Happily Ever After...: His Reluctant Cinderella / His Very Convenient Bride / A Deal to Mend Their Marriage

She squeezed her eyes shut. What was she doing ogling clients? Pull yourself together.

Maybe her mother was right: it might be time to consider dating again. Her hormones were clearly so tired of being kept under rigid control they were running amok for the most unsuitable of men.

Clara took a deep breath, feeling her nails bite into her palms as she tried to summon her habitual poise. ‘The kitchen’s through here,’ she said, marching back into the hallway and leading the way into the light spacious room that took up the entire back of the cottage. She had always envied Polly this room. It was made for a family, not for one lone workaholic who ate standing up at the counter. She didn’t look back as she continued to briskly outline the preparations she had made.

‘I stocked up with the usual order but if there is anything else you’d like write it here.’ She gestured towards the memo pad on the front of the fridge.

She turned to check if he was following and skidded to a halt, backing up a few steps as she nearly collided with his broad chest. ‘Erm, there’s a lovely courgette and feta quiche in the freezer, which will make a nice, simple dinner tonight.’ Clara could feel the telltale burn spreading across her cheeks and knew she was turning red. She backed away another step, turning her back on him once again, finding safety in the sleek chrome fridge door. ‘If you want your dinner provided then Sue, the regular cleaner, will pop a stew or a curry into the slow cooker for you but you must leave a note on the morning you require it or email the office before ten a.m.’

She was babbling. She never babbled but everything felt out of kilter. Her whole body was prickled with awareness of his nearness. She turned, smiled brightly. ‘Any questions?’

Raff’s mouth quirked. ‘Is there anything you don’t do around here?’

‘Your sister employs me to keep the house clean, the cupboards stocked, to take care of any problems. She’s a busy woman,’ she said, unnaturally defensive as she saw the disbelief in his face. ‘I offer a full housekeeping service without the inconvenience of live-in staff.’

‘She pays you to stock the fridge with quiche?’ But the smirk was playing around his mouth again. Annoyingly.

‘My father’s quiche,’ she corrected him. ‘Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. There’s also plenty of salad, fruit and hummus.’

‘Beer, crisps, meat?’

‘Put it on the list,’ she said, wanting to remain professional, aloof, but she could feel her mouth responding to his smile, wanting to bend upwards.

She needed to get out. Get some air and give herself a stern talking-to. ‘The pub does food if you want something different,’ she said. ‘Or there are some takeaway menus on the memo board. You’ll be fine.’

‘I usually am.’

‘Okay, then.’ She paused, made awkward by the intensity of his gaze. With an effort Clara pulled on her professional persona like a comfort blanket. ‘If you have any problems at all just get in touch.’ She held out her card.

He reached out slowly and plucked it out of her hand, his fingers slightly brushing against hers as he did so. She jerked her hand away as if burnt, the heat shocking her. She swallowed back a gasp with an effort, hoping she hadn’t given away her discomfort.

‘I’ll do that.’ He was looking right into her eyes as he said it.

‘Good.’ Damn, she sounded breathless. ‘That’s everything. Have a nice evening.’

Clara began to back out of the kitchen, not wanting to be the one to break the eye contact. It was as if he had a hypnotic effect on her, breaking through her usual calm, ruffling the feathers she kept so carefully smoothed down.

‘Ouch.’ Something underfoot tripped her up and she put a hand out to steady herself, her eyes wrenched from his.

‘Are you all right?’

‘Yes, thanks.’ Steadier in more ways than one, relieved to be free of his gaze. She looked down at the trip hazard, confused by the large hessian mouse. ‘Oh, how could I forget? Mr Simpkins’ usual routine is biscuits first thing in the morning and more biscuits and some fish in the evening. He has his own cupboard under the sink.’

‘Mr Simpkins?’ He sounded apprehensive.

‘The man of the house.’ She smiled sweetly. ‘I do hope you like cats.’

And surprisingly cheered up by the horrified look on his face, Clara swivelled and walked away.

CHAPTER TWO

CLARA ALWAYS MULTITASKED. She had to—she couldn’t manage the homes and lives of the over-privileged if she wasn’t capable of sorting out babysitters, dog walkers and hedge trimmers whilst ordering a cordon bleu meal and cleaning a loo. Usually all at the same time. Driving was the perfect opportunity to gather her thoughts and make mental lists.

