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Bachelor Dad on Her Doorstep
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Bachelor Dad on Her Doorstep
Bachelor Dad on Her Doorstep
Michelle Douglas
Table of Contents
At the age of eight Michelle Douglas was asked what she wanted to be when she grew up. She answered, ‘A writer.’ Years later she read an article about romance- writing and thought, Ooh, that’ll be fun . She was right. When she’s not writing she can usually be found with her nose buried in a book. She is currently enrolled in an English Masters programme, for the sole purpose of indulging her reading and writing habits further. She lives in a leafy suburb of Newcastle, on Australia’s east coast, with her own romantic hero—husband Greg, who is the inspiration behind all her happy endings. Michelle would love you to visit her at her website: www.michelledouglas.com
To Varuna, The Writers’ House, with thanks.
PROLOGUE
JAZ hadn’t meant her first return to Clara Falls in eight years to occur under the cover of darkness, but she hadn’t been able to get away from work as early as she’d hoped and then the traffic between Sydney and the Blue Mountains had been horrendous.
She was late.
At least a fortnight too late.
A horrible laugh clawed out of her throat, a sound she’d never heard herself utter before. She tried to drag it back before it swallowed her whole.
Not the time. Not the place.
Definitely not the place.
She didn’t drive up Clara Falls’ main street. She turned into the lane that led to the residential parking behind the shops. Given the darkness—and the length of time she’d stayed away—would she even recognise the back of the bookshop?
She did. Immediately.
And a weight slammed down so heavily on her chest she sagged. She had to close her eyes and go through the relaxation technique Mac had taught her. The weight didn’t lift, but somehow she found a way to breathe through it.
When she could, she opened her eyes and parked her hatchback beside a sleek Honda and stared up at the light burning in the window.
Oh, Mum!
Sorry would not be good enough. It would never be good enough.
Don’t think about it.
Not the time. Not the place.
She glanced at the Honda. Was it Richard’s car?
Richard—her mother’s solicitor.
Richard—Connor Reed’s best friend.
The thought came out of nowhere, shooting tension into every muscle, twisting both of her calves into excruciating cramps.
Ha! Not out of nowhere. Whenever she thought of Clara Falls, she thought of Connor Reed. End of story.
She rested her forehead on the steering wheel and welcomed the bite of pain in her legs, but it didn’t wipe out the memories from her mind. Connor Reed was the reason she’d left Clara Falls. Connor Reed was the reason she’d never returned.
The cramps didn’t ease.
She lifted her gaze back to the bookshop, then higher still to stare at the flat above, where her mother had spent the last two years of her life.
I’m sorry, Mum.
The pain in her chest and legs intensified. Points of light darted at the outer corners of her eyes. She closed them and forced herself to focus on Mac’s relaxation technique again—deliberately tensing, then relaxing every muscle in her body, one by one. The pain eased.
She would not see Connor Reed tonight. And, once she’d signed the papers to sell the bookshop to its prospective buyer, she’d never have to set foot in Clara Falls again.
She pushed open the car door and made her way up the back steps. Richard opened the door before she could knock.
‘Jaz!’ He folded her in a hug. ‘It’s great to see you.’
He meant it, she could tell. ‘I… It’s great to see you too.’ Strangely enough, she meant it too. A tiny bit of warmth burrowed under her skin.
His smile slipped. ‘I just wish it was under different circumstances.’
The warmth shot back out of her. Richard, as her mother’s solicitor, had been the one to contact her, to tell her that Frieda had taken an overdose of sleeping pills. To tell her that her mother had died. He hadn’t told Jaz that it was all her fault. He hadn’t had to.
Don’t think about it. Not the time. Not the place.
‘Me too,’ she managed. She meant that with all her heart.
He ushered her inside—into a kitchenette. Jaz knew that this room led through to the stockroom and then into the bookshop proper. Or, at least, it used to.
