Never Too Late

by Alyssia Leon

  Appleby was a rabbit warren of small nooks and byways spiking off from the wide central Main Street. The King’s Head, Appleby’s one and only pub, stood outside the cluster of small shops lining Main Street, on the curve where the road turned to pass St. Mary’s church and Barrowdene, before racing out of the village altogether. The village itself, had existed since medieval times, knocked down by various conquering armies, built again, and later expanded higgledy-piggledy as the armies disappeared and families thrived. It was a beautiful snare for tourists, who usually wandered off Main Street and ended up going in circles, oohing and aahing at the large orchards and cream limestone cottages with thatched roofs. And it was only after they’d passed the same limestone cottage three times that they thought of knocking on a door and begging for help.

  As she neared the pub, a group of men, pints in hand, were clustered around three motorbikes parked to one side of the pub’s entrance.

  The King’s Head was a favourite pit-stop for tired and thirsty bikers hailing from the city and its outskirts. Appleby’s wide main road was well-maintained but quiet, much adored by those who wanted to exercise the legal limits of their inner speed demon through the lush green English countryside.

  One of the bike’s caught her eye. It stood out against the two silver ones on either side of it, with black leather seats and a sleek gunmetal-grey body that glinted with futuristic malevolence in the evening sunlight.

  “Triumph’s the best,” one of the men pronounced to his companions as they scrutinized the bike. “It’s a beast, it is.”

  Beastly expensive too, no doubt. She slowed as she neared the bike. It wasn’t entirely shiny and brand-new. The wheels and base were spattered with mud and dust as if it had been well-ridden that day. The owner had to be from the city, most likely a young financier or banker who wore smart suits to the office and poured himself into tough-looking bike leathers on his days off. She’d seen plenty of them, charming and insincere from the ends of their perfectly coiffed hair to the tips of their polished boots. They seemed to think any woman in the village below the age of thirty would jump on the back of their bikes at the mere flash of their wealth.

  Seeing her, the men smiled and nodded their hellos before returning to their once-over of the bikes. Molly breathed a small sigh of relief as she passed them. There had been no trace of knowing or pity in their eyes. News about Brian and his new fiancée hadn’t reached as far as the pub yet. It was only a matter of time though, but at least she’d be left alone today.

  “Molly! I was about to call you.”

  Anna, Sophie’s younger sister, rushed out of the pub. Anna had Sophie’s colouring, but the similarities ended there. Her dark hair was pixie cut and shot through with electric-blue streaks in the front, and her bottle-green eyes sparkled with a fierce independence nowhere to be seen in Sophie’s softer ones. The fact that she worked as a bartender in the pub exasperated Kathleen, and it seemed as if that was exactly why Anna had taken the job.

  Molly quickened her steps. “What’s wrong? Is it Nate?”

  “Yeah, it’s Nate.” Anna wiped her hands on the black bar apron wrapped around her gamine hips and grabbing Molly’s arm, pulled her into the half-empty pub. “He’s going mental out there with some customers. You’d better get him off their backs, or the lads here are going to get involved.”

  She didn’t release Molly until they’d reached the pub’s crowded back garden.

  The smokey smell of barbecued meat rose and mingled with the dull sweet notes of beer and cider, and every round wooden table with its four chairs was occupied, and all the colourful parasols open.

  Nate stood beside a nearby table where three men and a woman were seated, all staring at him like he was a giant slug that had just crawled out of the greenery and threatened to dive into their drinks.

  “Yer all talk, yer type,” he slurred to a broad-shouldered man who sat with his back to Molly. “If you got the guts, let’s show the li’l lady who’s the real man she’ll be wanting to spend the night with.”

  The man shot to his feet and towered over Nate, and catching sight of his face, Molly could only stand and gape.

