The piece of wallpaper that had been attached to Sorrell’s hair was thick and decorated with blue and yellow flowers. It was the wallpaper her grandmother, or possibly her great-grandmother, would’ve chosen and it had already been a bugger to get off the walls in the bedroom.

She rested her back against the now closed door and slid down it on to the floor. She hadn’t expected visitors, and definitely not ones who were accusing her of poaching their builders.

They were right though. She had poached the builders, offering them more than they were getting per day at the job they were already on, but her job was a shorter one and she needed it to be finished else the reputation of Boutique Seven would be tarnished before it’d even had a chance to shine. And she couldn’t fail at this. She had more than one point to prove, and they all needed to be sharp. This was her life now, and she needed to make it successful.

Sorrell put her elbows on her knees and rested her head in her hands, trying not to cry. She was tired, irritated and stressed. Throw a few hormones in there and the fact she had heard from her dickhead of an ex today and she was ready for either getting blind drunk or crying herself blind. But she didn’t have time for a hangover tomorrow and she refused to cry over stupid men.

A knock sounded behind her, making her jump and she wondered for the hundred and seventh time why she was staying here alone in a creepy house that she was pretty sure was haunted. Not that ghosts bothered her, she just wasn’t used to who else occupied the place yet, which spirits were there to interfere. Because she was that girl: the one who had been slightly weird when she was at school, the one who was interested in things other than boybands and shoes. She was different. Not that she didn’t like those things, just that there was other stuff to focus on.

She stood up, tried to peer through the useless peephole and then gave up. She was too tired to care if a mass murderer was standing outside. At least she’d get some rest if she was killed.

The other man, the one who had mentioned something about alpacas, stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets. He was gloriously gorgeous, all light brown hair and a stubbled chin, with a smile that produced a dimple when he turned it on Sorrell.

“I’m sorry about my cousin.” His voice was like melted chocolate and marshmallows. “He’s not had a good day—partly my fault as a few of the alpacas managed to escape and two went into the care home he manages.”

“Oh,” Sorrell said. “The care home that used to be here?”

The man nodded. “That’s the one. My father is Davey Maynard.”

“Oh,” she said again. “I didn’t realise. It wasn’t me who dealt with the sale. I just financed it.” Stupidly, she thought. I stupidly financed it because my fiancé had told me he had a lifelong ambition to run a hotel in a quaint village. Now I’m stuck with the thing until I can sell it.

There was that dimpled smile again. “Anyway. I just want to apologise for Zack. He’s not usually such a twat.”

Sorrell smiled. “We all have bad days.” She looked at the wallpaper in her hand. “Was he sentimentally attached to Mrs Gibbons’ wallpaper?”

Dimples laughed. “I doubt it. She was a crabby old bat who used to put spit balls in her bath before it was cleaned. She fell asleep one night and never woke up, but she was ninety-seven. The carer on duty thought she was just asleep, saw what she’d left in the bath and started telling her off. It was only when Mrs Gibbons didn’t start yelling back that she realised something was wrong.”

Sorrell found herself laughing. “I’ve never worked in a care home. I’ve never managed a hotel either.” Her laugh became slightly hysterical. “I’m Sorrell. It’s nice to meet you. Not necessarily your cousin though.” She offered her hand.

“I’m Jake Maynard. I manage my uncle’s farm. If you do want local produce, then let me know. I can help you out with meat, eggs, cheese…”

“Alpacas?”

He laughed. “If you want their wool. They’re not for the table.”

“Thank you. I’m Sorrell Slater. Will you apologise to your cousin for me? I didn’t intentionally steal his builders and spoil his Christmas. I was told it was a long project they were working on so I figured that three weeks away from it wouldn’t matter,” she said. “And please come in. It’s getting colder out there.”

Jake smiled, the dimple appearing. “I need to head off to meet Zack and stop him from trying to fight his own shadow or planning to turn me into farm food. You should visit my other cousin’s place down in town—the Last Great Temperance Bar. Get to know us yokels.”

