How to Find Love in a Book Shop(24)

Ian hadn’t got all this and the Aston Martin parked outside by being nice. Next to it was Jackson’s ancient Suzuki Jeep, the only set of wheels he could afford now, what with the mortgage payments and the maintenance for Mia, which took up nearly all his salary. His mates told him he’d been soft, that he’d let Mia walk all over him. It wasn’t as if they were even married. He didn’t have to give her a penny, they told him. But it was about Finn. Jackson had responsibilities and a duty to his son, which meant he had to look after his mother. And to be fair, Mia hadn’t actually asked for anything. He’d known it was his duty.

Which was why he was still running around after Ian instead of setting up on his own, which had been his original intention. But you needed cash to start up, even as a jobbing builder who just did flat roof extensions and conservatories. That’s how Ian had begun. Now he did luxury apartments and housing developments. He was minted. He had proven that you could claw your way up from the bottom to the top.

Jackson was Ian’s right-hand man. He kept an eye on all his projects and reported back. He scoped potential developments: it was Jackson who had given Ian the heads-up on the glove factory, which meant Ian had been able to swoop in and get it at a knock-down price before it went on the market.

Which was why Jackson knew he was capable of achieving what Ian had. He could spot the potential in a building. He had the knowledge, the experience, the energy; he knew the tradesmen who could crew it. He just didn’t have the killer instinct. Or, right now, the money he needed to invest in setting up on his own. He’d missed the boat. He should have done it years ago, when he was young and had no responsibilities. Now he was trapped. Not even thirty and he’d painted himself into a dingy little corner.

He hunched down in the chrome and leather barstool opposite Ian. Ian was spinning from side to side in his, smug and self-satisfied, tapping a pencil on the shiny black granite. In front of them were his development plans for the old glove factory: line drawings of the building and its surroundings.

‘So,’ said Ian, in the broad burr he hadn’t lost despite his millions. ‘I want that book shop. That is a prestige building and I want it as my head office. It’s classy. If I do that up right, it’ll do more for my reputation than any advert.’

Ian was obsessed with how people perceived him. He longed for people to think he was a class act. And he was right – the book shop was one of the nicest buildings in Peasebrook, right on the bridge. Jackson could already see the sign hanging outside in his mind’s eye: Peasebrook Developments, with its oak leaf logo.

‘And I’ve gone over the drawings for the glove factory again and done a bit of jiggling. If I get the book shop car park, I can have parking for four more flats. Without it, I’m down to eight units, which doesn’t make it worth my while. Twelve will see me a nice fat profit. But you know what the council are like. They want their allocated parking. And that’s like gold dust in Peasebrook.’

He tapped the drawing of the car park with his pencil.

‘Julius Nightingale wasn’t having any of it,’ Ian went on. ‘One of those irritating buggers who don’t think money’s important. I offered him a hefty whack, but he wasn’t interested. But now he’s gone and it’s just his daughter. She insists she’s not interested either. But now the dad’s gone, she’s going to struggle to keep that place afloat. I reckon she could be persuaded to see sense. Only she’s not going to want to hear it from me. So … that’s where you come in, pretty boy.’

Ian grinned. Jackson was, indeed, a pretty boy, slight but muscular, with brown eyes as bright as a robin’s. There was a little bit of the rakish gypsy about him. His eyes and mouth were wreathed in laughter lines, even though he hadn’t had that much to laugh about over the past few years. With his slightly too long hair and his aviator sunglasses, he looked like trouble and radiated mischief but he had warmth and charm and a ready wit. He was quicksilver – though he didn’t have a malicious bone in his body. He just couldn’t say no – to trouble or a pretty girl. Although not the pretty girls any more. His heart wasn’t in it. He wasn’t even sure he had a heart these days.

Jackson listened to what Ian was saying and frowned. ‘But how am I going to get to know her? I’ve never read a book in my life.’

‘Not even The Da Vinci Code? I thought everyone had read that.’ Ian wasn’t a great reader himself, but he managed the odd thumping hardback on holiday.

Jackson shook his head. He could read, but he never did. Books held no thrall for him. They smelled bad and reminded him of school. He’d hated school – and school had hated him. He’d felt caged and ridiculed and they had been as glad to see the back of him as he had been to leave.

Ian shrugged.

‘It’s up to you to work out how to do it. But you’re a good-looking boy. The way to a girl’s heart is through her knickers, surely?’

Even Jackson looked mildly disgusted by this. Ian leant forward with a smile.

‘You get me that shop and you can manage the glove factory development.’

Jackson raised his eyebrows. This was a step up, letting him manage an entire project. But Ian’s offer was a double-edged sword. He was flattered that Ian thought him capable of the job. Which of course he was.

But Jackson wanted to be able to do what Ian was doing for himself. He needed money if he was going to do that. Proper money. Right now, Jackson couldn’t even put down a deposit on a pigsty.