‘Why don’t we have a cup of coffee? Gordon should be along any moment and then we can get down to signing all the paperwork.’
‘Sure.’ She wondered why Richard had asked her to meet him here rather than at his offices. She wondered who this Mr Gordon was who wanted to buy her mother’s bookshop.
Asking questions required energy—energy Jaz didn’t have.
Richard motioned to the door of the stockroom. ‘You want to go take a wander through?’
‘No, thank you.’
The last thing she needed was a trip down memory lane. She might’ve found refuge in this bookshop from the first moment she’d entered it as a ten-year-old. Once upon a time she might’ve loved it. But she didn’t need a refuge now. She was an adult. She’d learned to stand on her own two feet. She’d had to.
‘No, thank you,’ she repeated.
Her mother had bought the bookshop two years ago in the hope it would lure Jaz back to Clara Falls. She had no desire to see it now, to confront all she’d lost due to her stupid pride and her fear.
Regret crawled across her scalp and down the nape of her neck to settle over her shoulders. She wanted to sell the bookshop. She wanted to leave. That was why she was here now.
Richard opened his mouth but, before he could say anything, a knock sounded on the back door. He turned to answer it, ushered a second person into the kitchenette. ‘You remember Gordon Sears, don’t you, Jaz?’
‘Sure I do.’
‘It’s Mr Sears who wants to buy the bookshop.’
A ball formed in Jaz’s stomach. Mr Sears owned the ‘baked-fresh-daily’ country bakery directly across the road. He hadn’t approved of Jaz when she was a child. And he certainly hadn’t approved of Frieda.
Mr Sears’s eyes widened when they rested on Jaz now, though. It almost made her smile. She sympathised wholeheartedly with his surprise. The last time he’d seen her she’d been a rebellious eighteen-year-old Goth—dressed in top-to-toe black with stark white make-up, spiked hair and a nose ring. Her chocolate-brown woolen trousers and cream knit top would make quite a contrast now.
‘How do you do, Mr Sears?’ She took a step forward and held out her hand. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
He stared at her hand and then his lip curled. ‘This is business. It’s not a social call.’
He didn’t shake her hand.
Memories crashed down on Jaz then. The ball in her stomach hardened, solidified. Mr Sears had never actually refused to serve Jaz and her mother in his ‘baked-fresh-daily’ country bakery, but he’d let them know by his icy politeness, his curled lip, the placing of change on the counter instead of directly into their hands, what he’d thought of them.
Despite Jaz’s pleas, her mother had insisted on shopping there. ‘Best bread in town,’ she’d say cheerfully.
It had always tasted like sawdust to Jaz.
Frieda Harper’s voice sounded through Jaz’s mind now. It doesn’t matter what people think. Don’t let it bother you.
Jaz had done her best to follow that advice, but…
Do unto others…
She’d fallen down on that one too.
Frieda Harper, Jaz’s wild and wonderful mother. If Frieda had wanted a drink, she’d have a drink. If Frieda had wanted to dance, she’d get up and dance. If Frieda had wanted a man, she’d take a man. It had made the more conservative members of the town tighten their lips in disapproval.
People like Mr Sears. People like Connor Reed’s mum and dad.
Jaz wheeled away, blindly groped her way through the all-too-familiar doorways. Light suddenly flooded the darkness, making her blink. She stood in the bookshop…and all her thought processes slammed to a halt.
She turned a slow circle, her eyes wide to take in the enormity of it all. Nothing had changed. Everything was exactly the same as she remembered it.
Nothing had changed.
Oh, Mum…
‘I’m sorry, Mr Sears.’ It took a moment before she realised it was her voice that broke the silence. ‘But it seems I can’t sell the bookshop after all.’
‘What?’
‘Good.’
She heard distinct satisfaction in Richard’s voice, but she didn’t understand it. She was only aware of the weight lifting from her chest, letting her breathe more freely than she had once during the last two weeks.
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