‘No problem.’ Sophie waited for him to leave.
And waited.
Alexander showed no sign of leaving as his gaze flitted around the shop.
‘Waiting for me to bow?’
‘No, just thinking how great this place would look if the books were displayed in bookshelves like you find at a library. Though you’d need a few more bookshelves knocked up to make that happen.’
Sophie followed his gaze. Saw what he saw. Row after row of bookshelves, the titles in order, neatly shelved, with popular books displayed throughout. One simple change could transform the store, without changing its rustic essence.
One problem. Shelving cost money. And she didn’t have that.
‘Well, thanks for the advice.’ She inclined her head toward the street.
‘Anytime. See you round, Sophie.’
‘Ah, no you won’t. The deal is done, remember? You spoke. I listened.’
A gleam of sparkling white teeth appeared as Alexander smiled, the lines of worry on his forehead disappearing. ‘I know that’s what I said, but here’s the thing. I don’t believe in the word “no”. I believe “no” is the first step of a business negotiation. It’s the first word on the way to a “yes”.’
Sophie gripped the door knob, hoping it would hide her hand, which had begun to shake with anger. ‘If that’s the case, you’re about to discover what it feels like to hear a solid, firm, absolute “no” for the first time. I’m not selling All Booked Up. Not now. Not ever.’
Sophie turned away from the door – Alexander could see himself out. Her outrage deepened as she caught his grin broadening. She curled her fingers into her palms, dug the nails in, let the pain focus her as she marched back to the counter.
He had no idea who he was dealing with. Sophie had spent her life treasuring what was left of her family. The bookshop meant everything to her. And she wasn’t going to sell it or lose it without a fight.
Alexander wouldn’t take no for an answer? He’d have to.
Because Alexander Fletcher had met his match.
Alexander left the bookshop and Sophie without a backward glance. To do that would show Sophie how unsettled his encounter with her had made him.
He dropped the grin he’d forced to his face and began the walk to the village’s only accommodation, a small B&B which, with its tiny rooms decorated with faded blue and yellow anchor-patterned wallpaper and shabby age-worn rugs, was a world away from his spacious mews home in London, where the colour scheme was shades of grey and off-white, and the furniture minimal.
He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and considered he and Sophie’s conversation.
She was the first person he’d dealt with in over a decade of working in the family business to not open an offer letter. Most people couldn’t resist the crisp sheets of paper that held the answers to problems, offered the chance to chase one’s dreams. And once they saw the numbers written within the small square, couldn’t resist saying yes.
He reached the end of the angled lane that led to a road that hugged the clifftops, along which cottages, mostly empty, sat in various stage of decay. He crossed the road, drawn to the view, leaned against the basic wooden railing, and took in the stretch of sapphire water that streaked out to the horizon where the sea and azure-coloured sky kissed.
The rumble of rolling waves crashing upon the golden sand below and the fresh, briny air he breathed in did nothing to soothe him.
His plan had not gone to plan. Not by a long shot.
Get in. Make the offer. Show Sophie the benefits of having a Fletcher resort built in her village. Show Sophie the benefits of taking the deal offered to her. Then leave, and continue with the plan to bulldoze the businesses and create a first-class resort with top-of-the-line amenities and offerings. A day spa. Fine dining restaurant. Coaches on hand to teach everything from tennis to surfing to cake-baking if the person coughing up the money so desired.
The end result being a transformed Herring Cove. Goodbye sleepy fishing village, hello vibrant, exciting place to visit.
The template was there. His father’s life’s work – and his grandfather’s before him – had been to take quiet seaside villages and turn them into tourist hot spots. The rules were simple: first, find a seaside town that might not be worth investing in on the outside. In this case, Herring Cove. Picturesque, with a decent climate in summer, but you had to walk down a hair-raising, heart-thumping track to get to the beach. A track his father’s contractors could transform into an easily negotiable path.
Second, buy land that had a view of the sea so visitors would wake up immediately feeling like they were on holiday. He’d have preferred to buy land along the clifftop, but the cottages were protected. The land Sophie’s business sat on, along with the two businesses either side of her, was not. And due to the slant of the lane, they had the sea views required. Combined with the fields behind – land that had been secured thanks to a local farmer who was ready to sell up and move to Tenerife – and there would be more than enough room to build the hotel, create a poolside area for those who liked the idea of a beach holiday but preferred to swim in temperature controlled water, with land left over to create a nine-hole golf course.
Finally? Promote the area as the hottest new seaside destination. Bring in the visitors. Empty buildings would soon fill with businesses featuring boutique offerings. The village would flourish. The Fletcher fortune would grow.
Job done. Everyone happy.
Resistance by locals was rare.
Rare?
Unheard of. Until now.
The business beside Sophie’s had been a simple sell. His team had researched Solomon Murphy and knew he’d be an easy sign. He’d run his fishing supplies store forever and was well past the age of retirement. As expected, he’d leapt at the offer. Said he was Tuscany-bound where his daughter, son-in-law and grandchildren lived.
The other business beside Sophie was on the fence. The hair-salon owner was taking some persuading. However, it was clear her building was falling apart and with two small children to take care of, and the floor area not being conducive to a growing family, he couldn’t see her saying no to the upped offer. To the chance of being able to provide a bigger, more modern home.
Sophie, though?
How did he get things so wrong? How did he get her so wrong?
It didn’t help that she was virtually an internet recluse. Information had been scarce. She wasn’t on social media. Her bookshop didn’t even have an online presence. All he’d been able to find were two articles in a local paper. One reporting on the car crash that had taken her parents’ lives when she was five, Sophie only saved as she was buckled into her booster seat at the rear of the car. The other announcing Sophie was taking over the family business after her aunt – who he’d gathered had been her guardian after her parents’ passing – retired and moved away.
With such a tragic past, he’d assumed Sophie would have jumped at the chance to move on from the bookshop. Instead she’d chosen to remain where she was – doing what was forced upon her because there was no other family to take the bookshop on.
Was it a sense of honour keeping her there? Some misplaced belief that she owed it to those who’d passed to keep their legacy alive? And, if so, how could he make her see sense? What would it take to get her to sell?
The staccato ringtone of his mobile broke his train