by Avery Flynn
He didn’t have to guess who it was. He just knew. It was that woman again: Brooke Chapman-Powell. He was out of bed before he’d thought about it and marching toward the kitchen.
That was a mistake.
He hit his pinkie toe on the iron frame of his bed in his rush. Pain shot up from his foot like hot rocket fuel commensurate with the volume of his yelp of agony as he hopped toward the door. He was almost there when the foot that wasn’t throbbing landed on an abandoned sock on the floor that slid forward on the smooth hardwood. He skidded and almost rammed his nose against the bedroom doorframe. Catching himself just in time, he did a spin move through the door. Heart beating wildly, his toe still aching, and the fear of a vengeful God put into him, he was breathing hard when he took an unsteady step toward the kitchen, reached for the phone, and ended up whacking his elbow on the metal spice rack on the counter. He was cursing out loud by the time he snatched his phone off the granite counter and clicked on the new email message.
26 May
Dear Mr. Vane,
Please forgive the intrusion again, but I have not received a response from my previous email. This invitation is of the utmost importance and your immediate attention is much appreciated. I have tried ringing you, but my calls have gone to voicemail, the message of which says that it is full. The earl is most anxiously awaiting your response and I have included my phone number, if you’d prefer to call at a time convenient to you.
Faithfully yours,
Brooke Chapman-Powell
Personal Secretary, Earl of Englefield
01287 555 123
He was punching in numbers on his keypad before his brain caught up with his actions. She picked up on the fourth ring.
“Brooke Chapman-Powell.”
The woman’s English accent came through loud and clear, jabbing into his ear like a drill bit. It spun and pushed against the sensitive spot in his brain that decided around the time that his mother died that there wasn’t anything worthwhile or good about that damp, foggy, snooty island across the Atlantic.
“Leave me alone,” he said, putting all his years of accumulated resentment into those three little words.
She gasped, the quick intake of breath audible over the phone. “Who is this?”
Nice try. “You know damn well who this is.”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
The line went dead.
Nick stared at his phone, blinking in surprise. She’d hung up on him. After a two-week-long barrage of letters and emails, the woman who talked in that snobby English accent had hung up on him!
Not that he needed another reason why he was never going to England, but the disdain dripping from Brooke Chapman-Powell’s words sure sealed the deal. That whole country could sink into the Atlantic. Still, as he made his way back to his bedroom, he couldn’t quite get that woman’s voice out of his head—and not because of her accent. There was something in that not-quite-awake-but-already-emailing way she’d said her name that stuck with him, turned the curiosity spokes in his brain—sort of like when he got the nugget of an idea for an invention. He knew it wouldn’t go away until he knew more. Turning, he made his way back to the kitchen and picked up his phone ready to do a little Google investigating himself.
He had no more than pressed the home button before the damn thing rang in his hand. He recognized the number immediately—Brooke Chapman-Powell was calling him back. The question was, should he answer?
…
Brooke had never wanted someone to answer and not answer the phone so much in her entire bloody life. No matter what happened, the outcome would be horrid. Blast her inability to function in the mornings.
She’d read the email no less than sixteen times before sending it because she knew exactly how faulty her brain was at six in the morning. An almost immediate phone call from the earl’s heir was the last thing she’d been expecting. After weeks of his silence, an actual response, let alone a voice on the other end of the line, was not what she’d imagined would happen. And she’d cocked it all up.
Hands clammy, she gripped her phone tighter as the trans-Atlantic ringing continued. Then he answered. Not that he said anything—but he was there. She just knew it.
She held her breath, trying to figure out what to say—something she really should have figured out before she’d hit call back. Really, it was most unlike her.
“Figured it out, huh?” The sleepy rumble of Nick Vane’s voice managed, somehow, to be soothing despite the fact that he was using it to torment her for her mistake.
“Mr. Vane,” she said, pacing her small bedroom. “I do apologize.”
A million times. Maybe even a billion. Too much was riding on this to have her morning muffle head make a mess of it all.
“What time is it there?”
That wasn’t a “you’re forgiven,” but he hadn’t hung up on her, so that was a tick in the plus column. “Ten past six.”
“That’s early,” he said, almost sounding sympathetic.
She was nodding in agreement when her brain caught up with what he was obviously getting at. It had to be around midnight there. That wasn’t sympathy in his voice; it was subtle sarcasm—her country’s native tongue.
Of course, he was the one who had called her when she had simply emailed like a civilized person. Being in the right didn’t mean she didn’t have to apologize, though. Nicholas Vane was the earl’s grandson and heir, and that meant she’d probably be apologizing for the next twenty years if she didn’t get sacked first. Oh joy.
“I look forward to being able to offer my apologies in person,” she said, not realizing until she glanced in the mirror above the dresser that she’d lifted her chin in defiance. “Do you have a preference on flights?”
“I’m not coming.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Panic and dread did some sickening tango in her stomach as she glanced out her window and saw Bowhaven starting to come to life even at this early hour. The flower committee members were hanging baskets of floral arrangements from the posts dotting the sidewalk on the high street. Abigail Posten was opening the door to the bakery a few doors down. It would only be a matter of time before the smell of fresh bread wafted up to Brooke’s room above her family’s pub.
