approval in their uninterested faces.
He’d been so keyed up when he’d told them his idea to run a café-bar on the hotel’s small beach. One that was aimed at locals as well as tourists.
He had even offered to do a few retakes at the local college before studying Hospitality and Tourism.
It hadn’t been enough. Nothing he did ever was.
In the end they had reached a grudging compromise. They’d given him the old boat house they hadn’t used, preferring to keep their guests—and their guests’ wallets—on the hotel grounds, and they’d cut him loose. Set him free.
They’d expected him to fail. To come back, cap in hand, begging for their forgiveness.
Instead, twelve years later, he’d bought them out.
And it had been every bit as satisfying as he had thought it would be. It still was.
And, truth be told, Jonas thought as he swung his car into the staff car park, it was quite satisfying having Lawrie here as well. Working for him once again. Seeing just how much he had accomplished. Just how little he needed her.
Whereas she definitely needed him. She was doing her best to hide it, but he could tell. Her very appearance in Trengarth. Her acceptance of the job. None of it was planned.
And Lawrie Bennett didn’t do spontaneous.
There were just too many ghosts, and Jonas felt uncharacteristically grim as he walked through the foyer—although he did his best to hide it, playing the jovial host, the approachable boss. If growing up in a hotel, then running a café at sixteen, had taught him anything it was how to put on a mask. Nobody cared about the guy pouring the coffee—about his day or his feelings. They just wanted a drink, a smile and some easy chat. Funny how he had always accused Lawrie of hiding her feelings. In some ways they were exactly the same.
Walking along the carpeted corridor that led to his office—now Lawrie’s—he felt a sense of déjà vu overwhelm him. Once this had been his father’s domain. He had never been welcome here—summoned only to be scolded. Even stripping out the heavy mahogany furniture and redecorating it hadn’t changed the oppressive feeling. No wonder he preferred to base himself at the harbour.
He paused at the shut door. He didn’t usually knock at his employees’ doors, but then again they weren’t usually shut. And this was his office, after all. Jonas felt his jaw clench tight. Nothing was simple when Lawrie was involved—not even going through his own damn door in his own damn hotel.
He twisted the heavy brass door and swung it open with more force than necessary, striding into the room.
Then he stopped. Blinked in surprise.
‘You’ve certainly made yourself at home.’
There was a small overnight bag open on the floor. Clothes were strewn on the table, chairs and across the sofa—far more clothes than could ever possibly fit into such a small case. Jeans, tops, dresses, skirts—all a far cry from the exquisitely tailored suits and accessories that in just two days Lawrie was already famous for wearing to work.
If Jonas had to hear one more awed conversation discussing whether she wore couture, high-end High Street or had a personal tailor, then he would make all his staff—no matter what their job—adopt the waiting staff’s uniform of bright blue Boat House logo tee and black trousers.
Lawrie was on the floor, pulling clothes out of the bag with a harassed expression on her face.
‘Have you moved in?’ he asked as politely as he could manage, whilst making no attempt to keep the smirk from his face.
Lawrie looked up, her face harassed, her hair falling out of what had once, knowing Lawrie, been a neat bun. She pushed a tendril of the dark silky stuff back behind an ear and glared at him. ‘Don’t you knock?’
‘Not usually. Are you going somewhere?’
‘Road trip,’ she said tersely. ‘And I have nothing to wear.’
Jonas raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at the sofa. And at the table. Finally, slowly, he allowed his gaze to linger on the floor. A pair of silky lilac knickers caught his eye and held it for one overlong second before he pulled his gaze reluctantly away.
‘Half this stuff is mine. Only it’s about fifteen years old—whatever I still had at Gran’s. The rest is Fliss’s, and as we aren’t the same height or size it’s not really much use. The truth is I don’t really know how to dress down. Where I live it’s all skinny jeans and caramel knee-length boots, with cashmere for shopping and lunch or yoga pants at home. None of that is very suitable at all,’ she finished, with a kind of wail.
‘Suitable for what?’ Jonas decided not to ask why she was packing here and not at home. He wasn’t sure she even knew.
‘The road trip,’ she said.
He cocked an enquiring eyebrow and she rocked back on her heels and sighed. Irritably.
‘You know! Suzy always gets a couple of local bands to come and play Wave Fest. They send in their CDs, or links to their downloads or whatever, and she whittles them down to a shortlist and then goes to see them play live. At a gig,’ she said, pronouncing the word ‘gig’ with an odd mixture of disdain and excitement. ‘I haven’t been to a gig in years,’ she added.
‘Not much call for yoga pants at Cornish gigs.’
‘Or cashmere,’ Lawrie agreed, missing his sarcasm completely, or just ignoring it. ‘Three of the shortlisted bands are playing over the next three nights so I’m going to see them all. Two of them are in the county, but tomorrow’s gig is in Devon, so it made sense to plan a whole trip and do some mystery shopping at some of the caterers and cafés we’ve got tendering as well. We’re behind in letting them know. Only that means a three-day trip and I don’t have anything to wear. Why do you have to be so inclusive and get other people to provide the food?’ she ended bitterly.
‘Because we couldn’t possibly feed thousands of people, and it’s good publicity to make the festival a celebration of local food as well,’ Jonas said, his mouth twitching at Lawrie’s woebegone expression.
She looked like somebody being dragged to a three-day conference on dental drills—not like someone heading out for a long weekend of music and food, all on expenses.
He took pity on her.
‘Right, unfortunately packing light may not be an option,’ Jonas said, gesturing to the small bag. ‘Three gigs in three nights? You’ll need to be prepared for beer-spills,’ he clarified at her enquiring expression.
Lawrie pulled a face. ‘I’m not planning to mosh.’
‘You did once.’
Lightly said but the words evoked a torrent of memories. Lawrie, so small and slight. Vulnerable. Hurling herself into the mass of bodies right at the front of the stage. It had taken him a long time to make his way through the tightly packed, sweaty mass to find her, jumping ecstatically to the beat of the music, eyes half closed. He’d liked staying near her, to protect her from the crush as the crowd moved to the music.
Lawrie’s eyebrow furrowed. ‘What did
