Carbon Dating

Chapter One

Laurel

Laurel Fletcher’s life was not supposed to be like this.

She was supposed to be traveling the globe, making archaeological finds that would shock the world and challenge history.

There was supposed to be academic renown, TV appearances, specialist books and grand exotic romances, before falling desperately in love with a sizzlingly hot French archaeologist who would look at her with the shining eyes of devotion.

Instead, she was shoulder-deep in a cow’s arse.

‘Robin! Robin, don’t you dare hide from me,’ Laurel called across the cowshed at her younger brother, who was trying to condense his six-foot frame to scoot behind the cattle without her seeing him.

‘Robin!’

‘Oh, hey Laurel, you okay?’ Robin stood up from behind a cow and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly.

‘Do I look okay? Do I?’ she said, bracing her free hand on the rump of the cow and pulling her arm out with a wet squelch. ‘Why is it that I am checking the cows to see if they’re pregnant? Why is it that they’re late to milking? And, for the love of god, why is there cow shit all over the yard?’

The farmhand who was holding a bucket and towel for her backed away slowly.

‘Look, Laurel, I overslept. Jack’s being the golden child and is out lambing. Dad’s at old man Hibbert’s.’ Robin shuffled over. ‘Nice shoes.’

He raised an eyebrow at her wellies and gave her the smile that had made a thousand hearts forgive him.

Well, not hers, and not today.

‘I am not getting my shoes covered in cow shit, which I almost did because the yard is full of it.’ She peeled off the arm length plastic glove and chucked it in the farmhand’s bucket, along with her plastic apron.

Laurel knew that even if her clothes managed to escape whatever was coming out of the cow’s behind, no matter how clean she got, she would still stink. All day. She would have to dry-clean her clothes and essentially decontaminate herself. Which is why Laurel did not do farm work anymore.

‘Why is Dad at old man Hibbert’s?’

Robin’s face turned from contrite to accusatory, his Fletcher-grey eyes flashing with ire. Not for the first time, Laurel wondered how it was that her brothers had become typical Fletchers, and she was more like her mother.

‘George Hibbert has been harassing the sheep up on the common with his quad bike again because he’s pissed off that you’re trying to buy those fifteen acres of land off his dad.’

Laurel rolled her eyes and pursed her lips because surely George Hibbert wasn’t that petty?

‘Can’t you just fuck him and get it out the way? He’s like a kid pulling your hair because he fancies you,’ Robin grumbled.

‘Fucked him two years ago,’ she replied airily, ‘and he was shit.’ Laurel had been avoiding George Hibbert ever since, because he was ridiculously attached to what was the worst of one-night stands.

Robin grunted in distaste. Laurel had been enduring Robin’s attention-seeking routine since he was old enough to speak and had been around this particular mulberry bush way too many times to be shocked. At least, not by Robin.

It was shit, and it had been a mistake.

A couple of drinks too many down the pub, and then an extremely quick and unsatisfactory fuck back at hers.

But apparently, George didn’t get the message that it was a one-night thing because he was still there when she woke up in the morning.

He also thought that there was something nefarious keeping them from having this brilliant, sparkling, Grand Passion.

That they were two halves of a whole, destined for each other.

It was, however, the fact that he was as mature as a twenty-year-old which kept them apart. It’s fine to act that way when you’re actually twenty, but not when you’re thirty-two.

‘Can’t you just leave it alone? Can’t you just let them keep the fields?’ Robin asked as he grabbed a rake leaning against the timber frame of the cowshed, purely to make it look like he was preparing to do some work. The farmhand disappeared quietly.

‘I will tell you one last time, Robin.’ She put her hands out and spoke slowly, as if placating a child. ‘If we don’t buy that land, it will be bought by developers, and there’ll be five McMansions on there before you can blink.’

‘And you’re not going to develop it?’ He scoffed, making a show of attempting to sweep the debris on the floor. She was, but not right now. Maybe in a few years with some tasteful, affordable, sustainable housing that employed local tradesmen.

Laurel glared at her brother.

‘Fuck off, Robin,’ she said under her breath as she left the cowshed.

‘Love you too, sis,’ he called after her. She flicked her middle finger up at him over her shoulder.

‘Get someone to clear the yard, Robin, before we open,’ Laurel yelled, because nothing said ‘welcome’ like a yard full of cow shit. The yard really had to scream ‘welcome’ at the top of its lungs, not just say it, because the cafe and farm shop were the only things that actually made a half-decent profit. They brought the customers in.

