where a row of old beach huts rested against the wall of the promenade. They were a hangover from the Fifties, before the town had grown so popular with tourists. The parish council had refused permission over the years for any more to be built and put a moratorium on who could purchase them. As a result, they’d stayed in the hands of the same families for several generations.

The kids at school whose folks owned them had been some of the most popular thanks to their unfettered access to the perfect hangout spot. Libby had spent many an evening and weekend hanging out in one or other of the gaily painted huts. And if they were lucky… Pausing in front of a bright yellow hut, she stretched on tiptoe and fumbled along the top of the door frame with her fingers. ‘Ah hah!’

‘Well, aren’t you just full of surprises?’ Owen said as she unlocked the door and pushed it open. It was pitch black inside, but provided the Tanners hadn’t given the place a major overhaul she could still remember the layout.

‘Hang on to me.’ Extending her hands forward, Libby began to shuffle forward as she pictured the inside of the little cabin the last time she’d seen it. A pair of basket weave chairs on either side, a table in the far left corner piled high with the jigsaw puzzles and old board games, and along the back wall… Her shins brushed against something and she bent at the waist to find the edge of the large cushioned bench. ‘There’s a seat here.’

Owen gripped her hips. ‘I think I like where I am just fine, come here.’ Turning her with insistent hands, she expected his kiss to be as intense as the ones they shared on the beach. Instead, it was a long, slow exploration as though now he’d got her somewhere private, all the urgency had left him.

She didn’t want soft and tender, she wanted fast and furious with no time to think about what she was doing, and who she was doing it with. Frustrated, she pushed at the bottom of his T-shirt only to have him capture her hands and hold them away from their bodies leaving their lips a single point of connection.

‘Shh,’ he said when she would’ve protested. ‘No rush now, and in spite of what I said there’s no need for this to go any further unless you want it to.’

Damn him. She’d wanted him to overwhelm her, to take charge and do with her as he would. That way she could blame him in the morning when the regrets came, and they most surely would. Whatever else Owen might be, he didn’t strike her as the kind of man who wanted commitment, and that spelled disaster for Libby. In her heart of hearts, she knew whatever happened between them that night would alter her on some fundamental level. A shiver rippled through her, a portent rather than a thrill. Owen Coburn would not only be her downfall, he wanted her to walk right into his lion’s den with her eyes wide open.

Even with all those doubts and fears ricocheting through her brain, there was no hesitation as she freed her hands and hooked them around his neck. ‘I want this. I want you. No regrets.’

Had anyone in the history of the world told such a blatant lie to a lover? As they sank down together on the bench, she neither knew nor cared.

‘I can’t find my T-shirt.’

Raising her head at the sound of Owen’s voice was instinctive, and a huge mistake as she bumped it on the edge of the corner table. ‘Ouch!’ She sat back on her heels and rubbed her forehead. ‘I can’t find my jeans, or my bra. Whose bloody idea was it to have a tryst in a pitch-black shed?’

‘I seem to remember it was yours.’ Libby jumped. He sounded much closer to her than he had a second ago. Something warm brushed her shoulder then traced down her arm to place a tangle of material in her hand. ‘I found your bra. I was going to keep it as a memento.’

The silly comment helped soothe away the worst of her nerves. ‘What were you planning to do with it, nail it over your headboard?’

Owen laughed. ‘I thought I’d hang it from the flag pole outside my office, isn’t that what victors used to do with trophies captured from their enemies?’

He hadn’t moved away so she took a chance and leaned into the muscled heat of his chest. ‘We weren’t really enemies.’

His arm curled around her back. ‘No, not really, although I could’ve sworn you said you hated me, earlier.’

She’d said an awful lot more than that to him in the past hour. Shocking things; shameless things; things she’d never thought in all of her 26 years, never mind demanded until he’d taken her in his arms. Don’t think about it. What they’d shared had been too raw, too intense, and if she let herself dwell on it, she’d fall right back under his spell. Thankful for the shield of darkness so he couldn’t see the heat burning on her cheeks, she extended her arm to sweep along the floor beside her and touched something soft. ‘I think this might be your T-shirt.’

‘Thanks.’ He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to take it from her. Clever, questing fingers slipped under her top to play over the little ridges of her spine. ‘Libby…’

Dear God. His ability to put so much temptation in one word should be illegal. ‘We should be getting back. If Dad wakes up, he’ll wonder where I am.’ Mick Stone slept like the dead from the moment his head hit the pillow until his alarm clock went off in the morning, but Owen didn’t need to know that. If she let him get her under him again she might still be there when the beach filled up with visitors in a few hours.

His hand stilled on her back for a moment, before he withdrew it. ‘Sure. Right, let’s try and find your jeans.’ Was that a trace of hurt in his voice? It couldn’t possibly be. She could count her number of awkward post-coital experiences on one hand which was a damn sight less than him, of that she had no doubt. So, he should be better at this than her. She felt him crawl away, felt the loss of his warmth against her side and was suddenly desperate to scramble after him and tumble them both to the floor.

She didn’t though. Instead, she removed her top and began to fumble around with her bra until she had it the right way round to clip it back on. Her top was halfway over her head when Owen gave a little crow of triumph. ‘Here they are! Now I just need to work out where the hell you are again.’

Finally dressed, they left the little haven of the beach hut. Libby paused to lock the door and replace the key back in its hiding place before turning to survey the sky. The moon had set, and the first streaks of indigo and pink showed the approaching dawn. She could’ve sworn they’d only been inside for an hour. ‘What time is it?’

Pale luminescence flashed as Owen turned his wrist to study his watch. ‘About half three, I think.’

‘Bloody hell, come on, I’ve got to be up in a few hours.’ She broke into a jog, keeping the dark outline of the promenade to her left. The lampposts had dimmed to pale orange, another sign of how late—or how early—it was.