But not tonight. Her to do lists were slithering out of her mind, replaced by unwanted images of smiling eyes, a mobile mouth and a firmly confident manner.

Her own personal kryptonite.

Luckily this was probably the last she’d see of him. He would be on the early train to London each morning, return to Hopeford long after she had finished for the night and it wasn’t as if she personally cleaned the house anyway.

Besides, Polly would be home soon and he would return to whichever beach he had reluctantly pulled himself away from faster than Clara could change the sheets and vacuum the rug. Things would be safe and steady.

So she had felt a little awareness. A tingle. Possibly even a jolt. It was allowed—she was twenty-nine, for goodness’ sake, and single, not a nun. It wasn’t as if she had taken vows of chastity.

It just felt that way sometimes. Often.

She should enjoy the moment—and make sure it didn’t happen again.

Pulling into her parents’ driveway, Clara took a moment and sat still in the fading light. This was usually one of her favourite times, the calm after a full and busy day, the moment’s peace before other ties, welcome, needed, unbreakable ties, tugged at her, anchoring her firmly.

The house lights were on, casting a welcoming glow, beckoning her in. She knew she would step into warmth, love, gorgeous aromas drifting out of the kitchen, gentle chatter—and yet she sat a minute longer, slewing off the day, the last hour, until she could sit no more and slid down out of the van onto the carefully weeded gravel.

Clara’s parents lived in a traditional nineteen-thirties semi-detached house in what used to be the new part of town. Now the trees had matured, the houses weathered and the new town had become almost as desirable as the old with families adding attic conversions, shiny glass extensions and imposing garages. The Castleton house was small by comparison, still with the original leaded bay windows and a wooden oval front door.

It was ten years since Clara had occupied the small bedroom at the back but the house itself was reassuringly gloriously unchanged.

‘Evening,’ she called out, opening the front door and stepping into the hallway.

‘In here,’ her father called from the kitchen and, lured by the tantalising smell, she followed his voice—and her nose.

‘Something smells good.’ Clara dropped a fond kiss on her father’s cheek before bending down to sneak a look inside the oven.

‘Spiced chickpea and spinach pastries in filo pastry.’

‘I’d have thought you’d had enough kneading during the day,’ she teased.

‘It relaxes me. Have you got the list?’

‘Of course.’ Clara produced a neatly printed out list from a file in the cavernous bag she rarely ventured anywhere without. She used her father’s deli for her customers’ food requests whenever possible. He wasn’t the cheapest, although, she thought loyally, he was definitely the best, but not one person ever balked at the hefty bill topped up with Clara’s own cut. The prestige of knowing it was all locally made and sourced was enough for most people although she knew many of them also shopped at the local discount supermarket whilst making sure her father’s distinctive purple labels were at the front of their pantries and fridges.

Clara put the list down onto the one clear part of the counter and mock glared at her father. ‘It would save us both a lot of time if you let me email it to you.’

‘Email me,’ he scoffed as he pulled a selection of dressed salads out of the cavernous fridge. ‘I’ll be up making bread at six. When do I have time to read emails? Hungry?’

‘For your pastry? Always. I’ll be back in a moment.’ She shook her head at him. Clara was always nagging her father to get more high tech, to get a website, engage on social media. The delicatessen was doing well, more than well, but with just a little marketing spur she didn’t see why it couldn’t do better, expand into neighbouring towns. The problem was her father liked to do everything himself.

Pot, kettle, she thought with a grin as she tore herself away from the kitchen and walked into the main room of the house where the sitting and dining room had been knocked through to create one big family space.

A large oak table dominated the back and Clara felt the usual lift in her heart when she spotted a small dark head bowed over a half-completed gothic Lego castle. This was what made it all worthwhile: the long hours, the repetitive work, the nights in alone.

‘Impressive,’ she said. ‘Good day, sweetie?’

The head lifted, revealing a large pair of dark brown eyes. ‘Mummy! You’re late again.’

And just like that the happiness became swirled with guilt even though the comment hadn’t been accusatory. The matter-of-factness was worse. Summer didn’t expect her to be on time: she hardly ever was.

‘Sorry, Sunshine. How was school?’

‘Fine.’