She ran through her mental checklist for today. There was the meeting with the accountant about the viability of having a smidge more on their loan so they could buy Hibbert’s land, the paperwork black hole of ridiculously complex Basic Farm Payments and Countryside Stewardship forms to check, the WI meeting in the conference centre, and she was showing a bride around at 11:30am.

All squeezed in this morning so she could revel in the arrival of the archaeologists in the afternoon.

Little Willow Farm was Laurel’s life, and how she wished it wasn’t.

But who else was going to make sure that the farm that had been in the Fletcher family for generations didn’t sink into the mire, like Hibbert’s and so many other small farms? Certainly not Robin, who couldn’t even be bothered to milk the cows at the right time.

Jack, their older brother, could run the farm with both hands tied behind his back and blindfolded, but he couldn’t get the farm to make actual money.

Since their mother had died all those years ago, their dad had become increasingly reliant on Laurel to run the admin side of things and treated Jack more as a friend and colleague than a son.

Robin, the favourite, the surprise, the flighty, beautiful boy, could do whatever the hell he liked.

Hence Fletcher’s Farm had become Little Willow Farm (after many, MANY, hours of arguing), because it sounded fluffier and cuter and said ‘come and visit our baby lambs and buy overpriced artisanal bread and organic, hand-reared meat’. It wasn’t just the farm shop and cafe that Laurel had dragged her family kicking and screaming into accepting, oh no.

It was Little Willow Conference and Education Centre, Little Willow Petting Farm, Little Willow Bunk Houses, Little Willow Lake and Countryside Walks, and possibly Little Willow Maize and Sunflower Maze which could be planted on Hibbert’s fields. If she could persuade the bank to just give her that extra bit of money.

It was a year ago, nearly to the day, that the gods of the earth took pity on Laurel, read her hidden thoughts and decided to smile upon her. One of the farmhands crashed through her office door brandishing a human bone. She’d been having them clear the little field at the top of the farm that was too sandy for grazing but could be perfect for the maize maze.

But not with an Anglo-Saxon burial to rival Sutton Hoo buried beneath the earth.

Laurel had eagerly put her archaeology degree into action and forbade anyone to enter that field without her (EVER AGAIN) until they’d had the police in. They could have been recent bones, although anyone with the most basic knowledge would have been able to see the harsh discolouration that signified ancient remains. She’d lobbied hard with the British Archaeology Society to have her old lecturer, Professor Rowlands, come to excavate the site and, after a year of meticulous planning, they were finally arriving today.

To the shit-filled yard.

Laurel smoothed her dress down over her thighs as she watched the two minibuses pull into the farmyard.

‘Sylvie, I’m going to need you to find my brother, Robin.’ She pulled her lips into that fixed, close-mouthed smile that did not bode well for anyone on the receiving end of it. ‘Threaten him that I will chop his balls off if he does not clear this yard of cow manure in the next five minutes. Okay?’

Sylvie blanched. It could have been a reaction to Laurel’s wrath, but it was more likely the fact that since she started two years ago, her assistant had had a massive crush on her little brother.

‘Yeah, okay.’

Sylvie quickly pushed her clipboard into Laurel’s hands and scampered off towards the cowshed, darting around piles of dung as she went.

Professor Rowlands was first out, and yes, he was exactly as a Professor of Archaeology should be. Tweed, threadbare blazer; too long, unkempt white hair; round glasses perched on his head; corduroy trousers that sagged at the knees. His battered satchel flopped open as he managed to put two feet securely on the ground, papers rustling dangerously in the light breeze.

‘Professor Rowlands.’ Laurel greeted him with a wide smile.

‘Lauren, my dear girl, call me Ivor. How many times have I asked you?’ About as many times as she had told him her name wasn’t Lauren, but that didn’t seem to stick, so neither would Ivor.

‘Come on through to the café. You must need a cup of tea after the journey,’ Laurel said, taking the elbow of her old professor.

‘Yes, yes, but I think I’ve forgotten my...’ he trailed off, patting his pockets, and headed back onto the bus, pushing through his dig team of wide-eyed undergrads and jaded postgrads.

A thin ribbon of jealousy tied itself around Laurel’s chest, because in another life, this could have been (a younger) her. A PhD candidate poised to make exciting new discoveries, possibly running a dig team herself, a carefree version of Laurel who was focused on living her life exactly how she wanted to.

