Starlight Over Bluebell Castle. Sarah Bennett

might be on his own there. Tim wants to sit by the fireplace and read.’

      ‘See, that’s another perfect example. The bedrooms in the castle are all different, so it will be important to establish what people want and make sure we give them accommodation that matches those expectations. We’ve got several different reception rooms available so if one couple is a bit more introverted, we could assign them their own private lounge as well as giving access to a larger one if they choose to mingle some evenings.’

      ‘A proper boutique experience,’ Jess mused. ‘That sounds brilliant, but it’ll be a lot of upfront preparation. You’ll also need to provide some kind of concierge service for guests who want to go out and about.’

      ‘You’re right. I hadn’t considered that, but I’ll have to put together an itinerary of available entertainment and ways to access them either by road or rail.’ Pulling out his phone, Tristan began tapping notes into it. ‘Bloody Charlie was right.’

      Not sure if his half-muttered comment was aimed at her, Jess didn’t ask what Charlie had been right about, though she couldn’t deny her curiosity was piqued. She didn’t have to wait long, because as soon as he’d finished jotting things down, Tristan shoved his phone in his shirt pocket with a sigh. ‘I’m just not detail-orientated enough to think of all these things, I’m really going to have to up my game, or do what Charlie suggested and get myself an assistant.’ He reached for his beer, then stopped, hand outstretched as he stared at her.

      ‘What?’

      Tristan blinked. ‘Nothing. Never mind.’ Seizing his bottle, he took a long draught. ‘Nothing,’ he repeated, sounding less certain this time.

      ‘Stop being so bloody mysterious, and tell me,’ she demanded, giving his free arm a playful shove.

      ‘I was thinking you and I might be able to offer the perfect solution to each other.’ Shifting his chair a bit closer, he slung an arm around the back of hers. ‘How do you fancy coming to work for me?’

      The wine had not only affected her eyesight apparently, because she must’ve misheard him. Gulping at her water, she silently admonished herself for that third glass of wine.

      ‘Well, what do you say?’

      Incredulous, she shifted in her seat to face him. ‘About what? Surely, you were joking.’

      He shook his head, sending a lock of his dark hair tumbling into his eyes which he twitched away with an impatient finger. ‘I’m deadly serious.’

      Maybe he was the one who was drunk. ‘I’ve just told you that my boys need my attention and you expect me to abandon them to come and work for you.’ She couldn’t hide her outrage.

      ‘Who said anything about abandoning your kids? Bring them with you, of course.’ He said it like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.

      No, not drunk, mad. ‘And do what with them?’

      ‘Put Elijah in the village school, and you can keep Isaac with you during the day if you want. We can set up a little play area for him next to your desk, but you can work flexible hours around them. Once he’s got used to things a bit there will be plenty of people around to do a bit of babysitting if you need a break. There was never any shortage of willing hands when we were kids, and that’s not changed in the past thirty years. We’ve got acres of land for them to play in, a special children’s area of the gardens where they can dig and plant stuff with Constance. Lancelot will give them riding lessons, whatever you want.’

      He was talking about people she’d never heard of, volunteering them for roles without the slightest hesitation that they might have better things to do than be saddled – literally in Lancelot’s, Lancelot! Who had a name like that anyway?, case – with a stranger’s children. ‘It’s ridiculous.’

      Tristan opened his mouth as though to argue his point further, then reached for his beer bottle with a shrug. ‘You’re probably right’

      Of course, she was right. As Tristan turned away to say something to Tim, she caught a flash of something on his face, like maybe she’d hurt his feelings by dismissing his outlandish idea so quickly. Annoyed she turned her back to him, her eyes lighting on the phone still on the table. With an exasperated sigh, she scrolled back through the photos on the castle’s blog. It was clear that growing up in a fairy tale setting had given Tristan some odd ideas. People like him just didn’t understand how things worked in the real world. She couldn’t just pack up the boys and make them live with a bunch of strangers.

      Her heart clenched at the image of a tyre swing hanging from the boughs of an ancient oak, and she thought about the prim neatness of her parents’ back garden. About how her mother had pretended – unsuccessfully – not to mind when Elijah had trampled a row of gladioli when retrieving his football from one of her pristine flower beds. And it wasn’t just the perfection of the garden to worry about, there was also the cream carpet in the front room just waiting for a blackcurrant squash disaster. It had really begun to bother her how much her boys would have to compromise to fit into the neat and tidy box her parents called home. They’d have to be small, and quiet, and neat at the very age when they should be able to explore their environment without fear of the constant drip-drip of criticism she and Marcus had been subject to. A place for everything, and everything in its place. How many times had she bitten her lip as she watched her mother correct the boys for breaking some rule that only existed in the pristine bubble of Wendy Wilson’s perfect world? She imagined Elijah whooping with joy as she pushed him on the tyre swing, of Isaac tumbling around in great piles of autumn leaves; of them just being free. ‘I’ll have to talk to Steve.’

      Sitting up straighter, she nudged Tristan’s arm to get his attention. ‘I’ll have to talk to Steve,’ she repeated.

      His expression was puzzled for a moment before he gave her that dazzling, tummy-flipping grin. ‘Well, okay then.’

       Chapter 3

      ‘It’s a stupid idea,’ Jess said for what must’ve been the tenth time in as many minutes. When Steve remained silent, she paused in the act of sorting the clothes from the bottom of Elijah’s chest of drawers to stare across the bed to where Steve was doing the same task from the blanket box they used for Isaac’s things. ‘Well?’

      Steve held up a tiny pair of dungarees with a dinosaur patch sewn on the front pocket. They evoked a flood of memories of both their boys wearing them. She’d been determined not to put Isaac in too many hand-me-downs, but they were too adorable for her to consign to the charity bag. ‘Are you keeping these?’

      Downsizing her own wardrobe had been a doddle compared to this. She had no emotional attachment to an array of Dorothy Perkins skirt suits in varying muted shades, and it had been quite liberating to shed the uniform she’d moulded for herself. She’d kept a couple of the newer ones for future interviews, but the two suitcases already stacked against the wall in her room were mostly casual clothes. These dungarees though, the idea of parting with this little scrap of denim was breaking her heart. They couldn’t keep everything, though. ‘They’re too small.’

      Steve tugged at a loose thread, ‘And this hem is getting frayed.’ He gave her a smile. ‘Keepsake bag?’

      ‘Keepsake bag,’ she agreed, and they shared a laugh. It shouldn’t be this easy, to parcel up six years of their lives, but apart from the odd heart pang over a few pieces of old baby clothes she’d found it remarkably straight-forward. Maybe too straight-forward. Crumpling the jumper in her hands, Jess sank down on the edge of the bed. ‘Are you sure we’re doing the right thing?’

      Abandoning his own packing, Steve circled the bed to crouch down before her. ‘Aren’t you?’

      She stared into a pair of blue eyes as familiar as her own and wished she felt more than deep affection. The first storm of passion they’d shared in those dark days after losing Marcus had inevitably