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CHAPTER ONE
Lake Benson’s midlife crisis lasted exactly twenty-four hours. In that time he quit his career with the army and bought a lingerie shop. All things considered, he was glad the crisis hadn’t lasted longer.
“I told you,” whined his little sister. “I can do this myself. I have a business plan. You’re only interfering because you’re bored and don’t know what to do with yourself.”
“That’s not the point,” Lake told her as he looked up at the sign on the front of the shop. “The point is, you obviously need my help. You’re haemorrhaging money. My money.”
He hadn’t even set foot inside the shop and already he could see a problem.
“That”—he pointed at the sign—”has to go.”
Rainne twisted a strand of her long hair, a dead giveaway that he wasn’t getting the whole story.
“I can’t get rid of the sign,” she said at last. “It’s part of the town’s heritage.”
Lake folded his arms tight across his chest. Heritage his hairy backside.
“You also didn’t tell me how isolated this place is,” he said.
“It’s busy during the tourist season—you know, summer.”
For Scotland that was about two weeks in August.
“And you neglected to mention that we have competition.”
He cocked his head towards the lingerie shop, which sat opposite them on the high street. Unlike the shop that had eaten all of his money, the one over the road actually looked like people would buy lingerie in it.
“Ah, yeah,” his sister said as she toed the pavement with her pink Doc Marten boot. “But Kirsty’s shop has a different clientele than ours.”
“One that buys underwear?”
She missed the sarcasm.
“Uh, no, she sells sexier stuff—you know, for occasions. We sell everyday wear. Think utilitarian.”
He was about to tell his sister that she was talking rubbish when the shop door flew open and a tiny cube of a woman hobbled out. Lake guessed her age to be close to two hundred.
“You,” she said as she pointed at him. “What are you and why are you here?”
Rainne shrank beside him. Her face shot past pink and straight to purple. Here it comes, thought Lake, the catch. Every time he got involved with his family there was a catch.
“I’m Lake Benson,” he told the Hobbit. “I own this business.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed under eyebrows that were hairier than her head.
“Rainne girl,” she said, but she kept her eyes on Lake. “I thought I sold my business to you.”
His sister shuffled on the spot, making all the tiny bells sewn into the bottom of her tie-dye skirt jingle.
“Ah, well,” she said. “My brother here, he’s, um, like my silent partner.”
“I’ve been watching,” the woman said. “He’s doing an awful lot of talking for a man who’s supposed to be silent.”
