The Little Bookshop at Herring Cove. Kellie Hailes

CHAPTER ONE

      She just had to survive for a few more months. Six months, to be exact. Then the Christmas rush would see enough money in her bookshop’s bank account to scrape through for another year. Maybe. Hopefully.

      Sophie sucked in her lower lip as she tightened her grip on the hammer’s wooden handle, slowly practising lowering the head to the nail before raising it again.

      She forced herself to put aside all mental images of the spreadsheet she’d been looking at earlier that morning. It told a terrible story. Of loss. Lacklustre book sales. And looming financial disaster. She could tell herself things would get better but the numbers didn’t lie. Sales were getting worse. Year on year, even during the festive season, she’d seen a fall in profit. People weren’t buying books the way they used to, at least they weren’t buying them from her little bookshop.

      She held her breath as she raised the hammer a little before bringing it down on the display case she was trying to fix.

      ‘Ow!’

      The pained word filled the room as she pressed her lips together, dropped the hammer onto the ground, doubled over, and gripped her thumb and forefinger, hoping the pressure on them would ease the throbbing that was building second by second.

      ‘Are you okay there? Should I call an ambulance? Perhaps a funeral parlour?’

      Sophie forced her eyes open, ready to give the owner of the bemused voice the kind of glare that would make him think twice before being cheeky to a woman in distress.

      Except no glare came forth.

      And her racing heart, which had only just begun to slow down to a canter, picked up once more.

      Cripes. The smart-arse was a babe. Dark brown hair, shorn short at the sides with a touch more length on top, made way for a face that no doubt spelled trouble. Green eyes, dancing with good humour, twinkled down at her. Lips that were all hard-edged on the outside and plump in the middle twitched to one side. Cheekbones, sharp enough a model would be envious, were raised high.

      He was laughing? At her? Well, he could take his babealiciousness and bugger off.

      Taking a step back, Sophie folded her arms over her chest, lifted her chin and adopted her most professional tone. ‘I’m fine, thank you. Just a little mishap between my finger and a hammer. Now, what can I do for you? Are you after a book?’

      The smirk straightened out as his eyes ceased twinkling. ‘Actually, I’m looking for Sophie Jones. Is she about?’

      Sophie Jones. Her name rolled off his tongue. Smooth, sweet. With a hint of seduction. And the way he was staring at her. Penetrating. Lingering. Like he could see past her red A-line knee-length skirt and simple white T-shirt all the way into her soul, where worry and loneliness huddled together as uncomfortable bedmates.

      ‘That would be me. And you are?’ She raised an eyebrow and tightened her grip on herself. There was no way he knew who she was, not really. She was crazy to even consider it.

      ‘Alexander Fletcher.’ He offered her his hand to shake.

      Manicured nails. He had manicured nails. She shouldn’t have been surprised. It matched his outfit: a tailored, form-fitting navy suit, which gave way to a lighter blue shirt, accented with a tie the same shade of the suit with a white geometric pattern running through it.

      An outfit that was completely at odds with the fashion of Herring Cove, where the dress code was strictly T-shirt and shorts in summer and jeans and chunky sweaters in winter. Even the village clerk avoided suits – said they didn’t suit the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Cornish fishing village’s laid-back image.

      And what was it about his name that was ringing a bell? And not the tinkly, light ding-once-for-service ring that told her when she was out back that a customer was ready to be attended to, but a clanging alarm-that-gave-you-a-migraine kind of bell.

      She glanced out the window at a poster that had been taped to a pole. ‘Stand up for Herring Cove’ was emblazoned on top of a picture of a fancy hotel with a big X struck across it.

      ‘Fletcher. As in the resort builders.’ The words escaped before she could stop them. Before she could pretend she had no idea who he was in order to find out what exactly he wanted when she’d already made her position to the Fletcher Group crystal-clear.

      ‘Well now that you know who I am, then this will make the visit that much quicker.’ He flashed her a boyish grin, then picked up her abandoned hammer, squatted down beside the display stand and gave it an experimental shake that saw it wobble back and forth, in danger of complete collapse. ‘She’s seen better days.’

      Sophie didn’t answer. Didn’t give him anything. She knew why he was here. What he wanted. And he wasn’t going to get it, no matter how polite he was, how nice he seemed… or how much money he was offering.

      An unwanted image arose of emails with ‘Urgent – payment due’ in the subject line, and old-fashioned paper bills stamped with ‘Overdue’. The most terrifying of the lot was the council tax. If she didn’t pay that, and soon, they could force her to sell.

      Not going to happen. She gritted her teeth and shoved the image into the darkest corner of her mind where it held less power. Where it couldn’t freeze her with fear, unable to make solid decisions.

      She just had to figure out a way to boost sales. To change the downward trend that had come with the shrinking of Herring Cove’s population. That’s all. No big deal.

      Except it was. A huge deal. Massive. The bookshop was her livelihood and the flat above was her home. The place she’d been born and raised. The living memory of her parents who’d passed away when she was five. She wouldn’t let that go. Couldn’t.

      Alexander picked up the nail that had fallen to the floor, repositioned it, then with one quick movement knocked it into place. ‘Got another? We don’t want it falling apart in two seconds, do we?’

      Sophie shook her head. ‘No, there’s not another.’ She felt a slight blush at the fib. ‘Besides, I didn’t ask you to help, and I don’t have the time for small talk. I’m busy.’

      Alexander’s gaze roamed over the empty shop. Bare of customers. And, if Sophie were honest, a touch too bare of books.

      ‘Busy? Doing what? Trying to break your fingers?’

      His tone was gentle, teasing, which only set Sophie further on edge.

      ‘I have to ready the shop for the Herring Cove Book Appreciators’ Club.’ Which consisted of two people: Natalie and Ginny. Also known as her two best friends. And, if the truth were told, not exactly massive book appreciators. So much so that they’d cancelled the meeting for that week, both citing family obligations. But Alexander didn’t need to know that. ‘The kettle needs to go on. Biscuits need to be arranged. I can’t let my customers down.’

      ‘Well then, I’ll help. Where’s the kettle? Out the back?’ Alexander took a step towards the doorway that led to the small storeroom and office.

      Sophie shot an arm out, blocking him. ‘It is out the back but you’re not to go there. Staff only.’

      ‘Well I’m not leaving until we’ve had a proper chat. I understand that you declined our offer.’

      Sophie widened her stance, squared her shoulders and crossed her arms over her chest, hoping it would perform a dual purpose: as a blockade should Alexander try and head out back again and to show him that she meant business when she said no.

      ‘You understand right. I did decline your offer. I have no desire to sell this place.’

      ‘Can I ask why?’ Alexander’s head tipped to the side, a small furrow appearing between his brows as they drew together.

      If she didn’t know better, if she hadn’t figured out he was one of the Fletchers – a family whose fortune