RACHEL DOVE is a wife and mother of two boys, living in Yorkshire. She is the proud winner of the 2015 Flirty Fiction Competition with Prima Magazine and Mills & Boon, with her entry, The Chic Boutique on Baker Street. When she is not writing, she can be found raising her boys or curled up under a blanket with a book.
Emily Bronte, the author of my favourite book, once wrote:
‘Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.’
I married my soulmate, and my best friend.
Love you Peter.
To my boys, Jayden and Nathan – the two masterpieces of my life. Mummy loves you, now go tidy your room.
This book is a magical dream come true for me, and it wouldn’t have happened without help. First of all, can I thank the amazing judges and staff involved with Prima Magazine and the Flirty Fiction competition. I enjoyed every minute, so thank you. Also, huge thanks to Anna Baggaley, my lovely editor who has been with me for every word, turning the jumble in my head to a book I am proud of, and the lovely people at Mills & Boon for being fabulous in general.
The writing and book blogging community on Facebook and Twitter have been amazing too, and without their support, encouragement and general nuttiness, I would be in a corner somewhere dribbling, so thank you all.
Table of Contents
Amanda stared up at the dark wood beam, pondering whether a strip of pale yellow taffeta ribbon would be robust enough as a makeshift noose.
She shook her head, banishing the futile thoughts, and started to clear off the workspace of her new venture when she heard the shutter from next door’s shop go up. The metallic clang reminded her that next door had left their advertising board out the night before. She picked it up on her way to the shop front. New Lease of Life had only been open for a week or so, and her next-door neighbour, ‘Shampooched’, had not been the ideal business colleague. The twenty-something pink-haired rock enthusiast who worked there was not the friendliest person Amanda had ever encountered, but Amanda didn’t want to make waves, being new to town and living above the shop and all. She took a deep breath and walked backwards into the shop, clasping the heavy A-board, a blackboard detailing their opening times.
‘Hey, Tracy, you seem to have left this out … er again … so …’
Amanda was blocked from walking any further by a wall. Squeaking in surprise, she promptly dropped the A-board onto her own feet, this morning clad in soft green ballet pumps, of all things.
‘Owww, son of a b—’
She was tumbling towards the concrete tiled floor, and a bruised bum to boot, when the wall moved and caught her in its grasp. Her words caught in her throat as she gazed up into a pair of steely grey eyes. She found herself smiling despite her embarrassment.
‘I am so sorry, are you OK?’
The man was staring at her with a mixture of concern and amusement. Amanda’s eyes flitted from his chiselled jaw to his full bow lips, and travelled down to his tanned, muscular neck, and his chest, which was encased in a simple black T-shirt. She loved watching the lips move. The movements stopped and Amanda frowned, disappointed. It was then she realised that the lips were attached to an actual person, a person who was waiting for an answer to whatever question these lips had formed.
What is wrong with you?
A voice, soft and cracking with what Amanda thought might be suppressed laughter, broke through the awkward silence.
‘I said, did you hit your head?’ he asked.
Amanda shook her head. ‘Er … no,