Being surrounded by twenty-somethings with their long, lean legs, designer beards and carefully curated well-worn t-shirts, with no responsibilities, made her feel frumpy and old.

Old. She was thirty-two, and there was absolutely no way she was going to relegate herself to ‘old’, but she wasn’t young anymore. Well, not that young anyway.

Laurel self-consciously flipped through the paperwork on the clipboard that Sylvie had thrust at her. Her assistant may be partial to obscure French movies, ballet flats and short girlish skirts, but she certainly knew her way around a colour-coded spreadsheet. Laurel made a mental note to buy her a bottle of that cheap French wine she liked so much to say thanks.

‘They were on my head, Lauren.’ Professor Rowlands chuckled like a cartoon character as he appeared again, and Laurel’s hardened business heart melted just a little.

There were at least twenty people milling around the yard in little groups, sturdy travel backpacks leaning against the bus, palpable and infectious excitement quivering like a taut bowstring. A car pulled in and edged around the bus, looking for a parking space. Okay, Laurel needed to get this show on the road, so as not to disturb the rest of the business.

Sylvie appeared across the yard and shrugged helplessly, meaning that Robin either couldn’t be found or, more than likely, he had fobbed her off with his lopsided grin and a touch to the arm that had her melting.

Laurel cleared her throat and raised her voice. ‘If you could grab your bags, Sylvie will show you to your accommodation.’ She gestured to Sylvie, weaving her way through the students with her hand up in the air like she was a tour guide trying to corral her group around the Acropolis.

‘Actually.’

Laurel couldn’t see the owner of that deep, warm-honey voice, dripping with authority.

‘If you could have someone take my bags, I’d like to see the dig site.’

Someone to take his bags? This was not a hotel. She was not providing a concierge service here. In fact, Laurel had done the dig team a massive favour by letting them have the bunkhouse for a few months. Sure, the farm was getting paid for it, but it was a discounted rate and barely covered costs. Otherwise, they’d have to find their own accommodation in the tiny village of Little Houghton up the road. Or camp. For weeks. So yeah, a favour indeed.

‘Oh, Lauren, you remember Dr Daley, don’t you?’ Professor Rowlands polished his glasses on the edge of his blazer.

The blood drained from Laurel’s face. Daley?

How had she not known that he would be here? How had she not known that he even worked with Professor Rowlands? She raked her eyes over the spreadsheet in her hands. Nope, DR NATHANIAL DALEY was not printed in neat Times New Roman on there.

Laurel couldn’t believe she’d not seen him among the throng of wide-eyed, bright young things. He was taller than everyone, for a start, and completely ridiculous in dark blue suit trousers, a shirt and walking boots that he had obviously changed into on the bus. The students were parting for him like he was the Second Coming, eagerly awaiting the briefest touch of his archaeological genius.

Since when had that scruffy, sparkling eyed postgrad become a Doctor?

Nate was heading toward her and, like a proper person, she should just say, ‘Hi, nice to see you again.’ But no. She was caught off guard, hadn’t planned for this, and therefore couldn’t possibly make any decisions or hide her absolute mortification. So, she span on her heel and closed her eyes. Because, obviously, if she couldn’t see him, he wasn’t there.

‘Is it Lauren?’ Nate was talking, directly behind her.

Directly. Behind. Her.

Why did he have to be so close? Could he not invade her personal space?

‘I thought it was Laurel?’ He said to the back of her head.

Blinking a couple of times, Laurel pasted on a close-lipped smile and glanced down at the clipboard again for fortification.

‘Yes,’ she said as she turned. ‘It’s Laurel.’

Holy shit.

Ten years had been good to Nate Daley. His lankiness had filled out into the toned athleticism of someone who didn’t work out but was always restlessly on the move. That black hair was nearly needing a trim, and waved casually over his forehead, with that speckle of grey at the temples that made men look distinguished.

Clothes were made for his body, shirt clinging neatly to a trim ‘no Chinese takeaway has touched me’ waist, and trousers that screamed ‘Look! Look! I’m designer!’

Nate Daley had been attractive at twenty-two, when he hadn’t quite grown into his arms and legs, and his Adam’s apple had sat prominently in his throat.

Nate Daley at thirty-four was gorgeous. All he’d need was a waistcoat and Laurel would be a pile of goo on the floor. And she hated that.

