Chapter One
Oh shit. The house next door was sold. It shouldn’t be sold. It couldn’t be sold. Not until she’d collected the mail for Mrs. Phelps. As nice as her elderly neighbor was, she wouldn’t want the new owners going through her letters.
Daisy Hardy leaned her head against the headrest and blew out a sigh as the cab pulled up outside her house. Head a little fuzzy from the unaccustomed alcohol she’d drunk earlier in the evening, she swiveled it around to glare at the sign. She knew she should have checked for the mail before she’d left. But as usual, the call to let her know that there were problems with the wedding her company had organized this weekend had come late, and she’d had to rush. Once, just once, she’d like her partner to be bloody organized, or even, heaven forbid, professional.
She couldn’t resist the snort that escaped her. Professional was the last word she’d use to describe Simon. He’d run into problems, but rather than deal with them, he’d disappeared on fucking holiday, leaving her to rush in at the last minute to save the day.
Idle son of a bitch would still want his cut of the paycheck though.
“Just here, duck?” The driver broke through her internal mutterings over her idiot partner, and Daisy snapped back to reality.
“Yeah, this is great, thanks. How much do I owe you?”
The figure he named made her eyebrow wing up, but she didn’t argue, paid it quickly, and slid out of the cab to collect her small case from the trunk. It was her own fault for travelling so late at night, but she couldn’t face another minute in a hotel. She wanted her own bed and pillow. As the cab pulled off, she turned and glared at the “sold” sign stuck in the neatly cut grass of the lawn. The two cottages were set deep off the road and shared a drive, which had never been an issue with Mrs. Phelps who didn’t drive. Instead, she’d relied on her son to take her shopping on Saturdays.
Daisy had quickly realized the once-weekly shopping trip had been the only contact Mrs. Phelps had with the outside world, so Daisy had taken to popping in once a day to make sure the old lady was alright. Soon she’d found she looked forward to the daily coffee and chat, enthralled by her stories of the past. When Mrs. Phelps had taken a tumble and broken her hip, she hadn’t come home from hospital. Instead, she’d been transferred to a nursing home and her cottage put on the market to be sold.
Sadness hit Daisy as she looked at the bright red “sold” sticker across the sign. She knew someone would buy it eventually—the cottage was just too cute to sit empty—but now it had it felt too final. Mrs. Phelps wasn’t coming back.
With a sigh, she headed for her front door, not bothered about the zig-zag in her walk now that there was no one to see. Her neat little compact was parked in front of her garage where she’d left it to rush off and deal with the Perkin’s issue. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. The space in front of the other garage was empty. Whoever had bought the house couldn’t have moved in yet. Standing her small case by her front door she looked at the keys in her hand. The bronze colored key stood out amongst the silver ones.
Perhaps they hadn’t changed the locks? As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she moved. Mrs.Phelps’ son was too busy to visit once a week and pick up the mail, so Daisy had promised the old lady that she’d get it and let her know if there was anything important. So far there hadn’t been, but she didn’t want to take the chance.
The front door loomed large in front of her, and she slid the key into the lock, a soft prayer on her lips. When it turned, she released a sigh of relief. They hadn’t changed the locks. She could scoot inside and pick up the few letters she’d noticed the postman pop through the letterbox as she was leaving last week. The door opened and she glanced down. The mat was empty.
Shit. Where was the
Oh shit. The house next door was sold. It shouldn’t be sold. It couldn’t be sold. Not until she’d collected the mail for Mrs. Phelps. As nice as her elderly neighbor was, she wouldn’t want the new owners going through her letters.
Daisy Hardy leaned her head against the headrest and blew out a sigh as the cab pulled up outside her house. Head a little fuzzy from the unaccustomed alcohol she’d drunk earlier in the evening, she swiveled it around to glare at the sign. She knew she should have checked for the mail before she’d left. But as usual, the call to let her know that there were problems with the wedding her company had organized this weekend had come late, and she’d had to rush. Once, just once, she’d like her partner to be bloody organized, or even, heaven forbid, professional.
She couldn’t resist the snort that escaped her. Professional was the last word she’d use to describe Simon. He’d run into problems, but rather than deal with them, he’d disappeared on fucking holiday, leaving her to rush in at the last minute to save the day.
Idle son of a bitch would still want his cut of the paycheck though.
“Just here, duck?” The driver broke through her internal mutterings over her idiot partner, and Daisy snapped back to reality.
“Yeah, this is great, thanks. How much do I owe you?”
The figure he named made her eyebrow wing up, but she didn’t argue, paid it quickly, and slid out of the cab to collect her small case from the trunk. It was her own fault for travelling so late at night, but she couldn’t face another minute in a hotel. She wanted her own bed and pillow. As the cab pulled off, she turned and glared at the “sold” sign stuck in the neatly cut grass of the lawn. The two cottages were set deep off the road and shared a drive, which had never been an issue with Mrs. Phelps who didn’t drive. Instead, she’d relied on her son to take her shopping on Saturdays.
Daisy had quickly realized the once-weekly shopping trip had been the only contact Mrs. Phelps had with the outside world, so Daisy had taken to popping in once a day to make sure the old lady was alright. Soon she’d found she looked forward to the daily coffee and chat, enthralled by her stories of the past. When Mrs. Phelps had taken a tumble and broken her hip, she hadn’t come home from hospital. Instead, she’d been transferred to a nursing home and her cottage put on the market to be sold.
Sadness hit Daisy as she looked at the bright red “sold” sticker across the sign. She knew someone would buy it eventually—the cottage was just too cute to sit empty—but now it had it felt too final. Mrs. Phelps wasn’t coming back.
With a sigh, she headed for her front door, not bothered about the zig-zag in her walk now that there was no one to see. Her neat little compact was parked in front of her garage where she’d left it to rush off and deal with the Perkin’s issue. She stopped and glanced over her shoulder. The space in front of the other garage was empty. Whoever had bought the house couldn’t have moved in yet. Standing her small case by her front door she looked at the keys in her hand. The bronze colored key stood out amongst the silver ones.
Perhaps they hadn’t changed the locks? As soon as the thought formed in her mind, she moved. Mrs.Phelps’ son was too busy to visit once a week and pick up the mail, so Daisy had promised the old lady that she’d get it and let her know if there was anything important. So far there hadn’t been, but she didn’t want to take the chance.
The front door loomed large in front of her, and she slid the key into the lock, a soft prayer on her lips. When it turned, she released a sigh of relief. They hadn’t changed the locks. She could scoot inside and pick up the few letters she’d noticed the postman pop through the letterbox as she was leaving last week. The door opened and she glanced down. The mat was empty.
Shit. Where was the
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