 by Louise Bay.jpg)
Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83343 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
My life was simple until Vincent Cove, an (annoyingly hot) American billionaire, arrived. He wants to convert the stately home where I live and work into a glitzy hotel.
Over my dead body.
I’m just a small-town girl, up against Vincent’s goliath fortune, but I won’t go down without a fight. I'm taking on this billionaire bulldozer.
If I’d known his plans I definitely (maybe) wouldn’t have slept with him. And I’m determined to ignore the chemistry growing between us.
Except his charm is distracting, his persistence is irritating and his forearms, sharp jaw and devilish smile are downright infuriating.
At least I don’t have to worry about him sticking around. A self-confessed rolling stone, he can’t commit to a lunch order before noon, so there’s no way he’ll hang around long enough for me to fall in love with him.
A standalone, enemies to lovers, small town romance.
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
ONE
Kate
My toes still tingle with excitement, even after all these years of opening the tea shop on the Crompton Estate. I genuinely look forward to every new day—and really, how many people can say that about their job? I unlock the door and flip the sign on the window to “open”. Today we’ll serve tea, coffee, cakes, and flapjacks, not to mention Sandra’s soup of the day, to hundreds of smiling visitors. Buoyed by a tour of Crompton’s gorgeous gardens, they’ll pop in for a short break before continuing their tour of the gardens or driving home.
The magnolia outside the tea shop has just burst into flower, and I just know people will push open our door while remarking on the flowers that grow as big as my head and the sweet scent that tells me it’s the middle of May. It’s the same every year. It will put everyone in an especially good mood today. How could anyone not be in a good mood when visiting Crompton? It’s impossible.
The opening bars of “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story filter in my direction. My smile widens and I twirl to face Sandra, who’s turned the speakers on and begun to sing. I join in while twirling back towards the counter.
“And I pity every girl who isn’t me today,” I sing.
I haven’t got a great voice—even if I’d wanted to, I could have never made it in the West End—but I can sing well enough for the Crompton amateur dramatics production of Frozen we put on last year. I was Elsa, and Sandra, even though she’s thirty years older than me, was Anna.
“How’s Granny?” Sandra asks. Everyone calls my granny “Granny”. She’s lived and worked on this estate for thirty years and is as much part of it as the cottage on the grounds where she lives.
“Good. Her cold has completely cleared up now.” I’m flicking through the comments on the Crompton Instagram page. I manage the official account, and receive a small uplift in my café salary to cover the additional work it takes. “You like this one?” I turn the phone and hold it out so Sandra can see the picture of the magnolia I took as I arrived.
“They’re all pretty,” she says.
“That’s the problem. There’s so much beauty all around us, we get spoiled. We don’t realize how lucky we are.”
“There’s no danger of us forgetting,” Sandra says. “We’ve got you reminding us all the time.”
I laugh. I am unabashedly enthusiastic about the place where we live and work. Not only do I not wonder if the grass is greener on the other side of the estate’s many hills—I know for a fact it isn’t.
“I’m posting it. I’ll put the others up on our stories.”
The bell above the door tinkles and I step around the counter and turn to face the first customer of the day.
What I expect to see is a retired couple wanting to warm up with a cup of tea before they start their self-guided tour of the gardens. Or perhaps a group of Japanese tourists who want me to explain the map.
The absolute last person I expect to find coming through the door is a man so tall he has to dip to make sure he doesn’t catch his head on the lintel—a man who’s rolled his white shirt sleeves up to reveal his forearms in a way that seems almost provocative. He comes to a stop directly in front of the counter, looking at me like I’m a slice of Sandra’s Bakewell tart and he’s going to devour me.
It’s safe to say the man in front of me is not Crompton’s typical customer.
I manage to hold my smile in place as I greet our new customer, despite the fact I’m almost positive I’m blushing just from looking at him. “Good morning. How can I help you?”
An amused expression crosses his face. I absolutely do not want to know what he’s thinking. Because from the way the corner of his mouth twitches and his eyes widen, I just know whatever it is, it’s filthy.