Page 3

CHAPTER 2

S ebastian disliked delays. Delays meant shifting timelines, shifting timelines meant annoyed board members, and annoyed board members meant revenue left on the table. The discovery of human remains in The Red Lion’s cellar? That was a setback wrapped in a headache, wrapped in what would undoubtedly become a very expensive scandal.

He brought his Aston Martin to a smooth stop across the street from the pub and assessed the scene through the windshield. A break in the clouds let morning light spill over the building’s weathered facade, highlighting every crack and imperfection that would need addressing during renovation. Police tape blocked the main entrance, and officers moved briskly between marked vehicles.

Not ideal. But then again, Sebastian had built his reputation on turning the not-ideal into the highly profitable.

Straightening his already perfect tie—a nervous habit he’d never quite shaken—Sebastian stepped out. His Italian shoes clicked against the damp pavement as he crossed the street, drawing the attention of a nearby officer whose uniform looked like it had seen better decades.

“Sorry, sir. Pub’s closed.” The officer gestured at the tape with the weary authority of someone who’d explained this exact thing seventeen times already. “Criminal investigation.”

“I’m aware.” Sebastian produced a business card from his inner pocket with the smooth efficiency of a magician pulling silk scarves from his sleeve. “Sebastian Westfield. Westfield Development. We’ve made an offer on this property. I need to speak with whoever’s in charge.”

The officer examined the card with the suspicious reverence most people reserved for documents that might actually matter. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted the tape. “Detective Inspector Morris is inside, but I can’t promise he’ll have time for you.”

“He’ll make time,” Sebastian replied with the quiet confidence of a man who’d never encountered a door that money couldn’t eventually open. He nodded and ducked under the tape.

Inside, the pub felt different in daylight—less mysterious, more...authentic, somehow. Which was an odd thought to have about a building he was planning to knock down. Dust motes floated in sunbeams slicing through the tall windows like nature’s own spotlights, illuminating every worn surface and faded corner. Police tape cordoned off the bar where the cellar stairs lay hidden, and forensics techs moved in hushed coordination, snapping photos and collecting samples with the methodical precision Sebastian usually admired.

And there, at the center of it all, was Tessa Lawson.

She stood with her back to him, dark hair pulled into a no-nonsense ponytail that somehow managed to look both practical and elegant. Last night’s casual hoodie had been replaced by a soft blue blouse that brought out the color of her eyes—not that he’d been paying attention to her eyes. Much. The fabric draped nicely over her shoulders, and when she gestured animatedly while speaking to a man Sebastian assumed was Detective Inspector Morris, he found himself momentarily distracted by the graceful line of her arms.

This was problematic. Sebastian didn’t do distracted. He did focused, calculated, and strategically advantageous. He did not do whatever this was.

“The building predates the Blitz by at least two hundred years,” Tessa was saying, her voice carrying that same passionate undertone he’d noticed the night before. “There’s every chance the remains are historically significant.”

The detective—all furrowed brow and thinning hair that suggested too many late nights and not enough adequate coffee—scribbled something in his notebook. “And you’ve owned the place how long?”

“Three years,” Tessa replied without hesitation. “But there are records of renovations going back decades. Here—” She pulled a folder from under the bar and spread out several aged documents with the reverent care of someone handling religious artifacts. “A work order from 1947. ‘Repairs to cellar after wartime damage.’ They must’ve sealed over that room during restoration—never realizing someone was still inside.”

Sebastian drifted closer, curiosity temporarily overruling his usual urgency to wrap up inconvenient situations. Watching Tessa work was rather like watching a conductor with an orchestra—every movement purposeful, every gesture designed to direct attention exactly where she wanted it. The woman was clearly more formidable than he’d initially calculated.

The detective saw him first, looking up with the suspicious expression of someone whose morning had already been complicated enough, thank you very much.

“This is a closed investigation,” Morris said with admirable authority.

Sebastian offered his most disarming smile and extended his hand. “Sebastian Westfield. Westfield Development. We’ve made an offer on this property.” He’d perfected this introduction over years of practice—warm enough to suggest friendliness, professional enough to indicate serious money, confident enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

Tessa’s head turned sharply at his voice, and Sebastian had the fleeting thought that she had excellent hearing to pick up his voice over the general bustle. Her expression, animated moments before, cooled instantly—like watching someone flip a switch from sunshine to arctic winter.

“Mr. Westfield,” she said with the sort of polite tone usually reserved for tax collectors and door-to-door evangelists. “Back so soon?”

“Professional interest,” he replied smoothly, though something about the way she said his name—with just the faintest emphasis on the ‘Mr.’—made his pulse quicken in a way that was entirely unprofessional. “These recent events impact our timeline.”

