Chapter One
I never want to see you again.
The words whizzed around Anjuli’s mind like ice in a blender. In a few seconds she would have to walk into the Heaverlock Arms, find Rob Douglas and eat the jagged shards. She swore under her breath and went back to her mountain bike. This was the third time she’d changed her mind about going in. It would be just her luck if old Mrs. Wilson were still alive, twitching her curtains, watching her advance and retreat at high noon.
Oh for God’s sake, she was twenty-eight, not twelve. Why didn’t she grow some bollocks? Anjuli rolled her eyes. Because balls were delicate and squidgy and she had a vagina, damn it, and it was powerful and firm. She straightened her back and took a deep breath. If she was woman enough to cycle into town on a cold March morning because she got a text Rob was at the pub, she was woman enough to haul her arse inside. Besides, confronting her past in a friendly, neutral environment was far better than facing Rob on his own turf.
Just maybe not today.
Anjuli scanned the village green. She’d moved back to Heaverlock over the weekend but hadn’t ventured far, spending all of her time unpacking and celebrating her return with her sister, Ash. Nothing much had changed in the years she’d been away. The seventeenth-century pub, Victorian Town Hall and various shops and cottages still stood, scattered around the square. A population of three thousand, and only one architectural firm: Robert J. Douglas, Architects and Builders.
If she wanted Aberdeen Angus beef, needed a haircut or hiking gear, she was spoiled for choice, but Planning Office-approved restoration architects? Hire one from Edinburgh and she’d need to prepare to pay through the nose. Or...she could approach Rob and hope he wouldn’t laugh in her face. An image of him three months ago, furious as he’d stalked out of her London flat, drifted across Anjuli’s mind. How could she ask the man she’d treated so abominably to work for her?
Though she cringed at the thought, somehow she had to convince Rob to put his rancour behind him and take on her manor. Legally, she was obliged to restore the Victorian money pit within a year of ownership or she’d face stiff fines. But who cared about fines? If she couldn’t pay for the building work she’d be forced to sell the house and that was unthinkable.
Anjuli swore under her breath. Compared to the fortune she’d amassed during her singing career she was practically penniless. She never should have trusted Lordship Wealth Management with her money, never should have let her crooked financial advisor have access to all of her funds, or loaned her rock star ex-husband the money to pay off his gambling debts. And she never should have set her heart on this adolescent dream.
Hindsight was a fat, gloating bitch.
It would be hand-to-mouth living until her B&B was up and running, but if Brendan finally coughed up the money he owed her she’d be able to breathe more easily. If.
Last autumn, Dr. Coren had warned her about knee-jerk reactions to grief. His book, Left Behind: A Guide to Grieving for Your Child, said that heartache makes you do bizarre, unthinkable things. Anjuli rubbed at her chest. Whatever grief had done to her heart had overflowed into her brain, producing mind-numbing stupidity and random decision-making.
Specifically, buying a three-storey manor on an isolated moor with only a river and the ruins of Heaverlock Castle for company. Treating Rob like a talking vibrator that night in London came a close second, then there were her disastrous financial decisions...The list went on and on.
Straightening her back, Anjuli eyed the Heaverlock Arms as she would an overzealous fan. She couldn’t change what she’d done during those first few months after Chloe’s death, but, thankfully, her brain was back to thinking in sharp, straight lines.
Oh come on, who was she kidding?
Her thinking navigated the same convoluted maze it had for the past nine months, except now she could bumble around in a decrepit old house with no central heating or hot water. That is, until Castle Manor was restored and up and running as a luxury B&B. And for that to happen she had to apologise to Rob. Her conscience demanded it and her financial future depended on it.
Anjuli pushed the heavy oak door open and immediately came to a stop. The Heaverlock Arms was full, packed with a midday crowd of angry, gesticulating villagers. Sitting or standing, their outbursts were punctuated by waving fists and pint glasses hitting tabletops. Irate stares were directed at a raised platform in front of the Inglenook fireplace, where Councillor Hamish and a few others Anjuli recognised were answering questions and trying to appease the crowd.
Ash glanced her way, busy serving up pints of lager and drams of Glenfiddich, and Anjuli paused to admire her rapid efficiency. Normally, her little sister was unflappable no matter the circumstances, but today she looked tired, flustered and...bright orange? Ash’s pale English skin and blond hair contrasted with the embroidered, flowing tunic and matching trousers of a shalwar kameez.