by Bella Andre
As if Donna knew Mari was thinking of her, a text buzzed through to her phone.
Are you there? How was your flight? Is everything okay?
It was four in the morning in California. Mari doubted her mother had gone to sleep, instead waiting up until she heard from her. I’m here. The flight was good. Don’t worry, everything is fine.
Her mother instantly responded. Your father and I both want you to know how much we love you. If you need anything, we can get on the next plane…or buy you a return ticket home.
Mari knew her mom meant well, but she still felt the heavy weight of the emotion in her mother’s texts. Especially Donna’s use of the word father, as though to remind Mari of who her real dad was. I promise I’m fine. Please get some sleep, and I’ll call you once I’m settled in.
Without waiting for another response, she turned the ringer off and slid her phone back into her purse.
As she rolled her bags toward the stairs, she knocked over several stacks of books on the floor. At the moment, however, she was too sleep-deprived to care. After much huffing and puffing and a stubbed toe, she finally brought all of her bags up the stairs to the landing outside the door to the flat.
Having faced her first big moment of truth in the store, she didn’t make any ceremony of pausing in anticipation before unlocking the flat’s door with yet another heavy key.
Yup, no surprises were forthcoming. The flat was as filthy as the store.
Instead of gaping, she simply brought her things inside. The combined kitchen and living room was a decent size, certainly big enough to hold her suitcases until she could find a clean spot to unpack them. She walked down a small hallway that led toward two bedrooms and a bathroom. Every room was a mess.
Clearly, her definition of perfectly livable and the solicitor’s were very different.
Of course she was thrilled to have an entire bookstore at her disposal. Who wouldn’t be? But before she could dive into the treasure trove of books, she’d need to clean the flat so that she would be able to cook and eat and bathe and sleep.
Still, the exhilaration of actually being here, after so long spent dreaming about it, was fluttering inside her. It would take much more than some dust and disorganization to squash her excitement.
First things first. She needed to put some clean sheets on the mattress in the second bedroom. She’d barely poked her head into her father’s bedroom—it was too much to deal with all at once—so she certainly couldn’t sleep there.
Fifteen minutes later, she had found a stack of crumpled paperwork, old checkbooks, more books, and ceramic bowls in a multitude of shapes and sizes. No sheets or clean towels, however.
Maybe the smart thing to do would be to see if the pub had a room for the night, so she could return to the store and flat well rested and ready to begin cleanup. But she’d promised herself that she wouldn’t falter at the first hurdle—and no matter which way she turned it over inside her head, leaving Charlie’s flat within minutes of arriving didn’t feel right. It felt like hiding. Like folding under pressure. Like giving in and giving up before she’d even tried to see beyond the dust and disarray.
She would simply have to find a nearby store, buy some clean sheets and towels, take a quick nap, and then get to work.
“Hello? Marina, is that you?”
The sound of the deep male voice—and a positively swoon-worthy British accent—coming from the store downstairs startled her.
Giving her head a shake to try to clear the sleepy cobwebs from her brain, she realized it must be the solicitor coming to greet her, despite her request to remain alone during her first day here. Although she didn’t remember his voice having this effect on her when they’d spoken on the phone.
“Coming,” she called back.
But before she could get past her suitcases, the best-looking man she’d ever seen appeared in the open doorway.
CHAPTER FOUR
For the first time in his life, Owen Sullivan was rendered completely speechless. Not only by the filthy state of Charlie’s bookshop and flat, but also by the woman standing in the middle of it all.
Owen was no stranger to beautiful women. But Marina was different.
She was Charlie’s surprise daughter.
And she was, on the surface at least, absolutely breathtaking.
Owen’s sister Alice had found a few pictures of Marina on the Internet, but none of them did her justice. Standing before him in the grotty flat, she was luminous in jeans, a jumper, and trainers. Her auburn hair tumbled in waves past her shoulders, and there was a flush of color across her high cheekbones and full lips.
He hadn’t known what to expect. No one on Elderflower Island had. But he certainly hadn’t thought he’d have such a visceral reaction to Charlie’s daughter.
Owen had spent so much time in Charlie’s flat over the years that it was second nature to let himself in. He didn’t want Marina to feel in any way threatened by a presumptuous Englishman, however, so he remained standing in the doorway.
“I’m Owen Sullivan. You must be Charlie’s daughter, Marina.”
“Mari,” she corrected.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Mari.”
She winced slightly at his use of the word finally. “Are you one of the solicitors?”
“No.” He’d initially trained to become a solicitor, but it hadn’t been the right fit for him. “Charlie was a good friend. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Marina murmured a thank-you. And as they eyed each other in silence across the flat, Owen couldn’t help but wonder yet again: Why had Charlie never spoken of Mari?
Charlie had been a fixture on Elderflower Island for nearly thirty years. A gentle, soft-spoken soul, he wouldn’t hurt a fly. Which was what made the situation even stranger. Everyone had been shocked to learn that Charlie had a daughter. As far as Owen knew, there hadn’t been a will. And the news that Mari had inherited the shop and flat had stunned the small, tight-knit island community.
