A Valentine for Daisy & His Reluctant Cinderella by Betty Neels

Author:Betty Neels
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781488097539
Publisher: Harlequin
Published: 2018-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

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.

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