Page 70 of Christmas at Sturcombe Bay
“I’ve got a blanket if he’d like it over his knees,” Jess murmured to Alex.
“Wait till he’s distracted by the scones, then bring it over.”
She laughed quietly and went off to get their scones.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The tyres of the sleek green car crunched on the gravel hard standing of his front garden, and Paul leaned back with a sigh. After three days in London, with all the noise and grey pavements and tall buildings crowding in, it was good to be back where he belonged.
He sat there for several minutes, just slowly winding down.
Stretton. Fortunately, he didn’t have to deal with scurvy like that too often. When you were the one doing the investing, if you didn’t care for them you could just walk away.
Did he really have another potential buyer for the hotel? Possibly. Or it could be just an invention, to push him to increase his bid.
How much would he be willing to pay? Probably considerably more than it was worth. His business head told him he was an idiot to let sentiment intrude on a deal, but this was more than just another business deal. This was important.
Trying to shake off the mood, he climbed out of the car, but he didn’t immediately go into the house. Instead, he crossed the road and stood for a moment by the cliff wall, breathing in deeply, savouring the cool, salt-tanged air.
There was a stiff breeze blowing in from the sea, and the waves were dancing, crested with frills of white foam as they chased each other over the sand.
At the far end of the beach, the Carleton gleamed white in the cool autumn sunshine. Sentiment . . . Well, so what? Smiling to himself, he turned and strolled down the hill.
With each week there were fewer holidaymakers. Soon the town would sink into its winter torpor, with just the locals dropping in for a coffee at the CupCake Café or walking their dogs on the beach.
He had reached the far end of the Esplanade and was crossing the road to the Memorial Gardens when he heard someone call his name.
“Paul! Hi!”
He glanced over his shoulder to see his sister, Lisa, walking down Church Road with little Kyra in her baby buggy.
“Hello, there. And hello you.” He bent to tickle his little niece’s toes. “Ah, she smiled at me.”
“Wind.”
“Huh! Anyway, where are you off to?” he asked Lisa.
“I thought I’d just pop over to the hotel to see if Vicky needs any help with the preparations for Christmas. It can be a bit full on with the Turkey-and-Tinsel crowds.”
He laughed. “You really can’t just relax and enjoy your maternity leave, can you? I bet you’re over here every day.”
“Well, noteveryday. And I do try not to interfere. But I love the old place. It’s kinda special.”
“It is.” No, he wouldn’t tell her his plans just yet. If there was going to be a bidding war, it could get . . . difficult.
“Anyway, how about you?” she asked.
He shrugged in casual unconcern. “Oh, nowhere in particular.”
She wasn’t fooled. “No? Just in the general direction of the hotel, then?”
“Well . . .”
Lisa’s eyes danced. “Hoping a certain redhead may be on reception?”
“Has anyone ever told you that you’re a nosy little madam, Annelise Cullen?”
“You did — frequently — when we were kids,” she returned smartly.
