Eve Devon - The Little Clock House on the Green

Hadn’t he been looking for a fresh start?

Maybe Monroe breaking down was fate. Daniel came to a sudden halt halfway back down the stairs to the ground floor. He wasn’t sure he believed in fate. Believing in fate would surely render the last year as being unavoidable and Daniel couldn’t accept that. He was too certain that if he’d been paying proper attention – been looking at the whole picture – he would have spotted what Hugo had been up to earlier.

By the time he’d made it back down to the foyer Daniel had all but totally convinced himself that one weird flight of fancy was allowed after everything that had happened lately. To truly consider buying this place when he already had one failed business under his belt was career suicide.

Except… he couldn’t imagine working for someone else. Couldn’t think how to transition from accountancy to anything else without having to explain this whole sorry year and as soon as anyone discovered what had happened at West and Westlake, it wouldn’t matter that he was the innocent party. He’d be considered a risk.

Trudie McTravers had said the village used this place for functions. All he’d be doing, if he bought it, would be guaranteeing that even more people could use it. He remembered all those fruitless hours searching for affordable business premises when he and Hugo had located to London. For the first eight months, they’d had to run West and Westlake from a combination of Hugo’s front room and the Starbucks down the road.

There must be people in the surrounding villages who worked from home. Sole business owners having to ask their kids to keep the noise down because they were working. Or people trying to find a place to hold a meeting. Setting up this place as a pop-up and pop-in work premises would make the perfect small business.

A business where the only faith he’d have to have would be in himself.

He wandered into a room with a small kitchenette, thinking that he was crazy.

A business like he was thinking of wasn’t about numbers. It wasn’t accountancy.

It was… sexier.

More appealing.

But who swapped numbers, facts and assurances for a creative small business that would depend on getting people in to turn a profit?

Straight-down-the-line Daniel Westlake certainly wouldn’t. Would he?

Shoving a hand through his nut brown hair in frustration, he sighed. He probably couldn’t afford it anyway.

There was something about this place, though. He’d only been in it for a few moments.

Only been in the village for a handful more.

Crazy.

Yet he had his phone in his hand with half a mind to check house prices in the area before he realised that it was actually ringing.

‘Hello?’ he said, answering the call, grateful for the interruption because there was working out what to do next business-wise and there was getting completely carried away without doing a shred of research into a field he knew nothing about.

‘Mr Westlake? It’s Ted… said I’d ring you when–’

Daniel couldn’t hear a thing over the music playing in the background. ‘Sorry? What? I can’t hear you.’

‘…I just wanted to let you know that it’s going to take a few more days to fit it.’

‘So, what exactly was the problem with her, then?’ Daniel shouted. ‘Sorry – can you turn the music down your end? I can’t make out – oomph–’

Daniel felt a sudden impact against his back.

‘What the–’ he stopped mid-sentence because then there was softness pressed up against him.

Instinctively he turned, his arms coming protectively out and around the warmth that had ploughed into him.

The fall was so unexpected he didn’t have time to twist and soften the other person’s landing.

His breath whooshed out of him as he landed and then didn’t quite make it all the way back into his lungs because that was when he registered that the person on the hard parquet floor with him, was her .

Outstanding!

Because falling on her was so much better than falling down in front of her.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he finally managed, growing concerned when she didn’t move or make any kind of sound as she lay under him. ‘Hey?’ he whispered, leaning forward to check for signs of life, his heart speeding up when she didn’t respond. ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he repeated, each word getting a little louder and more panicky when she continued to lie silent under him.

His hand came out to gently sweep across her cheekbone and without giving him any time to prepare, her huge, sparkling brown eyes suddenly flashed open to stare up at him.

Daniel swallowed. He wasn’t sure he’d ever seen such big, such beautiful, such emotive brown eyes. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ She lifted a hand to the back of her head and groaned. ‘I think I might be dead.’ She blinked a couple of times and then frowned. ‘Although I have to say it’s a huge surprise if I am – I mean, I always thought there’d be harp music or bells in heaven… I definitely didn’t figure on The Big Man being a Justin Bieber fan.’

‘A “what” fan?’ Daniel asked, unsure she was making sense. Maybe he’d really hurt her when he’d landed on top of her.

‘You can’t hear music?’ she asked, wincing slightly as she moved her head to the side, as if to check she could hear properly.

Over the sound of his thumping heart, Daniel suddenly registered a voice singing the words, ‘Is It Too Late For Me To Say Sorry Now’, and in a smooth, and let’s face it, basic accountancy move, put two and two together. ‘Oh, hell. The music you can hear is coming from my phone. Hold tight,’ he said and with one hand anchoring her to him, he reached out to grab the phone that had fallen from his hand when they’d hit the ground. ‘Ted? I’m sorry, I’m going to have to call you back, okay?’ and without waiting for a reply, he ended the call.

‘So, I’m not in heaven, then?’ she asked.

‘I hope that’s not too disappointing for you.’

An almost sorrowful expression that he couldn’t hope to decipher the meaning behind flitted briefly into her eyes before she chased it away with a determined, ‘Nah, I’m a glass half-full kind of gal.’

He smiled and wondered how long he could leave it before mentioning her long legs clamped around his hips.

Giving in to the urge to touch her again, he reached out and repeated the stroke of his thumb gently across her cheekbone. Her skin was like velvet and was it his imagination or did she tremble under him? ‘So.’ He blew out a soft breath. ‘You’re really real.’

‘As opposed to…?’

‘I’ve been wondering if you were a ghost,’ he admitted.

She looked intrigued. ‘Are we talking about the “Don’t Cross the Streams” kind, or the standing behind a pottery wheel, kind?’

‘The second one, I think,’ he answered.

She nodded. ‘Right, because who doesn’t love clay?’ And then that same haunting expression of earlier came back before she closed her eyes briefly, as if to smother it. When her eyelids fluttered open again, she said quietly, ‘It’s this place. It’ll do that to you. Bring back ghosts.’

He wondered what ghosts she’d been running from when she’d hurled herself through the open door and into him and he wanted to lift the heaviness from her words. ‘Ah, but when I first saw you, you weren’t in here.’

‘I wasn’t? Where did you first see me, then?’ Her expression took on an exaggerated thoughtful pose before she suddenly snapped her fingers, ‘Oh wait… was it… in your dreams?’

A laugh rumbled out of him. ‘You never say what’s expected, do you?’