Owen had always thought the island was too small for anyone to keep a secret.
How wrong he’d been.
He had felt quite close to Charlie, due in large part to his job managing Owen’s grandmother’s writing career. Not only had Mathilda Westcott been inspired to write her wildly successful Bookshop on the River mystery series because of her love for Charlie’s shop, but whenever Owen had needed information for one of his grandmother’s many international licensing deals, Charlie had never failed to come through for him when Google hadn’t been able to turn up an answer.
What’s more, over the years, Owen had wondered more than once if his grandmother and Charlie were more than just good friends. Especially given that after Mathilda had begun to recover from her stroke the previous year, the one place she made sure to go every afternoon, no matter how long it took her to walk down the street with her cane, was Charlie’s bookshop. She’d sit in her favorite faded green velvet chair and reread the pages she’d written that morning on her work-in-progress, making notes in the margins in purple ink.
Owen’s grandmother had been the first to learn of Charlie’s illness. And she was the last person Charlie let inside the shop before he had locked it up and kept everyone away.
Owen had wanted to ignore the CLOSED sign on Charlie’s door and do whatever he could to help their friend. They all had. But his grandmother, in her soft-spoken but firm way, had insisted they respect Charlie’s wishes.
What’s more, when news of Mari’s existence came to light, Mathilda was the only one who hadn’t seemed surprised. His grandmother hadn’t been one to gossip while Charlie was alive, and she hadn’t divulged any of his secrets since his death either. She had insisted, however, that Owen meet Charlie’s daughter upon her arrival from California so that Mari wouldn’t feel all alone in a strange new place.
Owen had already planned to go meet Mari, of course. Having spent the past ten years building and protecting his grandmother’s legacy, he’d come prepared to defend Cha
rlie’s legacy on Elderflower Island, as well.
But instead of a possible adversary waiting inside Charlie’s flat, he’d found a beautiful woman. One who looked absolutely shattered from her trip across the pond.
As the oldest of five—and as part of an extended family of Sullivans around the world who always looked out for one another—Owen didn’t have it in his DNA not to help someone who needed it. If any of his sisters ended up in a new country where they didn’t know a soul, he hoped a stranger would reach out to them.
“I’m sure you must be tired from your flight,” he said, breaking the silence that had stretched out between them. “What can I do to help you settle in? Help you wade through things in Charlie’s kitchen so that you can have a cup of tea, perhaps?” It was the British way, after all.
He could all but see her fighting within herself over whether to pretend she had everything under control, when it was abundantly clear that cleaning up the flat was a job for a full cleaning crew, rather than a lone, jet-lagged American.
Finally, she said, “You wouldn’t happen to know where Charlie kept the clean sheets, would you?”
Silently noting that she called Charlie by his name, rather than referring to him as Dad or my father, Owen replied, “I’m afraid not.” He scanned the room and decided there was no point in continuing to dance around the obvious. “But even once you find sheets, this place is still a shambles.”
“It’s not that bad,” she said. “I just need to clean it. Then everything will be fine.”
Though she did her utmost to sound like she meant it, Owen wasn’t convinced. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask her if she would like to stay at his place for a night or two. But he didn’t want her to think that he’d been lying in wait for her to arrive so that he could take advantage of her.
Instead, he said, “I’m sure my mother, or one of my sisters, would be more than happy to put you up until the flat is more livable.”
She looked surprised by his offer. “They don’t even know me. I could be a total whack job, for all you know.”
“You’re Charlie’s daughter. They need no other reason.” He smiled as he added, “And, at first glance at least, you don’t seem to fit the profile of a whack job.”
“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. “You’ve been nothing but nice—and I’ve been nothing but rude.” She finally gave him a small smile of her own, one that lit up her face. “Could we start over? Hi, I’m Mari Everett. Come on in.”
For the second time in five minutes, Owen found himself speechless.
His father, Simon, liked to tell the story of the first time he’d set eyes on their mother, Penny, claiming that he’d known immediately he was going to marry her. Though Owen had always been comforted by the fact that his parents were a true-love match, at the same time, he had never understood how such a huge rush of feeling could completely override all rational thought.
He didn’t know anything about Mari beyond the fact that she was Charlie’s daughter, but Owen was shaken to realize that one small smile was enough to make him understand what had happened to his father.
Owen had never felt less rational in his life as his heart whispered, She’s the one.
Giving his head a shake, he reminded himself that taking care of his grandmother while she continued to heal from her stroke and running Mathilda’s literary business came first. Everything else would have to take a backseat.
Including the mad sensation of having been struck by Cupid’s arrow.
Belatedly realizing Mari was still waiting for him to respond to both her apology and her invitation, he stepped inside the flat for their do-over. “Hello, I’m Owen Sullivan, Charlie’s friend.”
He reached out to shake her hand, struck by the warmth moving through him from her hand in his. He could see dark smudges of exhaustion beneath her eyes…and was pretty sure her stomach had just rumbled. “Have you had anything to eat or drink since you’ve arrived?”
