The Little Bookshop at Herring Cove
KELLIE HAILES
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‘The perfect antidote to a rainy day.’
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‘Thoroughly charming.’
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‘Beautifully written.’
‘I couldn’t put it down!’
‘Please tell me there will be more…’
‘Fabulous fun.’
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2019
Copyright © Kellie Hailes 2019
Kellie Hailes asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © July 2019 ISBN: 9780008336134
Version: 2019-04-23
For my little fur face, Alfred. I miss you every day, but you live on in my heart… and now in the pages of this book.
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Readers Love Kellie Hailes
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
Dear Reader
Extract
HQ
About the Author
About the Publisher
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.
&n
bsp; 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 was built on taking small villages and transforming them into tourist hotspots – she’d have thought he might genuinely care. Except she knew better. He was here for one reason and one reason only: to get her to sell.
‘You can ask, but I’m not going to tell you. It’s none of your business.’ Sophie inwardly cringed at the curtness of her tone. It wasn’t like her to be so sharp, but then again it wasn’t every day that a big business tried to buy your land and that surrounding you in order to build a towering monstrosity that could only be a blight to the quaint charm of the little village she called home.
‘Well if you’re not going to tell me why, then could you at least hear me out? Let me explain our vision for Herring Cove? Maybe we could take a seat over there?’ Alexander indicated to the vintage bobbled-fabric turquoise sofa.
Bathed in the summer sun, it was the perfect spot to curl up with a book. Something Sophie did regularly. A way to pass the time when the shop was quiet. Which was a lot of the time.
She breathed out low and slow. The irritation that had her shoulders hitched up towards her ears disappeared with the whoosh of expelled air. ‘If I listen, will you leave me alone? Never talk to me again?’
Alexander shrugged, the too-hot-for-its-own-good smile was back. ‘Can’t promise that. I have a few more people to see and it’s a small village. There’s always a chance we’ll bump into each other.’
He had a point. Although if he hoped bumping into her would see her change her mind, he was mistaken. There was no number of pennies pretty enough to make her sell. And the pennies the Fletcher Group initially offered had been exceptionally pretty. More than the place was worth. But not enough for her to see her home, her place in the world, reduced to rubble.
‘Fine. You can talk.’ Sophie flicked her hand, hustling him towards the sofa and the two armchairs that flanked it. ‘You go first.’
‘No, you go. Ladies first.’ Alexander stood his ground.
‘I never said I was a lady.’ Sophie brought her hands to her hips.
‘Only calling it like I see it. Besides, if I don’t let you go first my mother will be disappointed in me. She worked hard on my manners. It’s a point of great pride for her.’
Sophie’s lips twitched to the side. Do not smile. Too late.
Seeing a man in a suit worrying about his manners because he didn’t want to disappoint his mother was… well… adorable. Even if said adorability was coming from a man she was sure was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
‘Fine. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for undoing all her good work.’ She crossed the room and settled into the burnt-orange armchair and indicated for Alexander to sit on the sofa. ‘So, talk.’
‘I know you’ve got the book club coming so I’ll keep it quick.’ Alexander leaned forward, his forearms flat upon his thighs, his hands clasped loosely together. His voice calm, collected.
Like what he was wanting to do was no big deal. Like he made visits to people who weren’t playing ball regularly. Which, maybe he did.
‘The thing is, we think Herring Cove has so much potential. Potential that’s not being realised. If we built one of our resorts here, created a proper path down the cliffs to the beach, then the local economy would be revitalised. There’d be more jobs. More people. More money.’
And a whole lot less soul. Sophie kept her thought to herself, there was no point in trying to change Alexander’s mind. It would be like trying to change her mind about selling the shop. A waste of time.
‘The reason I came here is that I wanted to talk to you in person about what it is you’re missing out on by not saying yes.’
Sophie’s spine stiffened. This was what he was here for? To give her the hard sell? To guilt her into selling? Good luck with that. She’d long ago learned that listening to men with silken tongues was a bad idea. ‘Fool me once’ and all that. She wasn’t about to be fooled twice.
‘I’m not missing out on anything. I have everything I want right here. I don’t need anything else.’ Or anyone else.
‘Here. This is for you.’ He reached into the concealed pocket of his suit jacket, pulled out a folded square of crisp cream-coloured note paper and slipped it across the teak Scandinavian coffee table. ‘We’ve upped our offer.’
Sophie let it sit there. ‘Not interested. I said it to your lackey over the email, then again over the phone, and I shall say it now – my home is not for sale.’
Alexander sat back in the chair, his expression unchanged, unperturbed. ‘And why not? In my experience, everything is for sale… as long as the price is right. And, trust me, the price is right.’
Sophie eyed the small square. How much was in there? Crazy money? Her fingers itched to pick it up, unfold it, and see what was on offer.
No. She mustn’t. Besides, whatever number was written down wouldn’t make her budge. ‘All Booked Up’ was the last thread of her family. All she had left. It was her home and she loved it. Nothing could make her move.
What if you go broke? Because that could happen. What if you can’t afford to pay the rates on the place? You won’t be moved out, you’ll be chucked out.
‘You’re not even going to look at the offer?’ Alexander’s head tipped to one side, as corrugated lines wrinkled his forehead.
‘I don’t need to. I’m not going to sell. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.’ Sophie stood, strode as purposefully as she knew how to the counter, then opened up her laptop and pretended to be engrossed with what she saw on the screen.
Footfalls on the wooden floor told her Alexander was up and, hopefully, leaving. A shadow fell over the counter.
Wishful thinking, then.
‘That piece of paper contains enough money for you to do anything you want in the world. To go anywhere. To start fresh.’
Sophie fixed her most unimpressed look on her face, then looked up. ‘But what I want is to stay here in Herring Cove and run the bookshop. I don’t want to do any old thing. Go any old where. Or start fresh.’
Despite his tan Alexander’s face paled, the hint of colour on his cheeks gone.
She’d rattled him? Interesting. But not interesting enough for her to waste any more time on a man who wanted to take her life away from her.
‘Well, I’ve heard what you’ve had to say. You can go now.’ Beside the laptop, her mobile buzzed and lit up as an email notification came through.
Sophie closed her eyes as she noted another reminder notice. This time for the power. Could she go without power? Could she run the bookshop without it? What did she really need power for? She ran through the list: no till, no cash machine, no kettle for cups of tea, no light to read books by late into the night. Conclusion? Allowing the power to be cut off was not an option.
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