She also hated the fact that she was faced with him after all these years, without any prior warning or any way to fortify or prepare herself.

The blood that had pooled in her feet rushed back up her body to set her face on fire. She was a literal beacon guiding ships home from sea.

‘Uh, well, yeah.’ Why wouldn’t words come out? She took a breath. ‘Laurel, yes, my name is Laurel.’

He was staring at her like she had made a wildly inappropriate joke in front of elderly parents.

‘I thought your name was Lauren!’ Professor Rowlands chipped in. Laurel smiled at the older man, silently thanking him for dragging her eyes from the dusting of stubble over Nate’s jawline.

As long as she didn’t look at him, she’d be fine, right?

‘Sylvie, can you organise someone to take Dr Daley to the site?’

‘Nate.’ He corrected.

Laurel shot Nate a scathing look.

‘Professor Rowlands and I will have that cup of tea.’ She smiled kindly at her get out of jail free card, silently begging him to come and not make a fuss.

She needed to interrogate him.

There were a lot of ‘why’ and ‘how’ and ‘what the fuck’ questions circling her mind.

‘Nathanial, join us!’ Professor Rowlands said, all jovial exclamation marks.

This man could obviously not read a room and Laurel didn’t know why she expected him to.

Didn’t Nate want to ‘see the site’? Surely, he wouldn’t want to join them.

Would he? Laurel begged any god that would listen to make him not want to have tea with them, and clenched her jaw together tightly, her face blank and stoic.

She desperately needed time to process the fact that Nate fucking Daley was standing in her farmyard, was going to be excavating her field, and would literally be in her home (well, not that she lived on the farm anymore, but whatever) for months and months.

Maybe years, depending on the finds.

Nate narrowed his eyes at her, as if he was trying to read ancient Sumerian and hadn’t got his dictionary, and his mouth twisted into his trademarked not-smile.

‘Sure,’ he said, tucking his hands into his pockets, cocking his head at her. ‘The site can wait.’

Nate

Nate didn’t really want tea, but he did want to see how red Laurel Fletcher could turn without exploding.

He knew from the paperwork that she was the same Laurel from university.

She’d been an undergrad when he’d been a postgrad and had also been on the trip to the Wall (Hadrian’s, not the Lord Commander’s), but so had loads of people.

As he followed Laurel and Ivor across the yard, sidestepping cow shit, he scoured his mind for any memory of Laurel Fletcher.

His best friend, Alex, had preened like a peacock when he found out Laurel had a massive crush on him.

Alex had decided pretty quickly that she wasn’t his type and Nate remembered a tearful Laurel escaping from the student union pub after Alex had let her down.

Perhaps that had prompted the explosion of colour on her face.

Perhaps it was something else? Dredging through his time at university, he really couldn’t remember anything else about her at all.

Although, at that time, he’d only had eyes for Lucia.

Okay, it was more than that – he’d revolved around Lucia.

He had inhabited her world, and he had been privileged to do so.

That was, until she turned the warm light of her glow onto someone else, someone who would worship and venerate her as she needed.

It was the age-old story.

They grew up, they wanted different things.

Lucia was destined for a nomadic Indiana Jones life of vibrant Hindu temples, sub-Saharan relics and First People religious icons, never staying in one place long enough to lay roots.

Whereas he, Dr Nathanial Daley, wanted the exact opposite; a beautiful stable place that he could come home to every night, somewhere he could have a family, raise children.

The excitement of travel and discovery was fun, but there was always that pull to somewhere he could safely say ‘yes, I belong here’.

Lucia hadn’t really got past twenty-four.

She still worked for every opportunity, although she didn’t have to grapple too much now.

She was a much sought after, well-respected professional archaeologist who universities and conservationists begged to grace their dig sites with her divine light.

But here was Laurel Fletcher, sitting across from him in this kitschy cafe with duck egg blue wooden chairs and too many varieties of homemade chutney displayed on the crate shelves, looking like she wanted Moby Dick to come and swallow her whole.

That anything would be preferable to sitting opposite him.

But why? He was nice, he was friendly, people liked him.

So why was Laurel Fletcher’s pretty mouth shrivelled up like a raisin? That intrigued him.

Nate jumped in as Ivor drew a breath, before the old professor could start another discourse on his gout.

That’s why Nate was here.

Ivor couldn’t possibly coordinate the dig, so he’d asked his dear friend and colleague, (and former student, ‘taught him everything he knows’) Dr Daley, to help an old man out.

