How to Find Love in a Book Shop by Veronica Henry

had screwed up his relationship. Or that keeping Mia was bleeding him dry. He only had himself to blame for that. If he hadn’t been such an idiot …
    Ian opened a drawer and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted out five hundred.
    ‘That’s for expenses.’
    Jackson pocketed the cash, thinking about what else it could buy him.
    He’d love to be able to take Finn on holiday. He imagined a magical hotel on a beach, with four different swimming pools and palm trees and endless free cocktails. He longed for warmth on his skin, and the chance to laugh with his son.
    Or he could put it towards a decent van. He’d just need one job to get him started. If he did it well, there would be word of mouth. He could move onto the next job, start saving, keep his eye open for a house that needed doing up … He could do it. He was certain.
    In the meantime, he had to keep in with Ian. Ian was his bread and butter, and he wouldn’t want to let Jackson go. He had to play it smart.
    Emilia Nightingale shouldn’t take him long. Once Jackson had a girl in his sights, she was a sitting target. He had to muster up some of his old charm. He used to have them queuing up. Pull yourself together, he told himself.
    Jackson held out his hand and shook Ian’s with a cocky wink that would have done credit to the Artful Dodger.
    ‘Leave it with me, mate. Nightingale Books will be yours by the end of the month.’

    After his meeting with Ian, Jackson drove to Paradise Pines, where he was living with his mum, Cilla. He wasn’t going to tell her about the deal, because she wouldn’t approve.
    He hated the park. It was a lie. It was advertised as some sort of heavenly haven for the over fifty-fives. ‘Your own little slice of paradise: peace and tranquillity in the Cotswold countryside.’
    It was a dump.
    Never mind the rusting skip in the car park, surrounded by untaxed cars and wheelie bins and the mangy Staffie tied up in the corner that represented the ‘security’ promised in the brochure (‘peace of mind twenty-four hours a day, so you can sleep at night’).
    He slunk past the Portakabin where Garvie, the site manager, sat slurping Pot Noodles and watching porn on his laptop all day. Garvie was supposed to vet visitors, but Ted Bundy could have floated past arm in arm with the Yorkshire Ripper and Garvie wouldn’t bat an eyelid. He was also supposed to take deliveries for the residents, deal with their maintenance enquiries and be a general all round ray of sunshine for them all to depend upon. Instead he was a malevolent presence who reminded each resident that he was all they deserved.
    Garvie was obese, with stertorous breathing, and smelt like the boy at school no one wanted to sit near. He turned Jackson’s stomach. Cilla said she was fond of him, but Cilla liked everyone. She had no judgement where people were concerned.
    Jackson wondered how he could have turned out so differently from his mother. He didn’t like anyone. Not at the moment, anyway.
    Except Finn, of course. And Wolfie.
    He ploughed on along the ‘nature trail’ that led to his mother’s home. It was an overgrown path with a very thin layer of bark to guide you. There was no nature apparent, though more than once Jackson had seen a rat scuttle into the nearby undergrowth. He should let Wolfie loose up here one day, even though you were supposed to keep dogs on a lead on the site. He would have a field day, routing out the vermin. But there was no point. The residents left their garbage rotting. The rats would be back in nanoseconds.
    The fencing that surrounded the little patch of grass belonging to each home was rotting and the grass itself was bald and patchy. There were lamp-posts lighting the paths, but hardly any of them worked, and the hanging baskets hanging from them trailed nothing but weeds.
    Maybe it had been all it had proclaimed in its brochure once upon a time. Maybe the grass had been lush and manicured; the grounds tended immaculately. Maybe the