Logan

The last thing I’d have thought I’d be doing on a Wednesday afternoon would be attending a Parish Council meeting in the Woolton Village Hall. I’d planned to leave the details of Manor House Club to my trusted team. I rarely got my hands dirty with things like this, but I was here for two reasons. First, Manor House Club was important to me—the first business I’d ever start from scratch. And second, I never underestimated my opposition. I knew Darcy would oppose my plans and I didn’t want my absence to be fuel to her fire of an outsider coming in and ruining her village.

So I’d come to the meeting in person. Careful not to look too much like a city implant, I’d dressed casually in dark jeans and a blue shirt, and sat with a pack of papers on a table opposite the committee members. At the next table were a group of six villagers who represented the opposition to my plans. Interestingly, Darcy wasn’t one of them, which I could only guess meant that she had enough support that she didn’t have to get her hands dirty.

“Mr. Steele, would you like to address the committee?” the chair asked.

“Thank you,” I stood and gave a copy of my presentation to each of the committee members. “I’ve set out an overview of the benefits of Manor House Club on the first page.” The hall fell silent apart from the sound of pages being turned. “You will see that the plans would mean more jobs both in the construction and then ongoing in hospitality.”

“And can you guarantee these will be local jobs?” asked the member on the far right, Miss Price.

“I’m very hopeful that most of them will be.”

Miss Price rolled her eyes. “‘Hopeful’ and ‘most’? You’re not prepared to make a commitment?”

“To provide the best service and facilities for customers, we will want to recruit the best people for the jobs. I have no doubt that a high proportion will be local.” It was probable that we’d have to source some of the positions from London. Surely they couldn’t expect anything else.

“I see,” Miss Price said.

I went through my other arguments, how it would attract visitors to the village, how those people would bring their money with them and boost the local economy.

“And can you tell me your experience with starting businesses like this? What is your track record?” Mr. Beadle asked.

“Well, Steele Enterprises made a profit last year of—”

“I’m not interested in Steele Enterprises generally. Or your profits. I want to know about your experience, specifically, of developing businesses such as this and the impact they’ve had on the local community.”

“With the utmost respect, I believe my general experience with growing Steele Enterprises is directly applicable.” I went on to detail the strong financial position of Steele Enterprises and how successful I’d been.

“And how will you address the divide between the members and the non-members who live in the village? The last thing we want to do is encourage an us and them culture,” said the older lady on the end.

“I would argue, respectfully, that there will always be different people with different backgrounds and resources in any village. Now in Woolton, there are some people who own a great deal of land and have access to a great many resources. And there are those who don’t.” Darcy might pretend that she was like any other villager, but she wasn’t.

“The difference being that here the people of resources are currently part of the village, live here permanently and are committed to village life. What we want to avoid is creating a divide that will cause resentment,” Mr. Beadle said.

“I’m open to looking at what areas of Manor House Club might be open to local people at certain times of the year.”

“But you make no mention of that in your presentation.”

“I’d be happy to consider any suggestion you have.” I no more wanted to create a divide among the villagers than anyone else did.

Mr. Dawson sighed. “Do you have anything further to add?”

“I think I’ve taken you through all the advantages.”

“Perhaps. But you’ve not said anything about how your plans will impact the people. The sense of community. You’ve not spoken at all about the impact of Manor House Club on our way of life.” Mr. Dawson pulled out the article in The London Times that described me as a peddler of destruction. “It’s been brought to my attention that you don’t seem to measure success in the same way we do. You see, it’s not our job to ensure you can make money. It’s our job to ensure we don’t destroy lives, that we don’t unnecessarily destroy beautiful and picturesque countryside with buildings and roads. We need to see clear and measurable benefits for the community. Anyway, we must vote.”

My time was up as the committee members turned away from me and began to murmur to each other.

The Times sat in front of all the committee members. Some had tried to hide it. Others hadn’t bothered. Darcy might not be here in person, but her influence was clear. That article was following me around, determined to show me as a force of destruction when I’d worked my entire life to be anything but. Manor House Club was meant to be proof that I wasn’t out to destroy anything.

I knew the outcome without a vote being necessary.

Darcy had won. I’d been defeated.

It was the first time a business venture hadn’t gone right for me in a long time. As I sat there, I tried to convince myself it was a character-building moment, though it didn’t feel like it. It felt like the change I was trying to make to my legacy, the move away from destruction to something more positive, had been futile. At least there was no press to witness my defeat.

Already, I was running through ways to appeal the decision. But for now, I was going to sit here, listen to the outcome and look disappointed but dignified.

And then I was going to see Darcy.

“Those in favor, please raise your hands?”

Not one committee member put their hand up.

“And those against?”

Four hands went up.

“I’m afraid, Mr. Steele, your application is denied,” the chair announced, finally putting me out of my misery.

I shook their hands and thanked each of them for the time and consideration. I wasn’t going to look like a sore loser, and I didn’t want to burn bridges in this village.

Ignoring the murmurs of the crowd and the eyes fixed on me, I strode outside, the spring sunshine bright enough to have me slipping my sunglasses over my eyes, and I headed to Woolton Hall.

I needed to pick myself up, dust myself off and refuse to see this as the end, just a bump in the road. And even a lost planning application had a silver lining. Darcy had promised me dinner as a consolation prize, and I was cashing in. I wanted to know how influential she’d been in the planning process. How hard had she campaigned against me?

And I wanted to take the woman to dinner.

I saw her before she saw me. She stood in the driveway, her jeans hugging her arse perfectly, her brown hair tumbling down her back as she looked toward the entrance to the driveway as if she were waiting for something.

“Darcy,” I called.

She turned, a look of shock passing over her face as she saw it was me. She probably thought I was a man who’d retreat after a defeat to lick his wounds in private. It was a shame she didn’t know me better. But she would soon.

“Hi,” she replied, gathering her hair and coaxing it to one side. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

She already knew about the planning decision.

“I would have thought you’d be expecting me. I’m here to fix a date for dinner.”

She tipped her head back and laughed. “You’re serious? I thought this planning thing was important to you. Shouldn’t you be devastated?”

I found myself studying every part of her as she stood bare-faced out in the sunshine. Her eyebrows were two perfect arches above her chestnut eyes. She had a small smattering of freckles over her nose that made her look younger than she was. Her ears weren’t pierced and I was pretty sure there was a story there that I wanted to hear.

I could stare at her forever.

“Logan?” she prompted when I didn’t reply.

“I told you it was just business. I can compartmentalize. And anyway, it means we can be friends now, right? I get to take you to dinner.”

“Well, I’m not one to renege on a deal, so sure, we can do dinner. Shall I come over to your place? The three of us could eat together.”

“I don’t think so.” Nothing that was going to happen between us before, during or after dinner was going to be witnessed by my grandmother. “Friday at six. Be ready—and dress up.”

She groaned.

“Don’t complain. You made this deal.”

“But dressing up?”

What was Darcy’s problem? “Yes. Black tie. No excuses. I’ll pick you up.”

“Logan—”

“I don’t want to hear it. You made the deal.” By the time the evening was over and she was underneath me, writhing, chasing an orgasm I might or might not grant her, she’d have forgotten all about her reservations.