Of course it was; everything was fine. Unless it was awesome, the ultimate accolade.

‘I’m just going to eat and then we’ll head home. Have you finished your homework?’

‘Of course,’ her daughter replied with quiet dignity before breaking into a most undignified grin as Clara walked around the table and gathered her in close for a long moment. Summer was getting taller, her head close to Clara’s shoulders, the baby plumpness replaced by sharp bones and long limbs, but she still gave the most satisfying cuddles. Clara breathed her daughter in, steadying herself with the familiar scent of shampoo, fresh air and sweetness before releasing her reluctantly.

‘I’ll be no more than ten minutes,’ she promised. ‘We might have time for a quick half-hour’s TV. Your turn to choose. Okay?’

It was like being a child herself, sitting at the kitchen table with a plate full of her father’s trial runs whilst he quietly measured, stirred and tasted and her mother bustled from one room to the other whilst relating a long and very involved story about a dimly remembered school friend of Clara’s who was, evidently, getting married. According to her mother the entire single population of Hopeford was currently entering wedlock, leaving Clara as the sole spinster of the parish.

Clara knew her mother was proud of her—but she also knew she would give a great deal to see her married. Or dating.

Heck, her mother would probably be more relieved than shocked if she spent every Saturday night cruising the local nightspots for casual sex.

Not that there were any real local nightspots other than a couple of pubs and even if she wanted to indulge the pickings were slim. A grin curved her lips at the thought of strutting into her local and coming onto any of the regulars. They’d probably call her parents in concern that she’d been taken ill!

‘Clara.’ The insistence in her mother’s voice was a definite sign that she had moved on from a discussion of Lucy Taylor’s appalling taste in bridesmaids’ dresses and wanted her attention.

‘Sorry, Mum. Miles away.’

‘I was just thinking, why not leave Summer here with us tonight so you can go out?’ Clara repressed a sigh. It was as she had feared. All this talk of weddings had addled her mother’s brain.

‘Go out?’

‘Your cousin is back home for a couple of weeks. I know she’s planning to go to The Swan tonight. It would be lovely if you joined her.’

For just one moment Clara experienced a rare shock of envy. That had once been her plan, a job and a life away from the well-meaning but prying eyes of her hometown.

‘I’ve got a lot of work to do—I’ve promised Summer some time before bed but then I must spend a fun couple of hours with the timetables.’ She attempted a smile. It wasn’t that she minded working all hours but it didn’t sound very glamorous.

‘Come on, love,’ her mother urged. ‘You never get to go out. Just one drink.’

It would be so easy to give in. Put the computer away for the evening, go out and get all the gossip about her cousin Maddie’s impossibly exciting life as a stylist on a popular reality show. But duty called. She had to remain firm.

She couldn’t just drop everything for an unscheduled night out. No, it was absolutely impossible.

* * *

‘I’ve been thinking.’ Clara wound her hand around the half-pint glass, pointedly avoiding her cousin’s eyes. ‘Maybe it’s time I should consider internet dating.’

Clara knew she was fairly stubborn. Unfortunately it was a trait she had inherited from her mother and passed down to her daughter. United they were a formidable team and when her dad had added his gentle voice to theirs she had been quite outgunned.

Clara had been sent out for fun whether she liked it or not.

And now she was out, she was beginning to wonder again whether her mother might be right about more than Clara’s need for a night off.

‘Internet dating?’ Maddie squealed at a pitch that could cause serious discomfort to dogs. ‘Any dating would be a good start. Isn’t there anyone closer to home though? I have stories about internet disasters that would make your hair curl. I know you, one disaster and you’ll give the whole thing up. And there will be a disaster.’ She nodded sagely. ‘There always is.’

‘Nope. I went to school with, babysat for, employed or have been employed by every single man I know in a ten-mile radius without a single spark. And this way I can profile them first, make sure they’re suitable.’

‘If they tell you the truth,’ Maddie said darkly. ‘Don’t contact anyone without clearing them with me first. I know the language they use.’

Clara laughed, trying to quell the unease Maddie’s words conjured up. How would she know who to trust? It had been such a long time ago—and she’d got it horribly wrong then. It wasn’t just her pride at stake now; there was Summer too. She’d messed up so badly with Summer’s own father, any new man in their lives had to be perfect. Her daughter deserved the best. ‘I promise, you get first approval.’