When they reached the steps leading up to the prom, Owen grabbed for her hand and tugged her around to face him. Cupping her jaw with his other hand, he feathered a kiss across her lips. ‘I’ll find us somewhere a bit more comfortable for next time.’

Next time. He said it as naturally as breathing, as though of course they would be seeing each other again. She’d been refusing to think beyond the next few moments, getting dressed, finding their shoes, saying goodbye…only it didn’t sound like he had any intention of saying goodbye. The sex had been good. Ha! Who was she trying to kid? The sex had been blow-the-top-of-your-head-off incredible. He’d certainly seemed to enjoy it as much as she had, so maybe he was on the lookout for a repeat performance. Or maybe he was looking for something more.

But what could that be, in truth, because even with him getting involved in Sam’s restaurant, didn’t he have a whole other life in London? He would be there, and she would be here. They could hook up for the odd weekend, she supposed, until the restaurant was up and running, but then what? It was too much to think about, and she was too tired right then to think about it. Or maybe just a bit scared of how she would feel if that was really all he wanted. She could always ask him and find out. The words stuck in her throat.

‘You’re very quiet all of a sudden.’

‘Am I? Sorry, I’m just a bit tired.’ Hating herself for the cop-out, Libby began to make her way up the stairs. ‘Well, my bed is calling to me.’

‘Hold on, I’ll walk you back.’ Within two steps he’d caught up with her and taken her hand in his.

They walked in silence to her front door, where she disentangled her fingers ostensibly to fish her key out of her pocket. She had the door open and one foot inside when he stilled her with a single finger beneath her chin. Hopeless to resist, she allowed him to tilt her face up for the briefest kiss. ‘Goodnight, Pixie.’

As she crept up the stairs to avoid waking her dad, Libby tried to convince herself it was a good thing that despite his promise of ‘next time’ he hadn’t tried to make arrangements to meet again—and failed miserably.

Chapter 7

Back in London, Owen spent most of the next week glued to his desk as he tried to get on top of everything at work. His weekends were usually spent catching up and reviewing the files and reports on all their projects, so his trip to Lavender Bay had put him behind. It didn’t help that his mind strayed to Libby the moment he let his concentration slip. He’d already promised Jack he’d be back for the kid’s beach football match, although now he wasn’t quite sure why he’d volunteered.

He didn’t know the first thing about kids, but there’d been something about the whole mess which had spoken to something deep inside him. Jack’s nephew, Noah, had been devastated when one of the other boys told him he couldn’t be a part of the fathers and sons football match because he didn’t have a dad. What had seemed to be an act of cruelty had turned out to be a misguided attempt by Michael, the other boy, to not be the only child in their class to miss out on the day. Owen knew well enough what it was like to feel excluded from games and class events. None of his foster parents had shown any interest.

Owen had also committed to meeting the bank manager with Sam, so he needed to be sure everything was in hand back here at the office to give him the freedom to not only meet those commitments, but also to spend some quality time with Libby.

By the time Alex came into his office on Friday lunchtime, Owen finally felt like he was getting somewhere. ‘Everything all right?’ he asked as his second-in-command slumped down in the chair beside his desk.

‘Yeah, just about. Bit of an emergency on the Vauxhall site. The foreman’s wife went into premature labour, so he had to head to the hospital.’

Owen set down his pen to pay full attention to what his assistant was saying. ‘Christ, I hope everything’s okay. She’s not due for another month, is she?’

‘Two weeks. Johnno wanted to work right up to the last minute.’ Alex rubbed her eyes, then dropped her head back with a sigh. ‘Bob Knox is on that job and he’s got more than enough experience to oversee the rest of the day and get the site cleaned up and secured. We already had an agency guy lined up to cover the paternity leave and they’ve juggled his scheduled to free him up for Monday.’

He might have known she’d have everything in hand. She’d come to him six years ago, frustrated after two years at a larger firm where more than a few old dinosaurs couldn’t get their head around the idea of a female quantity surveyor. He’d promised to never ask her to make a cup of tea, and she’d promised he’d never regret hiring her. There’d been other candidates for the job, some with more experience, but his gut had told him Alex would be a good fit. And so it had proven.

From implementing an electronic signing-in system for the sites to help verify submitted timesheets, to championing safety training and even a campaign specifically targeted towards men’s health they’d rolled out to all their sites, barely a month had gone by without Alex knocking at Owen’s door with a suggestion on how to improve the business. All Owen had to do was keep feeding that hunger in her to progress and both Alex and the company had gone from strength to strength. He’d sent her on every course she’d requested and been paid back many times over with her loyalty and effort.

Three years after she’d started, she’d knocked on his door and confessed to a romance with Nick, a consultant project manager they used to help run some of their bigger projects. Not wanting to lose either of them, he hadn’t been a fan of their relationship, but he’d appreciated her honesty and bitten his lip against voicing any protest. Thankfully, his worries had proven unfounded, and he’d even stood up for Nick as his best man at their wedding the previous summer.

‘I’ll give Johnno a ring later and check in with him. If he wants an extra couple of weeks’ leave, I’ll cover the cost.’

‘Thanks, Boss. I’ll give the agency the heads-up that we might want to extend the cover.’

When she continued to sit there but didn’t speak Owen swivelled his chair around to face her. ‘Something else on your mind?’

Keeping her eyes focused on the ceiling, Alex said, ‘You’re off down to the coast again this weekend.’

‘That’s right. I need to finalise the restaurant deal I told you about.’ Tilting back his seat, Owen crossed his feet at the ankles. ‘Is that a problem?’

Alex shrugged. ‘Not for me to say, is it, Boss?’

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.