Room for Love Read Free

wasn’t just gorgeous, he felt...familiar, somehow.
    And despite his welcome, he didn’t look too pleased to see her.
    Carrie managed a nod, expecting him to start with himself. Instead, he motioned to the elderly gentleman at the front of the line, and Carrie scrambled to pay attention. “This is Stan Baker.” Stan gripped her hand hard enough to burn, and Carrie focused on the light reflecting off the row of military medals pinned to his knitted waistcoat.
    “Pleasure, I’m sure,” Stan said, his words clipped and sharp. “I was very fond of your grandmother, girl. I know she’d want you to do right here.”
    Carrie smiled and nodded, adding find out what Stan means by ‘do right,’ to her mental to do list, before moving on to the lady with the pillbox hat.
    “Mrs. Cybella Charles,” her guide murmured, and the woman in question added, “Widowed, of course. Almost everybody is these days, it seems. But we’re just so excited to have you here with us. Do you play Bridge?”
    Carrie blinked at the onslaught of words. She vaguely recalled a New Year’s Eve at the inn, ten or so years ago, when Nancy had tried to teach her over too much whiskey. “Um, badly, I think.”
    Mrs. Charles gave a wide, still-toothy smile and clapped her hands together. “Wonderful!”
    “And I’m Moira Green,” the next lady said, her voice reassuringly gentle.
    Carrie smiled, and let her gaze move to the under seventies.
    “And here we have your staff.” The man motioned to the last two people, both a good forty years younger than the previous three. Carrie hoped this meant Stan, Cybella and Moira were just well-wishers, rather than a fundamental part of the Avalon Inn. They seemed nice enough, but they didn’t exactly scream new, upcoming, luxury wedding venue.
    “I’m Izzie,” said a perky blonde from the foot of the stairs. “I do, you know, reception. And the rooms. And stuff.”
    “That’s...good to know,” Carrie said.
    “And this is Jacob,” Izzie went on, bouncing on the balls of her feet as she indicated the other guy, who was apparently surgically attached to his mobile phone.
    “And Jacob is...?”
    “Your chef,” Jacob said, shoving his phone into his pocket, where it proceeded to beep out a staccato rhythm.
    Carrie turned her attention to the one person she hadn’t been introduced to yet. He smiled, not entirely warmly, and said, “And I’m Nathanial Green. Nate.”
    Carrie blinked. “You, I’ve heard of,” she said, reaching out a hand. Last Christmas, she remembered. Nancy had been dragged away from her inn at the behest of her son, Carrie’s father, to join them for a family Christmas at their home in Hertfordshire, during which both her parents had put considerable efforts into persuading Nancy to give up the inn and grow older with a little more grace. Nancy, Carrie recalled, had spent much of the time on the phone to somebody called Nate. Carrie’s mum had joked about her new boyfriend, which had thrown her dad into a mood, and everyone had gone to bed grumpy. Just like most Christmases.
    That had been less than ten months ago. Nancy had seemed perfectly well then.
    Nate took her hand, and Carrie felt tingles up her arm at the scratch of his calloused skin on her fingers. She swallowed, and kept her voice even. “Although Nancy never really said what it is you do around here.”
    Nate shrugged, and Carrie could make out the lines of his muscles shifting under his white polo shirt. At least she could see why Nancy hired him.
    “Gardening, mostly.” Nate flashed her a small, sharp smile. “And pretty much anything else Nancy could cook up for me.”
    “My Nate has been holding this place together with string and brown paper,” Moira said, and even if Carrie hadn’t put together the identical surname thing, the relationship between them would have been clear. Moira was every inch the proud grandmother.
    There was another awkward silence as Carrie tried to figure out why the gardener