“I will do. But I need to carry on stripping Mrs Gibbons’ wallpaper. The decorator is coming tomorrow and he needs clean walls.” She wished she could go out, get some breathing space away from her ex’s legacy. “Thank you for the offer though.”

“Anytime,” Jake said. “And if you hear the words ‘get your arse here you malingering little shite,’ it’ll be Mrs Gibbons’ ghost. She always threatened to come back and haunt me. Goodnight, Sorrell Slater!”

He headed off down the path towards the road and Sorrell closed the door.

Upstairs felt even quieter now than it had done before and she wished desperately that it hadn’t been this rushed. When she’d signed the finance agreements for the hotel, she’d imagined taking their time getting the place up to spec, meeting people in the town and making new friends, finally having a base after so many years of feeling like a traveller with nowhere to call home. Severton had promised a lot, but so far all it had given her was a broken engagement, the cost of a wedding that wasn’t going to happen and a tight deadline that she wasn’t sure she could meet.

The screen of her phone was lit when she walked into the room. It had been the only bedroom to be extended in some way, given that Mrs Gibbons had enjoyed the largest room of all. Big enough to have an en suite, free standing bath and a sitting area. Tomorrow, even though it was a Saturday, the decorator and his team were arriving to start wallpapering and painting the twenty-two bedrooms. When they had finished, carpets and flooring would be laid and then she would be adding furnishings.

There was a message from her best friend, Gwensi, the girl she had gone to university with and the friend who was going to be her chief bridesmaid.

How’s it going? I’ll be there on Wednesday to help x

Sorrell picked up her phone and called her; she could strip wallpaper one handed and talk to Gwen at the same time. Lord knew she needed the company.

“I was really hoping you’d be out in a bar somewhere with some hot stranger to warm you up,” Gwensi said as soon as she answered. “Or even two hot strangers.”

Sorrell laughed. Gwensi was the wild one out of the pair of them. Hell, Gwensi was the wild one in most situations. “I’m stripping wallpaper. But I have just met two of my neighbours. If you’d have been here, I doubt you’d have let them leave.”

“Did you take photos?”

“Perv. No. I think that sort of thing can land you in trouble if you don’t have permission.” Sorrell stared at the paper she’d just pulled from her hair. “One of my neighbours wasn’t too happy with me.” She started to tell the story.

“I kind of see his point,” Gwensi said when she had finished. “The plans he has can’t go ahead so he’s in a fix, but that isn’t your problem. How hot was his cousin? Did you say he was a farmer?”

“He was heatwave hot. One grin with those dimples and your underwear would’ve melted right off. And he was pleasant,” Sorrell added. She’d appreciated that he’d taken the time to apologise for his cousin’s behaviour and made it clear that she could rely on the produce from his farm, something she was keen to do. Eventually, she wanted a restaurant on site too, using one of the buildings that were yet to be renovated. Ideally, that would be something they would’ve been planning to start after Christmas.

They.

Now it was just her.

“Most men are pleasant. It was just that you were engaged to a complete toss-pot. Have you heard from James, by the way?” Gwensi’s words contained an edge. She’d never been very keen on James and had taken great pleasure in irritating him whenever she got the chance. At one point, James had told Sorrell that it was going to be a choice between him and Gwensi. He’d backed down when he’d realised that the outcome wasn’t the one he wanted.

“I had a text two days ago. He wanted to know why the joint account was empty,” Sorrell said.

“You mean your savings account for the wedding?” Gwensi said. “He seriously asked. Fuck me, he’s a bigger idiot than we thought.”

“The savings I’ve had to use anyway. It’s still pretty much cost half because the cancellation was less than three months before. And he forgot that it was me saving up for it,” Sorrell said, managing to pull off the last patch of wallpaper rather viciously.

“What did you tell him? Please tell me you didn’t offer to lend him any money?” Gwensi’s voice was pleading.

Sorrell cringed. She knew what her friend thought of the relationship between her and James.