“Sir,” she said, making every effort to keep the worry out of her voice. Never let them see you crack, Brooke, not even for a minute, or it will be Manchester all over again. Utter public humiliation. Willing her panic into remission, she set her shoulders and steeled her spine. “I respectfully request that you provide another answer.”
“Ask all you like, but my answer isn’t changing.” He paused before letting out an annoyed grunt. “And stop calling me ‘sir.’”
She shut her mouth tight a half second before the word “sir” was about to come out, took a breath, and said, “I understand this all comes as a shock, since you were born and raised away from your family estate, but you are needed here, sir.”
Ugh. That one had slipped out.
“You make it sound like it was my mom’s choice to be a single parent and mine to be a bastard in all but legal terms,” he said, each word tearing through the phone. “And cut the ‘sir’ shit. I’m Nick. That’s it. Nothing more.”
Outside, Robert McClung was strolling toward the charity shop he managed that was, unfortunately, one of the busiest shops in the village. Bowhaven had been hit with one economic calamity after another since the Pepson Factory had closed down and unemployment went through the roof. Nick Vane staying away wasn’t an option. Every one of the people living in and around the village needed him here even if they—and he himself—didn’t know it.
“But you are more than just Mr. Vane, and if you’d accept the earl’s invitation, you’d understand.”
A derisive snort came through loud and clear all the way from America. “I don’t care why he forced my parents to annul th
eir marriage or why he now has decided to acknowledge me. I don’t need him. I certainly don’t want to talk to him. And there’s about a million things I’d rather do—including walking down Main Street buck naked while singing ‘Jingle Bells’—than fly across the ocean to see him.”
Brooke sank down on her bed, her legs not steady enough to stay upright.
“Please, sir,” she said, trying not to sound like she was begging when that was exactly what she was doing. “Think of it as just a short holiday. You really are needed, and not just by the earl, who is…” She stopped just in time. “Who is the earl.”
Yes, six in the morning—the time where competency went to die.
The fact that she couldn’t tell him more than that without breaking the earl’s confidence or his direct order ate away at her. Even estranged, the heir should know what was going on with his grandfather’s health. No matter what, family was at the heart of us all.
“Sir, the village is of some consequence. There are many here who, if you refuse, well, we—they—could be out of a job should you continue to refuse.”
“And I should care why, exactly?”
Letting out a quiet sigh, she rubbed her stomach. “Sir—”
“My name is Nick,” he cut her off, his low voice unyielding. “Say it.”
What in the hell did protocol matter in these circumstances? She’d call him the fastest racing pigeon in her dad’s coop if that’s what he wanted. “Nick.”
She didn’t know what else to say, so they both just listened to the other breathe for what felt like forever.
“I’ll think about it.” Without waiting for a response, he hung up.
Brooke let out the world’s quietest squeal of joy and did a little spinning dance in her room. Whatever it took, she’d get him on the next flight possible. Everything was going to work out. It had to.
All she had to do was convince him to accept his duty. How hard could that be?
Chapter Two
It was barely lake o’clock when his phone buzzed for the third time in the past hour. Nick considered chucking it into the clear blue water, but curiosity won out.
Brooke: Good morning, Mr. Vane. As you deliberate, I wanted to share a few photos of the Dallinger Park estate that may help you better imagine your ancestral home. Thank you, Brooke Chapman-Powell
He swiped through the photos in the first text message. Rolling green hills? Check. Cloudy skies? Check. Big pile of rocks shaped like a Hollywood castle that just might be haunted? Check. Even without the asshole of an earl being there, there was nothing in the photos to tempt him away from Salvation, Virginia, home of the world’s best pecan pie at the Kitchen Sink Diner.
His stomach growled. Damn, now he wanted pie. He steered his fishing boat out into the lake, the early-morning sun bouncing off the surface, and then clicked on the next text.
Brooke: Also for your consideration here is a link to a brief history of the Vane family. It’s really quite fascinating. Yours, Brooke Chapman-Powell
He clicked the link. Her idea of brief sure wasn’t his. It was an open-format book written in the sixties that had to be three hundred pages long in small print. Yeah, he was never going to read that even if it wasn’t about his supposed family who were more of DNA donors. Once he got to his favorite fishing spot, he killed the engine, dropped anchor, and started fishing—then he gave in and clicked on the third message.
Brooke: And if your hesitancy is in any way related to my earlier unfortunate behavior, please understand that it was a mistake on my part that won’t happen again. Most sincerely, Brooke Chapman-Powell
The woman was persistent; he had to give her that. He cracked open a Coke and took a long drink as the bright summer sun beat down. There was nothing like this spot right here. It was as close to a home as he’d had since his mom died. He rarely left. Why would he? It had everything he wanted. And yet…this English bulldog had gotten him wondering. Not giving himself time to rethink, he started to thumb type.
Nick: What do you like about it?
The three little dots appeared instantly.
Brooke: It’s where I grew up. My family is here. The North York Moors are brilliant.