Detective Morris glanced between them with the expression of someone sensing undercurrents but not particularly wanting to dive into them. “You’re buying this place?”

“That’s the plan,” Sebastian said, maintaining his pleasant tone despite Tessa’s increasingly frosty stare.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Tessa countered, her voice firm even as she carefully gathered the fragile records with hands that were, Sebastian couldn’t help but notice, both competent and elegant. She had lovely hands, actually. Long fingers, short practical nails, a small scar on her left thumb that suggested she’d learned bar management the hard way.

He really needed to stop noticing her hands.

The detective cleared his throat with the pointed emphasis of someone trying to redirect a conversation that was veering into uncomfortable territory. “Regardless of ownership, the pub will need to remain closed during our investigation.”

“The entire building?” Tessa asked, straightening to her full height—which brought her to about Sebastian’s shoulder, he noted, though she somehow managed to give the impression of looking down at everyone in the room. “The remains were in a sealed cellar room. Surely the main floor could stay open?”

Morris shook his head with bureaucratic finality. “I don’t think?—”

“The cellar has a separate entrance in the alley,” Tessa interjected, moving to point toward the back of the pub with a confidence that suggested she’d already thought this through several steps ahead of everyone else. “Your team could work undisturbed while I reopen the bar. A lot of my regulars depend on this place. For some of them, it’s their only social interaction.”

The words hit Sebastian with unexpected force. She wasn’t just defending her business—she was defending a community. And somehow making him feel like a heartless corporate raider in the process, which was both unfair and annoyingly effective.

“Besides,” Tessa added, producing yet another folder with the efficiency of a magician pulling rabbits from increasingly improbable hats, “I’ve already documented the cellar for my heritage application. Photos, measurements, context—I can share everything with your team.”

A nearby forensic technician perked up like a dog hearing the word ‘walkies.’ “You have structural records?”

“Dating back to the 1700s.” Tessa’s smile could have powered half of London. “Complete architectural surveys, historical context, even some original construction notes.”

Sebastian stifled what might have been either a sigh or a groan. The heritage listing again. The woman was like a chess player who thought seventeen moves ahead while everyone else was still trying to remember which way the knights moved.

“Ms. Lawson has been extremely cooperative,” Morris said, and there was definitely a note of admiration in his voice that made Sebastian’s jaw tighten for reasons he preferred not to examine. “Her documentation has already been invaluable to our preliminary assessment.”

“I’m sure it has,” Sebastian murmured, watching as Tessa laid out diagrams with the sort of reverent precision he usually associated with museum curators. The forensics technician leaned in with obvious fascination, and Tessa began highlighting architectural details, her voice taking on that passionate undertone that did unfortunate things to Sebastian’s concentration.

One hand briefly touched her collarbone as she spoke—an unconscious, entirely feminine gesture that somehow managed to soften her otherwise professional demeanor. The movement drew his attention to the delicate line of her throat, the way the morning light caught the gold flecks in her eyes, the small dimple that appeared when she smiled at something the technician said.

Sebastian forced himself to look away, catching himself in the act of staring like some sort of besotted teenager. This was ridiculous. He was a grown man with a multinational corporation to run, not a schoolboy mooning over the unattainable class president.

Though Tessa Lawson was definitely beginning to feel unattainable in a way that was both frustrating and oddly compelling.

He turned back to Morris, who was watching the exchange between Tessa and the technician with the bemused expression of someone witnessing something unexpectedly charming. “How long do you anticipate the investigation will take?”

Morris dragged his attention back to Sebastian with visible effort. “Hard to say. At least a week, possibly longer if the remains prove to be?—”

“Three days,” Tessa cut in, not even looking up from her architectural diagrams. “For full closure, I mean. I need to reopen by Monday. Mrs. Eldridge’s birthday party is booked—she’s turning eighty-five and has been counting on this celebration for months.”

The easy confidence in her voice suggested this wasn’t a request so much as a statement of fact. Sebastian found himself grudgingly impressed despite the inconvenience to his own timeline.

To his surprise, Detective Morris didn’t dismiss the idea outright. Instead, he scratched his chin thoughtfully, as if actually considering the logistics. “If we could seal off the cellar properly and restrict access...we might be able to wrap up the preliminary work by then.”

“Perfect,” Tessa said with the sort of brisk satisfaction that suggested the matter had been settled entirely to her specifications. The confident half-smile that curved her lips sent an unexpected flutter through Sebastian’s chest, which was both annoying and deeply concerning.

This was absolutely not how the morning was supposed to go.

She should have been overwhelmed by now. Shaken by the discovery, worried about the financial implications, looking for a quick sale to escape the mounting complications. Instead, she was charming police officers, managing crime scene logistics, and somehow making everyone in the room want to help her succeed.