‘Ooh, we could have a look now.’ Maddie had pulled out her phone and was jabbing away at the screen. ‘What are you looking for?’

‘Sensible, hardworking with good values.’ It didn’t take Clara long to think. These things counted for far more than the tilt of a mouth or a warm glint in a pair of navy-blue eyes.

‘Very exciting. Any speciality? I have accounts with Uniformly Single, Farmers for You, Country Ladies and Gents and Parents Need Love Too. We could see who is available locally! So, hot fireman, beefy farmer or a fabulous father?’

‘They are not all real accounts.’ Clara stared at Maddie’s phone in disbelief. ‘I thought you were happy with Olly.’

‘I am, but he’s an actor. First whiff of success and he’ll be off. There’s no harm in keeping my accounts open and having the occasional peep.’

‘Isn’t there anyone, you know, normal?’ This was a bad idea. What had she been thinking, mentioning it to Maddie? She’d meant to do some research first. Approach the whole thing in a sensible businesslike way.

‘I still think you’re better off warming up on someone you know.’ Maddie was scanning around the pub hopefully like a hound on the scent. ‘Get back in the saddle before you start galloping. There must be someone in here you can practise on.’

It was only Tuesday but that hadn’t stopped a constant stream of people popping in for a quick drink or settling in for a longer session. The cousins had bagged a prime position at the corner of the L-shaped room and from her comfortable armchair Clara could see all the comings and goings in the friendly local.

She was out so rarely she felt vaguely guilty, as if she were seventeen again, illicitly consuming half a lager shandy and hoping that the barman didn’t ask for ID, jumping every time the door opened in case her parents came in to march her home.

Although these days they would buy her another and beg her to stay.

‘Hang on.’ Maddie froze as she zoomed in on some unsuspecting prey like the expert hunter she was. ‘He looks promising. How about him?’

Clara’s chest tightened, an unsettling feeling quivering in her stomach as she saw just who Maddie was staring at. This wasn’t who she had been looking for all evening, was it? Wasn’t the reason her heart had jumped in painful anticipation each time the door opened?

Stop it, she told herself fiercely.

Raff Rafferty was standing at the entrance looking around the pub. As his eyes swept over Clara they stopped and he smiled slightly, raising one tanned hand in greeting. How embarrassing; he’d seen her staring. Hoping she wasn’t blushing too much, Clara snapped her eyes away, regarding her empty glass with every appearance of absorbed interest.

‘You know him?’ Maddie was still staring in undisguised admiration at Raff. ‘Things have changed around here, and for the better. You’ve kept him quiet.’

‘I don’t actually know him.’ Clara was aware how unnaturally defensive she sounded and tried to rein it back in. ‘He’s new—to town, I mean, but he’s not staying for long. He’s completely unsuitable.’

‘Hot and temporary, sounds perfect for a trial run to me. Sure you’re not tempted?’

Clara couldn’t quite meet Maddie’s enquiring gaze. ‘Quite sure. His sister is a client of mine.’

‘Oh,’ Maddie sighed. ‘What a shame he’s not a new permanent resident. We could do with some eye candy in this town. Hang on.’ Maddie perked up. ‘He’s coming this way!’

Clara’s stomach gave that peculiar twist again. It was a shame that stomachs couldn’t qualify for the Olympics because by the feel of the double somersault hers was doing right now she was pretty sure she would score highly on rhythmic gymnastics.

‘Clara Castleton.’ It was said politely but there was a gleam in Raff Rafferty’s eye that unnerved her. As if he was laughing at her.

She looked up as coolly as she could. ‘The quiche didn’t suit after all?’

‘It was delicious,’ he assured her. ‘But I fancied a drink. Can I get you two ladies a top up?’

Raff turned the full beam of his blue eyes onto Maddie and Clara felt her jaw clench as her cousin beamed back. ‘That would be lovely,’ Maddie said as Clara blurted out, ‘Thank you but we are fine.’

‘Come and join us,’ Maddie invited, shooting a conspiratorial look at Clara.

‘I’m sure Mr Rafferty has somewhere he would rather be.’ It was Clara’s turn to be signalling her cousin with a meaningful look but Maddie wasn’t being very receptive.

‘That’s a shame.’ Maddie smiled up at Raff. ‘Do you?’

