Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“People don’t know what will happen. This hotel could be a disaster.”
Sandra sighs. “Maybe. But this Vincent seems like a good man. And he’s very rich. He’s more likely than the earl to make a success of the place.”
Even Sandra is convinced.
“And I promise, I’ll make you a Bakewell tart every month for the rest of my days. You don’t have to miss out on that, I can assure you.”
I smile and squeeze her back before glancing over the people still left in the pub. They’re laughing and joking, and even I can’t ignore the buzz of excitement in the room. Without question, people are on board Vincent’s hotel train.
Unless Vincent doesn’t get planning permission or there’s some other huge obstacle to the hotel opening, people will get the change they so clearly want.
And me? I’ll end up in some rented starter flat, which won’t be next door to my grandmother. She’ll probably be shunted off into a home. It will be the first time I haven’t lived with her or next door to her since I was seven years old.
For the last twenty years, I’ve basked in simplicity and stability. I know a good life means the world, my world, staying the same. Thanks to Vincent, everything is about to change.
I’m not ready.
I never will be.
THIRTEEN
Vincent
I didn’t expect the pub to be so full of people. Have I missed something?
As I walk in, I see Kate, the other waitress, and the older woman from the tea shop huddled together by the till. Kate looks gorgeous—her hair in a bun on top of her head, jeans and a t-shirt that shows off all her curves. Not that I should be noticing them.
As the door behind me closes, everyone turns to look at me and the place falls silent.
Aha.
I have a feeling I’ve walked in on a community discussion about me—or my plans for Crompton.
Kate ties her apron and pulls back her shoulders.
“Hi, boss,” Sacha says as she bounces over to see me. “I know you’re off the clock and everything, but do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.” I make my way to the table I sat at the first night I ate here—the night I walked in and caught Kate before she hit the floor. I figure if I’m in the wrong seat, she’ll tell me. She’s not shy.
“I really want a dog,” Sacha says. “A sausage dog. I should say Dachshund. The earl never allowed them in the staff cottages. None of us were allowed pets. I know I asked about this at the meeting, but any word on whether or not we’ll be allowed pets in the new housing?” she asks.
“I don’t know, Sacha. But let’s make sure we find somewhere sausage-dog friendly.”
Sacha breaks into a smile. “Thanks, boss. I knew you were alright.”
I nod in gratitude at the compliment and Sacha heads off.
Basil, one of the more senior gardeners, is the next visitor at my table. This evening isn’t turning out how I expected. Yes, Kate’s here, as I hoped. But I wanted a tequila and a steak and thirty minutes to myself. That’s not going to happen, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s fortuitous I arrived when I did. Kate might have whisked everyone up into a frenzy in my absence, although given her forlorn expression, maybe things didn’t go her way.
“How are you?” I ask, leaning back onto the bench where I’m sitting, stretching my arm along the back.
“We’re all fine. Nothing for you to worry about, by the way. You’re not going to face a mutiny or anything.” He winks at me and I nod in gratitude. Again.
“Thanks, Basil,” I say. I don’t tell him I wasn’t worried. What could Kate have done? Yes, she could have made life a little more difficult, but people have short memories and practicality would have won out for most of them. I’m not here to burn Crompton down. I’m going to create jobs, bring business to the area. What I’m going to do will benefit the entire community. Most of them understand that already, and those who don’t will eventually.
I watch as Kate comes over, menu in hand, studiously ignoring my gaze.
“Menu,” she says as she approaches the table. “Would you like a drink?” She takes out her pad and pen from her apron pocket and stands poised and ready for the most complicated drink order the pub has ever seen.
“A tequila.” Then I add, “Please.” I know Brits love a please.
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t note anything down on her pad, just turns on her heel and heads back to the bar. Her ass looks spectacular in her jeans.
Maybe it’s the challenge, maybe it’s because I genuinely want her to know she doesn’t need to worry about what’s going to happen with Crompton because I have no desire to destroy it, maybe it’s just because she has a great ass, but I want to talk to her. I’d like her to try and understand where I’m coming from.