Chapter 3
Harley
Harley drops the last patio chair onto the patterned red oriental rug, wondering how many generations of people contributed to its worn appearance.
The scatter of white plastic furniture looks incongruous against the rugs and burnished oak floor-to-ceiling shelves of the luxurious grand library, but there aren’t enough seats for the residents of all eight apartments.
One of his tasks as Site Manager is setting up for the commonhold association meetings, and it makes him laugh to realise how far he’s fallen.
What would his so-called friends say if they could see him now?
They’d think him tamed, faded… broken. But the significantly reduced rent with the job is a godsend, given the state of his finances after The Bitch fleeced him.
The same woman who’d accused him of being a selfish, self-absorbed and unfeeling bastard.
Yet in the end, who’d been the mercenary one walking away with most of the money?
He is agitated, face reddening as humiliation and resentment coils inside his abdomen.
He lays a surreptitious hand over the small paunch that’s developed since the surgery.
If he can cut down on the alcohol and do manual labour, perhaps his toned physique will return.
Even if it’s not to play the game he loves so much.
Once the darling of the professional tennis world, the press adored the man they’d once labelled the Henry Cavill of sport, given his passing resemblance to the actor.
However, they’d just as quickly turned on him when things went wrong, their poisonous stories and judgemental condemnations making him the most hated man in the UK for several horrific weeks.
He hadn’t been able to sue them for slander because most of what they’d printed was true, even if twisted in the worst possible way.
All he cares about now is keeping a low profile.
Guarding his privacy while he heals… and works out what the hell’s going on with his body.
Pulling out his mobile, he scrolls through various social media platforms and news sites, hunting for headlines about how he’s hiding out in a converted manor near the New Forest. Nothing.
Blowing out a relieved breath, he tucks the phone away and notices as the oddball with the eccentric dress sense who asked him to set up earlier – Arthur, or Abel or something – enters the room.
Studying the haphazard arrangement of patio furniture thrown in alongside a yellow chaise longue and red silk-covered chairs brought down from the attic, his bushy eyebrows draw together, and Harley half expects a criticism.
Instead, the old man ambles over with a genteel smile. ‘Thank you. Are you settling in all right?’
Harley steps back with a half-shrug, and grunts.
‘Fine.’ His new neighbour looks harmless, but there’s a sharpness to his gaze that’s a threat to Harley’s peace of mind.
Tugging his baseball cap down to shield his face, he points at the antique grandfather clock.
‘Five to two. Guess you’ll be starting soon… ?’ He trails off.
‘Albie. Just waiting for a few more people to arrive.’ He gestures to where the scatter of residents eye each other with interest, some expectant, others impatient.
‘Right,’ Harley mutters, ‘well, I’ll be over there.
’ Without waiting for a reply, he stalks away.
Slumping against the damask wallpaper near the door, he thinks how the name Albie suits the man.
Cosy and warm, but with a hint of mischief.
Irritatingly, a familiar little voice sniggers inside his head, followed by a tune that keeps playing on loop. He shoves both aside.
A slight young woman slips in, and he straightens, struck by her beauty even in the unflattering outfit and with her black hair in a haphazard bun.
Her eyes widen as she takes in the book-lined walls and crystal chandelier, mouth gaping before clicking shut.
Glancing warily at the room’s occupants, she lowers her head, shoulders hunching.
Reading her intent as she heads towards a lone chair at the back, Harley strides forward and holds it out. ‘Here you go.’
She flinches, hissing, ‘Don’t touch me.’
He jerks away. ‘I wasn’t going to.’ But he can’t help staring, admiring the warmth of her olive skin – she’s partly Spanish maybe, or Italian – although there’s pallor beneath the surface and heavy bags under her eyes. She looks haunted, wretched, and there’s something familiar—
The clock starts bonging, interrupting his thoughts. He frowns, sure there should be another few minutes before it’s due to strike two.
At the same time, back off, she’s scared of you, the little voice says, as if he couldn’t work it out for himself.
‘I was just being a gentleman,’ he responds, before cursing inwardly. Why is he talking to the voice? Maybe he’s going mad.
‘Well, don’t.’ The girl snaps the words frostily, assuming he was addressing her.
Despite her bedraggled appearance and standoffish manner, in his old life he’d have been drawn to her, especially as he thrived on a challenge. But trying to chase the most beautiful woman in the room has only led to tragedy and been part of his downfall, so he steps back. ‘Sorry.’
She nods, before scowling up into his face. ‘Do I know you?’
‘No.’ He gulps, worrying she’s recognised him despite the short beard cultivated to hide his chiselled jaw. Yanking the baseball cap further down over his navy-blue eyes, he’s glad his trademark sable waves are covered as he returns to his position against the wall.
As Albie takes his place at the front of the room, Harley’s attention drifts to the girl again.
In the instant their gazes clashed, he’d known he was right about that familiarity.
They’re kindred spirits because there’s something damaged about her.
He’s learned to recognise the type; he sees it every time he looks in the mirror.
Instinctively, he puts a hand to his chest, brooding over the little voice that keeps interrupting his thoughts.
There is no escaping the consequences of what happened to him, it seems.