  He was beautiful, like a golden Michelangelo statue come to life. His chiseled features, sharp cheekbones, and straight nose, even his lips looked like they’d been lovingly carved from living marble. Honey-gold hair swept overlong across his brow, nearly to the base of his neck, and the same gold reflected in the hint of beard covering his strong jaw. Ensnared, her gaze continued on down wide shoulders in a fitted white t-shirt tucked into rugged, black leather trousers, and ended at heavy, dusty biker boots. She had no doubt that she’d just found the owner of the mean machine outside.

  The man moved slightly, glaring at Nate, the corded muscles in his arms flexing and bunching as he clenched his hands into fists at his side.

  Nate teetered into a fighting stance, waggling his scrawny fists in the air. “Come on then, pretty boy. I’ll rearrange yer face for you.”

  And Molly snapped out of her trance.

  “No, Nate!” She flung herself between them, landing in the firing line of an amber-green laser stare that threatened to strip the flesh from her bones.

  3

  Jake was ready to pummel the little weasel-faced man deep into the ground, when a fairy appeared.

  He stared. Bloody hell!

  She was tiny, no taller than his chest. A mass of light-blonde curls rioted around an exquisite face with delicate features and full pink lips that cried out to be kissed. Hard.

  She was staring back at him, a rose flush to her pretty cheeks, her blue eyes wide.

  No, not just plain blue. He looked closer. Her irises were filled with so many pale radiating rays, the colour was closer to white. Pure ice-blue.

  “You stay out of this, Molly gal.” The weasel placed a hand on her slim waist in an effort to push her out of the way.

  A sudden fierce possessiveness seized Jake, and he gritted his teeth as the furious urge to rip the man’s hand off thundered through him. The old geezer had better be related by blood to her, or else.

  He caught himself. What the hell was this? He wasn’t an untested teen to be having this sort of reaction to a woman. But heat he hadn’t felt in a long while tore through him, and a part of him that had been drowning in apathy these past months soured to triumphant life again. Unable to help himself, he poured over slim, luscious curves in a nondescript dress that swung to the knee, and shapely legs in flat shoes that did nothing for them.

  Molly. The name felt right.

  Sweet, simple Molly.

  She had something about her. He wanted to stand and stare, wanted to touch and taste, wanted to possess and own. Need thudded a manic beat in his heart, and his shaft strained against his leather trousers as dormant desire made itself known with a bite that rocked him back on his heels.

  God! He wasn’t dead inside after all.

  But she was a mere slip of a girl, and the way she was gawping at him was like she’d never seen a man before. Sure, he had that effect on women. It went with the territory. But the women in his circle were practiced enough to make their plays subtle. Little Molly though, had her heart in her eyes. Whatever craziness this was that he was feeling for her, it looked like she more than returned it.

  Hadn’t he been through this before? Through a crazy attraction and an innocent thrust into a world she wasn’t ready for, only to crash and burn, and it would forever be his fault. Did he really want to go there again?

  No, one mistake was more than enough. Any woman he took now would know and abide by the rules of his game. He didn’t do innocents. It was time to nip this particular desire in the bud.

  He glared at her. “You’d better teach your father manners,” he bit out “Or others will.”

  His gruff tone snapped her out of her daze, and Molly blinked.

  Oh god, she’d been staring at him like a lovesick puppy.

  Hot blood rushed to her face and she glared right back at him. �
�He’s not my father,” she snapped. “He’s a friend.”

  One arrogant eyebrow rose in a manner that said he wasn’t overly impressed by the kind of friends she kept.

  He was even more breathtaking up close, but something about him suggested he didn’t spend his time posing for a camera or cooped up in an office, even a palatial one, and it wasn’t just the road-weary clothes. The solid-looking gold watch on his wrist screamed wealth, but whatever this man did, he did it with his hands, and from the looks of him, he wouldn’t hesitate to use those hands on Nate.

  She gathered what remained of her wits, cleared her throat, and attempted diplomacy.

  “I’m very sorry about Nate. He’s had a little too much to drink and—”

  “I ain’t drunk!” Nate tried to push past her again, engulfing her in a fresh wave of sweaty beer stink.