“I sent him screen shots of the invoices I’d still had to pay and then a photo of the statement that showed it was me paying everything in.” She sat down on the bare floorboards.

“Did he respond?”

“Not for a few hours. Then he texted back to apologise and just said he couldn’t go through with it. And that he’d repay me what he took. That’s been it.” It didn’t really hurt anymore. In fact, it hadn’t hurt as much as it should’ve. Any pain or upset that she’d felt at being pretty much jilted had been buried under the complications of renovating a building to become a hotel, one that already had bookings; one that should’ve been well on the way to being ready to open, only her fiancé hadn’t been organising anything. Instead he’d been taking the cash he said he was using to pay the deposits on tradesmen and spending it on God knows what. Thankfully, it hadn’t been a massive amount of cash, but when she’d arrived six weeks ago, she’d expected to find the hotel well on the way to being completed. He’d promised her she would be surprised when she saw it. She had been surprised: just not in the way she’d hoped.

“Do you know where he’s living?” Gwensi said.

“No.” Sorrell had a good idea, but she wasn’t telling Gwensi. There would be no telling what she’d do if she decided to pay him a visit. “I want him to stay as far away as possible so I can move on, get this hotel up and running and then sell it.”

“Good plan. Then you can come home and set up what you wanted to do in the first place.”

And there lay Sorrell’s other problem: being a hotelier hadn’t been on her bucket list, but she had no idea what else to do. She was a trained therapist, working with children who had suffered trauma, but after a couple of difficult years she had needed a change. Gwensi had always been keen on the idea of them setting up their own practice and Sorrell couldn’t find the heart to tell her that her ambitions had changed. She just didn’t know what they had changed into.

“I have a long way to go before any of that. At the moment I want to go down into the cellars, dig a hole and crawl in there until everything’s magically done,” she said. “Maybe take a case or twelve of wine in there with me.”

“Ells, it isn’t that bad. The photos you sent last week showed how much it’s come on. When the extension’s completed it’ll be good to go,” Gwensi reassured. “And you’ve kept within your budget.”

Sorrell sighed, wondering if she could crack open a bottle of wine now she had the last of the wallpaper off. “Just. I got lucky with the furnishings. Although the extra for labour is going to finish off what I was going to use to start the annex.”

“One thing at a time. There’s always the possibility of someone investing, or wanting to rent the area to start their own restaurant. Severton’s becoming quite a trendy place to visit—one of those stupid music magazines of Rich’s said that a festival was being planned there and it could rival Glastonbury in the future.” Gwensi mentioned her boyfriend for the first time.

Sorrell was surprised she had managed so long without saying his name.

“That would be a bonus. What if it all fails and no one stays? What if the wedding is a disaster? I can just imagine my chef telling me she can’t start because she’s had a better offer. Or the furniture I’ve ordered never arrives and I can’t afford any more. Or—”

“Ells, you need to deal with the here and now and stop inventing problems. Are you done for the night?”

“Just.”

“Then go and get in bed with a cup of tea, maybe add a drop of whisky and read that book I mentioned. Forget about everything for a few hours because it’ll all still be there in the morning,” Gwensi said.

“No wine?”

“No. An early night. Drink tea. Book and bed. Now go. But before you do—how hot were your visitors?”

Sorrell rolled her eyes even though there was no one there to see. “One was charm personified, the other was having a tantrum.”

“But how did they look? Did the farmer have muscles or was he more of a country bumpkin?”

“I’m taking your advice and diving into bed with a book. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” Sorrell hung up, not in the mood to reiterate her descriptions and elaborate on them. In a moment there would be a message hitting her phone asking for a Pinterest board to be made up with celebrities who looked similar. It would go ignored. She didn’t have time to notice how well-fitted his T-shirt had been, or the stubble on his jaw. She didn’t want to have time to notice because after what had happened with James, the only men on her radar were builders, decorators and the book boyfriend that was waiting for her in bed.