She shook her head. Reluctantly, he let her hand go as she turned to look at the kitchen. Dirty mugs and plates covered the counter and filled the sink. “You’re right that the flat is a mess. I’m not sure I’m going to find anything in the kitchen that won’t kill me.” A beat after kill me landed, she winced.
More and more certain that she wasn’t a villainess out to pilfer her father’s legacy for riches, Owen said, “Why don’t you let me sort out some sheets and food for you? My office is on the other side of the boatyard. It won’t take me long to head there and back.”
“I hate to impose…” She gave him another small smile. “But I can’t tell you how grateful clean sheets and something to eat would make me. That is, if you’re not too busy. Because I can find stores in town that sell sheets and food.”
Though Owen’s afternoon workload was tightly packed, he’d never forgive himself if Mari keeled over in the middle of the House of Fraser department store or the M&S Food Hall. “It’s no problem,” he insisted. “I’ll only be a short while.”
He took the stairs down two at a time and let himself out of the store. Turning left, he headed past the boathouse toward the row of picturesque, pastel-painted cottages that starred on the cover of more than one travel guide to England. At the end of the lane sat his grandmother’s house and garden.
Nearly every day for the past twenty-five years, Mathilda Westcott had sat at the old wooden table by the window with a cup of tea and a notebook and pen to write her books. As the popularity of her Bookshop on the River series had steadily grown over the years, so had her need for someone she trusted implicitly to manage her business affairs. Ten years earlier, when Owen was twenty-six and working in tax law, his grandmother had asked him to oversee her contracts, coordinate her conference and fan events around the globe, and negotiate her licensing deals across TV, film, stage, audio, and foreign translations.
Mathilda hadn’t traveled out of the area since her stroke, and Owen knew she missed the interaction with her readers as much as her fans missed getting the opportunity to meet her. After all these years, her fans had become something much closer to family.
Owen owed his grandmother more than he could ever repay. She’d not only given him the chance for a new career when she’d recognized that tax law wasn’t his passion—she also had no idea just how badly he’d let her down last year.
Yet again, he wished he could rewind time and be there for her that morning she’d started to slightly slur her words. If only he had been able to spot the signs of a stroke and call an ambulance immediately, rather than hours later, when he’d finally returned to the office where he should have been all along, rather than at a clandestine meeting he never should have agreed to.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t turn back time. All he could do was keep watch over his grandmother to make sure he didn’t miss the signs of a second stroke—and work twice as hard to grow her business, though he knew that would never come close to making amends.
Owen’s home was a mile away on Richmond Hill, but since his grandmother’s stroke, he’d moved into her garden cottage, which was equipped with a bed, a small kitchenette, and a full bath. Though Mathilda repeatedly encouraged him to go out, he couldn’t stand the thought that something might happen again while he was gone, which meant he’d barely seen his friends this past year, let alone dated.
His grandmother put down her pen when he walked in. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.” She’d made great strides in her recovery, but if you listened closely, her diction was slightly slower than it had been before her stroke. After a particularly long day, her words would sometimes slur a bit. Fortunately, today they sounded crisp and distinct. “Did you speak with Marina? What is she like?”
“She’s very nice. And she prefers to be called Mari.” He knew how curious his grandmother was about Charlie’s daughter. Before last year, Owen had no doubt that Mathilda would have been the one to greet Mari upon her arrival. But social interactions—especially with new people—still tired her out. “The fla
t is a mess, so I offered to find her some clean sheets and something to eat, as well. I imagine she isn’t thrilled about the cleanup awaiting her. I had no idea the shop or the flat were in that bad of a state.”
“I was afraid Charlie would let it all go.” His grandmother sighed, looking upset. She was still grieving for Charlie. They all were. “What else can you tell me about Mari?”
“We didn’t speak for very long, but I get the sense that Charlie’s death and her inheritance have both come as a huge shock.”
“I’m sure they have,” his grandmother said in a soft voice.
“Gran, what do you know about Mari? What did Charlie tell you about their relationship—or absence thereof?”
She shook her head. “You know I would never divulge something shared in confidence. What I will say, however, is that I’m very happy to know you’re here to help her through the rough patches.”
“Of course I want to help her. But I can’t abandon you and your business affairs.”
“You are the most wonderful grandson I could wish for. With that said, you’ve spent far too long babysitting me since my stroke. I’m feeling just fine, and I insist that you give Mari as much of your time and help as she needs, both today and in the weeks to come.”
Owen was extremely glad to hear his grandmother felt so well. The first four months of her recovery had been intense as she worked to regain both her speech and the use of the right side of her body. Thankfully, during the past eight months, she’d gone from strength to strength. Still, he couldn’t simply shake off his worries. In addition to making sure she ate properly, got regular exercise, and took her medications, he was constantly checking for signs of another stroke.
She reached for his hand. “I promise you, darling, I feel right as rain. Mari is the one who needs you now.”
He pressed a kiss to her cheek, her signature elderflower scent enveloping him. “Text or call if you need anything. My mobile will be on, as always.”
He was just turning to collect food and sheets, when his grandmother called him back. “I forgot to ask—is she as lovely as the pictures we found on the Internet?”