‘I don’t think so.’ Raff was looking amused. ‘I don’t have any friends here so I’d love to join you, thanks. I’m Raff.’

‘Maddie.’ She was positively purring. ‘Raff Rafferty, that’s an unusual combination. Your parents liked it so much they used it twice?’

He grinned, annoyingly at his ease. ‘I wish. No, my mother was into Greek mythology so when she knew she was having twins she decided to name us after the heavenly twins, Castor and Pollux. My sister escaped with Polly. I wasn’t so lucky.’

‘I like it,’ Maddie said. ‘It’s unusual.’

Clara caught Raff’s eye in a moment of shared amusement, an intoxicating warmth spreading through her at the laughter in his eyes.

‘You wouldn’t like being called Sugar all the time,’ Raff assured her cousin. ‘After one week at prep school and five fights I changed it to Raff. Now only my grandparents use my real name.’

‘It could have been worse.’ Clara had been thinking. ‘If she’d known you were a boy and a girl you might have been Apollo and Artemis.’

‘Good God, literally!’ Raff looked horrified. ‘I will never despise my name again. What a lucky escape I had. For that I absolutely must get you a drink. What are you drinking?’

Clara opened her mouth fully intending to say no again and more firmly this time, but something extraordinary happened and the words in her head changed as soon as they left her mouth. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m drinking the local pale ale.’

* * *

Raff hadn’t intended to leave the house tonight. It had taken him over two days to get back to England and once the plane had touched down at Gatwick he had headed straight to Hopeford like a homing pigeon aiming for a new world record.

He’d hoped that the key to finding Polly would be right here in the surprisingly shapely form of Clara Castleton or hidden somewhere in Polly’s house—and he was going to find it whatever it took.

Only it turned out that being mad with his twin wasn’t enough; he simply couldn’t invade her privacy. One step into her study and he had frozen. He might not like it but Polly was entitled to her secrets.

For a long time they had only really had each other. Now they didn’t even have that. The moment she’d started blaming Raff for their grandfather’s blatant favouritism it had all fallen apart and everything Raff did made it worse. Even when he’d finally left, finally had the courage to follow his own path, he couldn’t make it right.

He didn’t know how to repair the damage—if it was even repairable. But whatever she thought, she could rely on him. He’d find out where she was, what was wrong and he’d fix it. Fix them.

So here he was. She’d asked him—told him—to come home and he had. But now what?

His mood had turned dark, exhaustion and frustration making rest impossible, introspection unbearable. Five minutes of television channel hopping later and Raff had had enough. It was time to go and check out the ridiculously quaint town his sister had bequeathed him.

Otherwise he was going to end up having a conversation with the cat. Mr Simpkins knew more than he was letting on; he was sure of it.

It didn’t take Raff long to explore. Hopeford defined sleepy small town, was the epitome of privileged. The narrow streets closed in around him, making it hard to breathe. This rarefied atmosphere was exactly what he had been running from the last four years.

He’d breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar sign hanging outside a half-timbered building. A pub, a chance to get his head together, regroup. Four years of changing places, of new jobs, new challenges all had one thing in common. A local watering hole. A place to find out the lie of the land, find some compatible companionship and quench his thirst. The Swan was a little older, a lot cleaner and a great deal safer than his last local but he didn’t hold that against the place.

Especially when he walked in and clapped eyes on Clara Castleton.

It had taken a moment or two to recognise her. Sure there was the same feline tilt to her long-lashed eyes, the same high cheekbones but that was where the similarity ended. This version had let her hair down, metaphorically as well as physically, the strawberry-blonde length allowed to fall in a soft half-ponytail rather than ruthlessly pulled back.

Even more disturbingly the lush full mouth was curved in a generous smile.

But none of that mattered. Clara was a means to an end, that was all. Mr Simpkins might not be ready to talk but a friendly night in the pub and he might have Clara telling him anything he needed to know. She must know more than she was letting on—she ran every aspect of Polly’s life.

‘Thank you for the drink...’ oh, no, prim was back ‘...but I really need to be going.’

Raff glanced at his battered old watch. His grandfather had given him a Breitling for his twenty-first but he preferred the cheap leather-strapped watch he had bought first trip out. Bought with money earned by his own sweat, not by family connections.