George Hibbert. How frigging wonderful.
She hadn’t seen George Hibbert since she’d put in the expression of interest for his fields. Obviously, there was an issue because, despite her father discussing the matter with Old Man Hibbert, George was still harrying the sheep on the common, like a petty fourteen-year-old.
‘Who’s that?’ Nate asked, following her eyes.
‘George Hibbert,’ Laurel said, giving Nate a wan smile. She didn’t need to bring up the fact that she and George had seen each other naked. Once. Two years ago.
‘Oh, you’re buying his fields?’ Nate asked, gulping his beer.
‘Trying to, if the bank gives me the money.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘I’m still waiting on them.’
‘But you won’t have to if you can get English Heritage sponsorship?’ Nate pushed.
Laurel sighed. ‘No, I won’t have to, but I will still want to. Hibbert has to sell. His farm is dying. If he doesn’t sell to me, he’ll sell to developers and they’ll put five disgustingly big “country cottages” on the land and ruin it for everyone.’
This was the argument she had repeated again and again to her family, to the bank, to pretty much anyone who would listen.
Nate narrowed his eyes at her.
‘So you’re saving it, really?’
‘Yes!’ she exclaimed, turning to face him properly. She tapped him excitedly on the shoulder. Huh, those shoulders were more toned than she thought. ‘Why does no one else see that? It’s definitely saving the land, definitely. Keeping it undeveloped and grazed by Little Willow Farm, or let out for grazing. The maize maze. A tasteful, affordable, sustainable, local development.’
‘Can you afford that?’ Nate asked, his eyebrows wiggling together.
‘Well, no. Not really.’ She let her hand drop into her lap, deflated. ‘But can we afford not to? That’s the question. Can Little Houghton afford for us not to?’
The frown on Nate’s face deepened.
‘You’re not a saviour, Laurel. You shouldn’t take all this on yourself.’
‘But if not me, who? The farm would die, the town would be turned into some kind of hipster foodstall with Londoners coming for their “quaint countryside breaks”, which is great, don’t get me wrong, it brings in money and tourists.’ Laurel looked up and down the tiny high street. ‘But that’s not what people here want, they want to farm and they want to live a quiet life. They don’t want to be gentrified.’
Laurel looked back at Nate, throat a little tight. It was the first time that she’d actually, really, honestly articulated that before. Her need to save Little Houghton, to keep it hers. To keep it theirs. If she couldn’t save her mother, then she could save the family, the farm and the village she loved. Or at least, she could give it her best shot.
‘Anyway, enough.’ She swallowed her emotion. ‘This is supposed to be a celebration.’ Laurel forced a smile to her lips and stood up. ‘I’m going to the toilet.’
Nate nodded and she turned to head into the pub. He caught her hand to stop her.
‘You’re doing a great job, Laurel,’ he said.
She smiled. ‘Thanks, Nate.’
Nate
The atmosphere was charged between him and Laurel. He knew it and she knew it.
Nate ran a hand through his hair. She had been buttercups and summer when she’d leaned against him in the trench earlier. Sure, he didn’t have to hug her that tightly but shit, she smelled so good and she was so excited. And he’d wanted to.
When she’d asked about Lucia, looking up at him from underneath her lashes, brave but flushed and shy, he’d nearly choked on his beer. He did choke on his beer. God, he’d wanted to kiss her there and then, in front of everyone, sat on the low wall in the pub garden.
Kiss her until she was breathless and desperate.
Nate turned his face up to the dusky sky and ignored the single vibration on his smartwatch. It was probably Alex. Today was a good day. The amazing find and very slim possibility, not expectation, of more.
And her. Laurel Fletcher.
‘Yo, Nate,’ Robin called. ‘Where’s Laurel?’