‘Are you the farm manager?’ He frowned at the smell of cow dung.

Nate leaned back in his chair, hand resting on the table as Laurel bristled at his question.

‘No. I am not the farm manager,’ she said, voice quiet and dark. ‘I am CEO of Little Willow Farm Holdings Limited, and Little Willow Farm is a subsidiary of the larger company. My older brother and my father are the farm managers.’

She tilted her head and pursed her lips, as if she was expecting some kind of challenge from him, some kind of put-down, some kind of ‘there, there, aren’t you a good girl’.

‘A family business, then?’ Nate asked.

‘This farm has been in our family for generations.’ So, yes. Again, there was that challenging look, like she was expecting him to say something derogatory.

‘That’s very...’ he searched for the right word, ‘admirable.’

Nate inched lower in his chair and closed his eyes briefly. ‘Admirable’ was definitely not the right word, because Laurel’s eyebrow cocked so high it was nearly lost in her hairline.

‘I don’t work here out of duty,’ she said, placing her teacup down in the mismatched saucer and drawing herself more upright, if that was even possible. ‘I work here because I love this place. In fact, it’s not work at all, it’s my life.’

Nate took a long look at her, because that was awesome. Yeah, he loved his job. He loved the research, the excitement of discovering something new, the spread of dirt under his fingernails and the cool, crisp dewy morning air of a brand new dig site.

But it wasn’t his life, and that was the problem with Lucia. She wanted it to be his life, just as it was hers. He’d tried. God, he’d tried. He’d lived out of a backpack for three years, trailing her around the globe, adventuring and discovering. But the tired ache in his chest wasn’t soothed by Lucia’s effervescence anymore, and he wanted to stop, to rest, to be home.

Purple jealousy bloomed in the pit of his stomach at the fact that Laurel had that – a ready-made home, embracing her with the warm arms of family – and just as jealous that she was obviously hell-bent on defending it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket and he shuffled to fish it out, grateful to have the excuse to turn away from her accusatory eyes. Why was she so combative? He had no idea. He hadn’t done anything to her. Christ, he barely remembered her.

‘Don’t you need to get that?’ she asked, tension evident around her mouth.

His phone read ‘Alex Work’, and it could be something that the British Archaeological Society needed, but more than likely, it was Alex just wanting a chat. Nate sent his best friend’s call to voicemail and met her gaze frostily. If she wasn’t going to be friendly, then neither was he.

‘No.’

‘Beautiful tea, Lauren, but we really must get on. I want to look at the site before that nice bus driver takes me back to the university,’ Ivor said, clattering his cup on the table, ignoring the fact that the saucer was waiting right there.

Nate winced when he called her by the wrong name again, but Laurel just smiled benevolently at the old man.

‘Perhaps you can find something exciting like last time you two were both on the same dig,’ he said.

‘The Pictish stylus,’ she said quietly, glancing at Nate so quickly, he would have missed it if he wasn’t already looking at her.

‘Of course,’ Nate said, leaning forward and tracing her face earnestly with his eyes. ‘You found it.’

How could he have forgotten that it was Laurel who had carefully pushed the mud and dirt away from a five-inch-long bone stick, a soft point at one end and the other end squared off.

He hadn’t been there when she’d presented it to Ivor, but others said Ivor told her it was a lovely piece for holding together a cloak, but nothing of particular interest.

Nate could imagine the disappointed slump of her shoulders, the crease between her eyebrows as she tried to explain something to their professor, the dismissal of a blithe ‘yes, yes’.

Her find had been photographed, catalogued, and put in the university’s storage, with all the other finds, to be studied and assessed later.

Finds didn’t belong to the person who found them.

They were university property to be studied and perhaps donated to a loving museum home.

What Laurel had lovingly excavated was the single most career-making find of his entire life.

One that he could never hope to top.

One that had literally made him.

That single discovery had changed the centuries held view of the Picts being illiterate, changed the entire historiography.

It was a massive deal.

First had been the lauded academic paper co-written with Alex, then the TV appearances.

Lucia had been starry-eyed and proud.

But that had been years ago now.

‘Yes, I did.’ Laurel tilted her head defiantly at him. Perhaps she was annoyed that he’d got recognition for the Pictish stylus and she hadn’t? But she hadn’t written the paper. He and Alex had.

