A Will, a Wish...a Proposal. Jessica Gilmore

‘Come on, Dad. How many times have you fallen in love, only to realise it’s Mum you need?’

      Max could think of at least eight occasions without trying—but his dad had never mentioned attorneys before.

      ‘Max, she’s demanding fifty per cent of my share of the company. And she wants it in cash if possible. DL can’t afford that kind of settlement and I sure as hell can’t. You have to talk her down. She’ll listen to you.’

      She wanted what? This was exactly what DL Media didn’t need. An expensive and very public divorce. Max had two choices: help his dad, or involve the board and wrestle control of that crucial third of the company from his dad.

      Either option meant public scrutiny, gossip, tearing the family apart. Everything his grandfather had trusted Max to prevent.

      A pulse was throbbing in his temple, the blood thrumming in his veins. Talk to his mother, to the board, to his dad, go over the books yet again and try and work out how to put the company back on an even keel. There were no easy answers. Hell, right now he’d settle for difficult answers.

      Steven Loveday was still looking at him, appeal in his eyes, but Max couldn’t, wouldn’t meet his gaze. Instead he found himself fixated on the large watercolour on the opposite wall: the only one of his grandfather’s possessions to survive the recent office refurbishment. Blue skies smiled down on white-crested seas as green cliffs soared high above the curve of the harbour. Trengarth. The village his great-grandfather had left behind all those years ago. Max could almost smell the salt in the air, hear the waves crashing on the shore.

      ‘I’m away for the next two weeks. The London office is shouting out for some guidance, and I need to sort out Great-Aunt Demelza’s inheritance. You’re on your own with this one, Dad. And for goodness’ sake, don’t throw everything away for an infatuation.’

      He swivelled on his heel and walked towards the door, not flinching as his father called desperately after him. ‘It’s different this time, Max. I love her. I really do.’

      How many times had he heard that one? His father’s need to live up to their surname had caused more than enough problems in the Loveday family.

      Love? No, thank you. Max had stopped believing in that long before his voice had broken, along with Father Christmas and life being fair. It was time his father grew up and accepted that family, position and the business came first. It was a lesson Max had learned years ago.

      * * *

      ‘Ellie, dear, I’ve been thinking about the literary festival.’

      Ellie Scott turned around from the shelf she was rearranging, managing—just—not to roll her eyes.

      It wasn’t that she wanted to stifle independent thought in Trengarth. She didn’t even want to stifle it in her shop—after all, part of the joy of running a bookshop was seeing people’s worlds opening out, watching their horizons expanding. But every time her assistant—her hard-working, good-hearted and extremely able assistant, she reminded herself for the three billionth time—uttered those words she wanted to jump in a boat and sail as far out to sea as possible. Or possibly send Mrs Trelawney out in it, all the way across the ocean.

      ‘That’s great, Mrs Trelawney. Make sure you hold on to those thoughts. I’ll need to start planning it very soon.’

      Her assistant put down her duster and sniffed. ‘So you say, Ellie...so you say. Oh, I’ve been defending you. “Yes, she’s an incomer,” I’ve said. “Yes, it’s odd that old Miss Loveday left her money to Ellie and not to somebody born and bred here. But,” I said, “she has the interests of Trengarth at heart.”’

      Ellie couldn’t hold in her sigh any longer. ‘Mrs Trelawney, you know as well as I do that I can’t do anything. There are two trustees and we have to act together. My hands are tied until Miss Loveday’s nephew deigns to honour us with his presence. And, yes,’ she added as Mrs Trelawney’s mouth opened. ‘I have emailed, written and begged the solicitors to contact him. I am as keen to get started as you are.’

      ‘Keen to give up a small fortune?’ The older woman lifted her eyes up to the heavens, eloquently expressing just how implausible she thought that was.

      Was there any point in explaining yet again that Miss Loveday hadn’t actually left her fortune to Ellie personally, and that Ellie wasn’t sitting on a big pile of cash, cackling from her high tower at the poverty stricken villagers below? The bequest’s wording was very clear: the money had been left in trust to Ellie and the absent second trustee for the purposes of establishing an annual literary festival in the Cornish village.

      Of course not every inhabitant of the small fishing village felt that a festival was the best thing to benefit the community, and most of them seemed to hold Ellie solely responsible for Demelza Loveday’s edict. In vain had Ellie argued that she was powerless to spend the money elsewhere, sympathetic as she was to the competing claims of needing a new playground and refurbishing the village hall—but her hands were tied.

      ‘Look, Mrs Trelawney. I know how keen you are to get started, and how many excellent ideas you have. I promise you that if Miss Loveday’s nephew does not contact me in the next month then I will go to America myself and force him to co-operate.’

      ‘Hmm.’ The sound spoke volumes, as did the accompanying and very thorough dusting of already spotless shelves.

      Ellie didn’t blame Mrs Trelawney for being unconvinced. Truthfully, she had no idea how to get the elusive Max Loveday to co-operate. Tempting as it was to imagine herself striding into his New York penthouse and marching him over to an aeroplane, she knew full well that sending yet another strongly worded email was about as forceful as she was likely to get.

      Not to mention that she didn’t actually know where he lived. But if she was going to daydream she might as well make it as glamorous as possible.

      Ellie stepped back and stared critically at the display shelf, temptingly filled with the perfect books to read on the wide, sandy Trengarth beach—or to curl up with if the weather was uncooperative. Just one week until the schools broke up and the season started in full. It was such a short season. Trengarth certainly needed something to keep the village on the tourism radar throughout the rest of the year. Maybe this festival was part of the answer.

      If they could just get started.

      Ellie stole a glance over at her assistant. Her heart was in the right place. Mrs Trelawney had lived in the village all her life. It must be heartbreaking for her to see it so empty in the winter months, with so many houses now second homes and closed from October through to Easter.

      ‘If I can’t get an answer in the next two weeks then I will look into getting him replaced. There must be something the solicitors can do if he simply won’t take on his responsibilities. But the last thing I want to do is spend some of the bequest on legal fees. It’s only been a few months. I think we just need to be a little patient a little longer.’

      Besides, the elusive Max Loveday worked for DL Media, one of the big six publishing giants. Ellie had no idea if he was an editor, an accountant or the mail boy, but whatever he did he was bound to have some contacts. More than the sole proprietor of a small independent bookshop at the end of the earth.

      The bell over the door jangled and Ellie turned around, grateful for the opportunity to break off the awkward conversation.

      Not that the newcomer looked as if he was going to make her day any easier, judging by the firm line of his mouth and the expression of distaste as he looked around the book-lined room from his vantage position by the door.

      It was a shame, because under the scowl he was really rather nice to look at. Ellie’s usual clientele were families and the older villagers. It wasn’t often that handsome, youngish men came her way, and he was both. Definitely under thirty, she decided, and tall, with close-cut dark hair, a roughly stubbled chin and eyes so lightly brown they were almost caramel.

      But the expression in the eyes was hard