  Spinning around, she glared at him until he blinked blood-shot eyes at her and sheepishly backed down.

  She turned her attention back to Mr Haughty. “Whatever he said to you, I’m sorry.”

  “Whatever he said?” the man growled. “He said… exactly what he wanted to do with her.” He jerked his head towards the lovely redhead sitting beside him. “And he needs to learn how to behave around women.”

  Nate gave the redhead a sly leer. “She’s a fine gal. That’s all I meant.”

  The golden-haired man’s eyes narrowed into glittering amber shards and his lips curled back in disgust. But just as Molly opened her mouth to diffuse the situation again, the redhead jumped to her feet and placed a restraining hand on the man’s arm. “Ah chéri, he does not mean it, non?”

  Molly’s stomach dropped like a rock.

  Chéri. Darling. Of the handful of French words she knew, that was one of them. It made sense these two were a couple. The woman was beautiful like him. Her red hair flowed like waves of fine wine down her back and the merry sparkle in her emerald eyes matched her easy smile. She was a few inches taller than Molly, reaching to the man’s shoulders, and she had a slim hourglass figure that was showcased to perfection in fashionable cream and black bike leathers. Nate was openly ogling now that he was getting a better eyeful of her.

  Unable to get a grip on her confusing feelings, Molly shoved them aside and smiled at the woman. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

  “C’est rien.” The woman smiled back. “It is okay.”

  Then she moved closer to her angry boyfriend, cuddling his arm in an effort to soothe. The man relaxed somewhat, but still glared blue murder at Nate.

  The other two men at the table rose to their feet. The shorter brown-haired man threw worried looks between his friend and Nate, while the second one, a handsome man with dark umber skin, light eyes and a formidable looking build, glanced around the pub garden where most eyes were now on them, and frowned. “Leave it, bro. He’s not worth the hassle.”

  The golden-haired man caught his meaning, and with a last hard stare at Molly, grabbed his black leather jacket from the back of his chair and shrugged it on. It was slightly faded like the rest of his gear, but it fitted him like a second skin, accentuating his muscular shoulders.

  “Let’s go.” He said to the others, jerking his head towards the pub.

  And the four of them strode away from the table and back into the pub, drawing all eyes as they passed, like rockstars.

  Glumly, Molly followed, pushing a wobbly Nate along and sparing a half-hearted wave for Anna as she passed the bar. By the time she’d prodded Nate all the way to the pub entrance, all four were astride their bikes.

  The golden-haired man was starting the dark bike, with his girlfriend mounted snuggly behind him, both her arms wrapped around his waist. The little crowd of bike admirers had moved back, giving them space.

  The big bike roared to life and swung away, shadowed by the two silver ones, and in a matter of seconds, all three had picked up speed and streaked out of sight.

  The world dimmed a little for Molly.

  “French gals.” Nate gave a gap-toothed grin. “They got real class, they have. Yer ma, she were French, weren’t she?”

  Molly gritted her teeth. “Just don’t, Nate. Just don’t.”

  * * *

  Molly pushed the last file on to the shelf and stepped down from the stool, satisfied. Her shoebox office was finally clear.

  Martin, her boss, had taken on a new client that week and she’d only just finished the paperwork. It had been a busy day, but not busy enough to stop thoughts of riveting amber eyes, broad shoulders, and biker boots from sneaking into her mind every few minutes.

  “For heaven’s sake, get a grip!” she muttered to herself, straightening the jacket of her grey linen trouser suit before stomping back to her desk.

  As if she didn’t have enough to do.

  Martin was an estates advisor to many of the wealthiest landowners in England, and she loved her work, but it kept her on her toes. The job as his assistant also had its perks, like the occasional visit to a client’s sprawling estate, complete with a tour of their grand mansion.

  She didn’t have the time to be panting after some good-looking hothead with a gorgeous girlfriend in tow, and really, after the sad fiasco that had been her relationship with Brian, the last thing she needed was to be fantasizing about a man, and an already taken one at that.