‘Well, hopefully, we can find something of equal, if not more, historical significance on your farm,’ Nate said, leaning back in his chair again and watching her carefully.

Something about Laurel, maybe the way her full lip curved, or the sleekness of her neck, made him want to watch her, to study her.

There was something hidden behind her bronze eyes, some blatant distaste for him.

He knew himself, he was kind, he helped people out.

So, what was it about him that made Laurel’s lips tense together and her eyes become flat and distant?

They knew of each other in university, but they’d never had any interaction that could inspire this reaction from her, and certainly not ten years after they’d last seen each other.

‘Hmm, yes.’ Laurel folded her hands on the table and regarded him, clearly waiting for him to say something more. Her face was an attractive shade of fuchsia and she was obviously battling hard to not look down or away, anywhere but at him.

‘Come on then please, Dr Daley. Let’s get moving, get the students up to the trenches.’ The professor heaved himself up from the table, tipping an imaginary hat to Laurel.

This was precisely the reason that Nate had been drafted in to ‘help’ (i.e., run) the dig. The trenches had not yet been dug.

Nate checked his watch, precisely fifteen minutes until the plant machinery was due to arrive to dig said trenches.

They’d already run the geophysics initial tests to see shadows of any finds under the earth, and he’d made the decision as to where the three trenches were going to be, which should be an excellent starting point.

With any luck, this would turn into a full-fledged excavation of near enough the entire field, if the geophysics results were anything to go by. Which they should be.

There was hidden treasure in the fields, and all he had to do was find it.

‘I’ll need someone to direct the plant machinery,’ Nate said, standing. Laurel’s eyebrows climbed her forehead and she blinked at him, balancing her elbows on the table and linking her fingers together, waiting.

‘Please.’ Nate held back the eye roll, but couldn’t stop his hands from flaring out, and his lips curving into a sarcastic little grin.

Laurel narrowed her eyes at him and was silent for two slow breaths. Nate could weather her little power play. Especially because the pink flush on her neck was deepening with every second he looked at her.

‘Jack will be down from lambing shortly. He’ll direct your plant.’ Laurel stood, straightened the skirt of her dress, gave a fleeting smile to Ivor, a glare to Nate, and headed for the exit.

‘Who’s Jack?’ Nate called after her, tucking his hands in his pockets and watching Laurel’s dress swish around her thighs as she walked. God, she even walked authoritatively.

‘My older brother,’ she called over her shoulder, without stopping.

‘Quite a girl that one, Nathanial. Quite a girl.’ Ivor clapped Nate on his shoulder as he ambled past.

Yes, she was indeed.

Laurel

Apparently, Nate fucking Daley, as well as becoming infinitely more attractive, had become infinitely more of an arrogant wanker as well.

Laurel fumed as she stormed up the stairs to the offices above the farm shop, and didn’t everyone know it.

That condescending ‘of course, you found it’.

That mocking smile when she pointedly refused to help until he’d said please (come on now, being polite is basic human behaviour).

And the insinuation that Laurel’s little family farm business wasn’t as worthy as his job.

Okay, fine, he didn’t actually come right out and say it, but the way he probed for information, Laurel knew that’s exactly what he thought – that Little Willow Farm and her life choices weren’t sophisticated or exciting, and ‘oh look at my suit’.

Well, fuck him.

‘Sylvie,’ Laurel called on her way past her assistant’s office. ‘Can you buzz Jack to make sure he’s down in the farmyard to show the plant machinery where to go?’

‘On it, boss,’ Sylvie answered.

Laurel headed into her office and closed the door quietly behind her, leaning on it with her eyes closed.

This was not how today was supposed to go.

Professor Rowlands was supposed to be running the dig, probably with the aid of a post grad or two. Laurel had not banked on Nate Daley being here as well. How quickly did he turn from a gruff ‘I need to get to the site’ to ‘oh yes, let’s have afternoon tea’. What was that about? She wanted to pry open that nailed-shut box of dreams in the bottom drawer of her desk and let them out, bit by bit, just to see what it would feel like if she didn’t have to run Little Willow Farm. Instead, her dreams of being on-site, helping out a little, being involved, drooped with her shoulders.

Laurel had helped with the funding, she’d lobbied for Professor Rowlands and his team, she was putting them up, it was her fucking land. But no, with Nate I-don’t-say-please Daley in charge, it was unlikely that she’d be able to enter her own field, let alone get her hands dirty. She certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking.

No thank you. Her shoulders drooped.