Family. The single word made Nick’s gut heavy. Except for Mace, he was a loner with no close friends and DNA donors rather than family members. That’s exactly how he liked it. He had absolutely no plans on changing that. Ever.
…
Giving someone their space to make a decision in their own time was pretty much the exact opposite of how Brooke lived her daily life. And with the earl asking for updates practically every quarter hour, she wasn’t about to change her ways. Determined to press the case, she texted the earl’s heir again. Most of her texts went unanswered, but she had to make this happen. The village, even though they didn’t realize it, was riding on one American’s answer.
Brooke: Do you have any other questions or are you ready for me to arrange for your flight?
Nick: Why do you care so much?
Brooke: It’s my job.
Not the whole truth, but not a lie. It wasn’t as if he needed to know everything.
Nick: Tell me three things that have nothing to do with Dallinger Park that could make going to England tolerable.
The absolute cheek of the man. Face heated with indignation, she thumb typed with more force than necessary.
Brooke: English chocolate is delicious. There’s nothing like a pint at your local pub. You’ll never see anything more beautiful than the moors when the heather is in bloom.
Nick: Better than this?
The picture that came through was a close up of a dented beer can being balanced on a very muscular forearm. Okay, she’d never admit it out loud but that was a good view.
Nick: Wrong photo!
The next photo that came next was of a sunset over a lake. It was all pinks and oranges and deep blues. So that’s how he wanted to go at this? Challenge accepted. She hustled up Dallinger Park’s large main staircase to one of the functional guest rooms and flung open the beveled glass window. The heather wasn’t in full bloom yet, but the sight was still striking. She took the photo and hit send.
…
Nick couldn’t argue that the moors were postcard-worthy, but that wasn’t why he was still looking at the photo a day later as he sat at the counter at the Kitchen Sink Diner enjoying the best pecan pie on the face of the earth. It was the reflection of the woman who wouldn’t take no for an answer. He couldn’t quite make out what she looked like because of the angle, but it was enough for him to want more. The woman had him curious.
Why was she so determined to get him to England? Sure, it was her job, but there was doing your job and then there was the full-court press. She got paid either way, so what was the big deal?
“Is there something wrong with the pie?” Ruby Sue asked from the other side of the counter as she wiped down the pie display case.
Wily, spry, and in her mid-seventies if she was a day, Ruby Sue knew everyone in Salvation and exactly what they were up to. She was the gossipy heart of this small town, and her pecan pie was the spirit that kept it beating.
“No, ma’am.” There was never anything wrong with the pie.
“Really?” She hung the damp hand towel on a hook as she gave him a hard stare. “Because usually you eat it so fast that I say a little prayer for your digestive system.”
“I’m working on a riddle.” One about a woman determined to make him do the one thing he never, ever wanted to do and why he was so damn tempted.
Ruby Sue poured herself a sweet tea, added way too many additional sugar packets to ever be considered even kinda healthy, and sat down on the stool next to his. “Spill your guts.”
So he did—and it wasn’t just because the town’s favorite gossip controlled the secret pecan pie recipe that he’d been trying—and failing—to replicate
since he moved to Salvation, though it did factor in a bit.
Ruby Sue shook her head when he was done and gave him a look that all but screamed “bless your heart.” “So you’re turning down a free vacation to England because you’re too stubborn to say yes.”
“That’s not exactly it.” Had she missed the part about supposed family obligations and an old man he hated?
“Seems like it to me.” She took a sip of the tea that would send a normal human into diabetic shock. “You go, you meet that earl fella, you say ‘no thank you, I’m going to stay in Salvation,’ then you come home. Problem solved.”
Could it be that easy? He’d been rolling it around in his head for days, but Ruby Sue had hit on it in minutes. If he went, he could tell the earl he’d never be his heir, satisfy his curiosity about one Brooke Chapman-Powell, and see those moors for himself. Then he’d come back home. He was practically on the lake already.
Chapter Three
Yorkshire, England…
Brooke had to figure out how to tempt the devil. Okay, maybe not the devil, but, if the solicitor’s report delivered yesterday was to be believed, definitely one of the dark lord’s minions. Sitting in the back seat of the earl’s Mercedes on her way to the airport, she tried to calm the fluttering sense in her chest and the jittery drank-sixteen-cups-of-tea-in-a-quarter-hour feeling zooming through her.
“It’ll be fine,” Mr. Harleson said, the driver watching her in the car’s mirror.
Denial at this point was ridiculous. “What makes you think so?”
The driver returned his attention to the motorway and shrugged. “How could it be worse?”
Brooke smiled despite her nerves. Leave it to a Yorkshire man to give a Yorkshire answer. They’d been knocked down, what with the factories closing all around, but they got up again, over and over. It was their story for as long as anyone could remember. Determined and proud, they were a people with a code of not taking anything for granted. Now some in the south might file that under the saying that a Yorkshireman is a Scotsman with all the generosity squeezed out of him, but there was more to it than being flinty with their pounds. It was that bloody-minded stubbornness that kept people going when times were tough and from getting too full of themselves when they were flush.