  She scanned through her emails once more, reluctant to leave anything important pending for next week. Martin spent Fridays and Saturdays visiting clients in London, so Thursday was the end of her work week.

  Nothing new had landed in her email inbox and it was already half past four on the clock. Nearly home time. She toyed with a thick file on her desk. It wasn’t urgent and could easily wait until she was next in the office on Monday.

  What she hadn’t done was take Martin his last cup of tea for the day.

  Switching her computer to sleep, she wandered into the kitchenette connected to her little office.

  The entire building was a squashed two-up, two-down structure that Martin rented as offices from Clara Ainsley next door. The musty smelling grey carpets were threadbare, old white paint flaked in the corners, and the place had a tendency to turn into an oven in summer and a deep freeze in winter, saved only by the portable fans and electric heaters both she and Martin kept in their offices. Martin didn’t care about appearances though. They hardly ever had visitors here. His clients were too rich to bother seeking him out in person. He went to them.

  She filled the kettle with enough water for Martin’s cup of tea. He fuelled himself on Earl Grey, and needed a cup on the hour, every hour. But he’d missed his four o’clock dose today.

  The water hadn’t even begun to simmer before she reached over and switched the kettle off.

  No, she wasn’t going up there with tea right now. Not even for Martin. He’d have to wait some more.

  He hardly ever had visitors… but he had one today.

  His wife had descended on him forty minutes ago, and they were talking in his office upstairs. That is, his wife was talking. The woman’s insistent voice filtered down the stairs constant and unyielding, but Martin was silent.

  Molly returned to the file on her desk.

  She didn’t want to come under Belinda Littleton’s scrutiny right now. The woman had taken an instant dislike to her when Molly first began working for Martin two years ago, a few months before Eugenie’s death. Was it because Molly had been blatantly inexperienced for the job? True, Martin had hired her on the spot purely based on her love of period properties and the fact that she’d talked rings around him on the subject, but she was a fast learner in the office, now even handling client accounts and finances for him. He’d never had cause to complain since the day she started working for him.

  The Littletons had been new to Appleby at the time, Martin having originally worked in the city. Belinda had tired of city life, and had wanted, and got, a big house in the countryside. But Molly often suspected Martin would be far happier back in London, though he’d never say so
in front of his wife.

  A door opened on the floor above her and footsteps thudded on the carpeted staircase.

  Belinda’s voice became clearer.

  “You must be here on Saturday. The Aireshires are dear friends, and people don’t get married every day.”

  Molly watched from her desk as Belinda Littleton swept down the stairs. The woman was in her late forties and frighteningly perfect. From her expertly cut blonde bob to her designer summer dress, not a hair nor strand was out of place.

  “But…” Martin scurried downstairs after his wife. “These things are difficult to reschedule.”

  A little older than Belinda, in his early fifties, with his messy greying ginger hair, unkempt beard, and shapeless suit that didn’t quite hide a developing paunch, Martin Littleton looked more like a large scruffy bear than a much-respected advisor to billionaires.

  Panic brimmed in his usually merry grey eyes. “I can hardly dictate times to people who only fly into the country on a weekend.”

  Belinda stopped at the bottom of the staircase and spun around to glare up at him. “It’s too much, Martin. I’m putting my foot down. You can travel to London during the week. There are far too many important functions on the weekend, and I cannot keep attending them alone.”

  “But—”

  “Molly can manage things in the office.” Belinda shot her a look that said it was high time she made herself useful. “She doesn’t need you to hold her hand all the time, does she?”

  Irritation surged through Molly. The woman had no idea how hard Martin worked, or what actually needed to be done in the office. But keeping her practiced professional mask, she got up from her chair and strode out into the hallway. “I’ll survive. But as Martin said, it would be impractical, as most of his meetings happen on the weekend.”

  Martin grinned at her and bobbed his head up and down in vigorous agreement.

  Belinda scowled at him. “We’ll discuss this later, Martin.” And without sparing another glance in Molly’s direction, she stormed to the front door.