Well, now that her afternoon plans of helping and coordinating with Professor Rowlands were scuppered, what was she supposed to do? Laurel had crammed as much as she could into this morning to ensure that she had some spare time this afternoon, and now she would be sitting at her desk watching the clock ticking. Sure, she could recheck the Single Farm Payment paperwork or have a look at the preliminary maize maze designs, but that had been planned for tomorrow and next week, and quite frankly, she didn’t want to.

Laurel slumped at her desk and checked her phone.

It was her best friend and Jack’s wife, Rebecca.

Rebecca was Jack’s true love, his one and only, the girl he first kissed when he was fourteen. He waited and pined and wrote terrible poetry until he was sixteen and Rebecca noticed him again. Rebecca had fallen hard for her brother and Laurel’s heart grew every time she thought about their Grand Passion. Not that their life had been without ups and downs. It had been difficult when Rebecca went to university and Jack stayed on the farm. But what was Jack’s loss was Laurel’s gain.

By the time Rebecca had absolutely smashed her Legal Practice Certificate – to enable her to be the best lawyer that county had ever seen – and Laurel’s BA was completed, and they both returned to the farm, Rebecca was no longer just her brother’s girlfriend. They were fast, firm, best friends. Much to Jack’s disappointment. He didn’t like sharing, especially not when it came to Rebecca, but there were worse people to share her with than his sister.

And it was Rebecca. Not Becca, not Reba, not Becky, not Beck. REBECCA.

Thing was though, Rebecca didn’t know what had happened with Nate Daley and Alex Woollard. Well, she obviously knew that Laurel had the most heart-wrenching, dry-mouthed, beetroot-red crush on Nate because twenty-year-old Laurel was about as subtle as two bricks smashing together. But Laurel had been too embarrassed to ever tell her, or anyone, what happened in the student union bar that afternoon ten years ago.

After, Laurel had taken a long, hard look at herself and resolved never to put herself on the line like that again. She’d protected herself and her heart by wrapping it in that magnificent iron ribbon in her chest, locked the ends together and swallowed the key.

Not that she’d completely given up. A Grand Passion was out there somewhere, but that iron ribbon was not being unwound unless she was absolutely sure. Tinder, and her favourite toys in the bedside drawer, helped. A lot.

Laurel wandered around her office, trailing her fingers across her large meeting table. She straightened the black and white photograph of the farmhouse from the 1860s and made sure all the ring binders on the shelves were neatly aligned.

The car park below was filling, and Laurel watched a mother try to navigate a pram around a massive pile of cow shit.

Could Robin do any less around the farm? Their father let him get away with anything, and he certainly didn’t listen to Laurel. She’d have to get Jack to have a word with him, because this was less than acceptable.

‘Sylvie,’ Laurel called, unbuckling her sandals. ‘Did you speak to Robin about the yard? The car park?’

Her assistant appeared in the doorway.

‘Yes, I did. He promised he would do it.’ Sylvie wrung her hands in front of her.

Laurel clicked her tongue.

‘It’s not your fault. It’s my absolute dickhead of a little brother, don’t worry.’ She’d read enough management books to know that her highly strung temperament wasn’t usually the most conducive for building a good working environment. ‘I’m sorry for swearing,’ she said, giving Sylvie what she hoped was a reassuring smile. ‘Give me an hour, and then come and see me and give me an update on the social media campaign for the Pick Your Own.’

Laurel pulled socks over her beautifully manicured feet and shuffled them into her Hunters wellies.

‘But, I...’ Sylvie took a breath. ‘That meeting is set for tomorrow. I haven’t quite finished everything.’

Laurel regarded Sylvie and smiled kindly, because Sylvie had grown as an employee as well.

‘Yes, you’re quite right. Thanks for reminding me.’

Sylvie let out a breath and turned back to her office.

As Laurel headed outside to find Robin, or more likely, as CEO of Little Willow Farm Holdings Limited, shovel the shit herself, she reasoned that Nate Daley turning up was really just another management challenge. Another learning opportunity. Another way to help her grow as a person.

Rebecca wouldn’t see this until after her meeting. It would make her laugh, hopefully to offset the worry that Laurel had probably caused with the ridiculously needy text she’d sent earlier.

Perhaps a bit of manual labour in her very nice summer work dress would do her good. If not, at least people would be able to park.

Yes, that would be the perfect end to Laurel’s shitty day.