Including, Sebastian was beginning to suspect, himself. Which was a problem of the highest order.

He retreated to a quiet corner and pulled out his phone, as much to give himself something to focus on besides Tessa’s laugh as to actually accomplish anything useful. Time to adjust the acquisition strategy, possibly involving significantly more patience than he’d originally budgeted for.

As he scrolled through his messages, a notification appeared that made his day measurably worse: Board meeting moved to Thursday. Quarterly projections required.

Wonderful. The board was already restless about several delayed acquisitions, and any further setbacks—even ones involving historically significant human remains—would be received with all the enthusiasm of a tax audit.

Sebastian began composing an email to his legal team, but his attention kept straying to Tessa despite his best efforts to maintain professional focus. She navigated the chaos with quiet authority, answering questions with the patience of a natural teacher, pausing to stroke the head of an elderly spaniel who had somehow followed one of the officers inside and now seemed to consider himself part of the investigation team.

This place was hers in a way that went far beyond legal ownership. Every gesture, every interaction, every protective instinct she displayed made that abundantly clear. Watching her was like watching someone defend their home—which, Sebastian realized with uncomfortable clarity, was exactly what she was doing.

When she laughed at something one of the technicians said, the sound cut through the somber atmosphere like silver bells through fog. It was a genuinely delighted sound, warm and unguarded, and it lingered in the air long after the conversation had moved on.

Sebastian found himself listening for it to happen again, which was both unprofessional and deeply problematic.

He forced his attention back to his phone with the determination of someone swimming against a very strong current.

This was a property acquisition. A strategic investment in prime London real estate. The hand-hewn wood beams and soot-stained hearth represented square footage and potential profit margins. The way Tessa Lawson described 17th-century masonry techniques with unmistakable passion was entirely irrelevant to the bottom line.

He sent the email and tucked the phone away with perhaps more force than necessary. Time to pivot, reassess, make a more appealing offer. In his experience, everyone had a price—it was simply a matter of finding the right number and the right approach.

Still, watching Tessa trace the lines of an architectural diagram with the sort of reverence most people reserved for precious artifacts, he wasn’t entirely convinced his usual strategies would prove effective.

Which was either a challenge to be overcome or a warning to be heeded. Sebastian had built his career on refusing to acknowledge the difference.

He approached her with his most professional smile, waiting for a break in her conversation with the forensics team. “Ms. Lawson, might I have a word when you’re free? Perhaps later today?”

She didn’t look up from her diagrams, though he caught the slight tightening around her eyes that suggested she was perfectly aware of his presence. “As you can see, I’m quite busy at the moment.”

“Of course. It won’t take long—just a brief conversation about our offer, in light of recent...developments.” He kept his tone light, casual, the sort of voice that suggested flexibility and mutual benefit rather than corporate steamrolling.

She finally met his eyes, and Sebastian was struck again by how direct her gaze was. No warmth there now, but no fear either. Just cool assessment, as if she were taking his measure and finding it somewhat lacking.

“Fine,” she said after a moment that stretched just long enough to make her point about inconvenience. “Stop by around closing time. We can talk then.”

“I’ll look forward to it.” He extended his hand in what he hoped was a gesture of professional courtesy rather than corporate dominance. She took it—businesslike, brief, her grip firm and surprisingly warm. The contact resonated through him with unexpected intensity, like touching a live wire he hadn’t known was electrified.

He withdrew his hand perhaps a beat too quickly, nodding once. “Until then, Ms. Lawson.”

As he turned to leave, his eye caught the shattered mirror still lying in glittering fragments near the hearth. For a split second, he could have sworn he saw a silhouette reflected in the largest shard—just beyond his shoulder, hovering at the edge of his peripheral vision. But when he looked directly at the glass, there was nothing there except his own reflection looking faintly perplexed.

Sebastian blinked hard and shook his head slightly. He was tired, that was all. Too many late nights reviewing acquisition reports and not enough decent coffee.

Skeletons, historic buildings, and women who refused to yield in the face of death, bureaucracy, or development pressure—they were all conspiring to infiltrate his usually well-ordered thoughts. Tessa Lawson in particular seemed determined to complicate what should have been a straightforward business transaction.

Just another challenge, he told himself as he stepped back into the morning sunlight. Nothing he couldn’t overcome with the right strategy, the right offer, and the right amount of determined patience.

Though as he settled back into his Aston Martin and caught one last glimpse of Tessa through the pub’s windows—animated, passionate, utterly in her element—Sebastian had the unsettling suspicion that his usual playbook might need some significant revision.

The thought should have been concerning. Instead, he found it almost...intriguing.

Which was definitely a problem for another day.