Desperately Seeking Summer Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Mandy Baggot

  Praise

  Title Page

  Dedication

  One: The Travellers’ Rest, Romsey, Hampshire, England

  Two: The Oven Door, Romsey

  Three: Abby Dolan’s flat, Romsey

  Four: Villa Pappas, San Stefanos, Corfu, Greece

  Five: San Stefanos Bay, Corfu

  Six: Desperately Seeking, San Stefanos

  Seven: The Dolan House, San Stefanos

  Eight

  Nine: Villa Pappas

  Ten: The Dolan House

  Eleven: The Blue Vine

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen: San Stefanos Village

  Sixteen: Desperately Seeking

  Seventeen: Villa Pappas

  Eighteen

  Nineteen: Desperately Seeking

  Twenty: Acharavi Beachfront

  Twenty-one: The Olive Way Workshop, Near Pelekito

  Twenty-two: San Stefanos Harbour

  Twenty-three: The Dolan House

  Twenty-four: The Blue Vine

  Twenty-five: George’s Taverna

  Twenty-six: The Blue Vine

  Twenty-seven: San Stefanos Harbour

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine: The Dolan House

  Thirty: Villa Pappas

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two: Sidari

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four: Desperately Seeking

  Thirty-five: Pelekito

  Thirty-six: The Dolan House

  Thirty-seven: Villa Pappas

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one: Desperately Seeking

  Forty-two: The Blue Vine

  Forty-three: Desperately Seeking

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine: The Blue Vine

  Fifty: Logas Beach, Peroulades

  Fifty-one: 7th Heaven Bar, Peroulades

  Fifty-two: En route to San Stefanos

  Fifty-three: The Olive Way Workshop, Near Pelekito

  Fifty-four: Desperately Seeking

  Fifty-five: Villa Pappas

  Fifty-six: Desperately Seeking

  Fifty-seven: San Stefanos Harbour

  Fifty-eight: En route to Erikousa

  Fifty-nine: Erikousa Island

  Sixty: Katergo Hill, Erikousa Island

  Sixty-one: Porto, Erikousa Island

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three: Hotel Erikousa

  Sixty-four

  Sixty-five

  Sixty-six

  Sixty-seven: The Beach House, Porto

  Sixty-eight

  Sixty-nine: Desperately Seeking

  Seventy

  Seventy-one: Eucalyptus Taverna, San Stefanos

  Seventy-two: San Stefanos Harbour

  Greek Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  Read on for an extract from Single for the Summer

  Copyright

  About the Book

  Escape to Greece with the perfect feel-good romantic comedy to read on the beach this summer

  Abby Dolan is having a very bad day…

  In twenty-four hours, she’s lost her job and her boyfriend. Single and with nothing left to lose, she’s headed for a Corfu escape to spend time with her family while she heals her broken heart.

  Only her mum and sister’s estate agency ‘Desperately Seeking’ is just that, desperate! Instead of the relaxing, sunshine holiday she’d hoped for, Abby finds herself spending her break helping get the business back on its feet. Determined to attract new clients and give her family a second chance at success, she finds the perfect property to sell in Villa Pappas complete with gorgeous gardener, Theo.

  Perhaps working this summer could be a welcome distraction after all. But Theo has his own secrets and Abby isn’t the only thing he wants to take off the market…

  About the Author

  Mandy Baggot is an award-winning romance writer. She loves the Greek island of Corfu, white wine, country music and handbags. Also a singer, she has taken part in ITV1’s Who Dares Sings and The X-Factor

  Mandy is a member of the Romantic Novelists’ Association and the Society of Authors and lives near Salisbury, Wiltshire, UK with her husband and two daughters.

  Find out more about Mandy on her website www.mandybaggot.com, follow her on Facebook/MandyBaggotAuthor and on Twitter and Instagram @mandybaggot

  Also by Mandy Baggot

  Single for the Summer

  One Christmas Kiss in Notting Hill

  Praise for Mandy Baggot

  ‘Diving into this book is like diving into the Aegean. Sunshine in story form – I absolutely love Mandy’s books’

  Milly Johnson, Sunday Times bestselling author

  ‘A sizzling seasonal read from the Queen of Hot Heroes!’

  Heidi Swain, Sunday Times bestselling author

  ‘Great characters and a sunny setting make this the perfect beach read’

  Bella Osborne

  ‘A lush summery read, guaranteed to satisfy all the sense. Her exquisite descriptions of food won’t be the only thing you salivate over. Scrumptious sun-kissed romance at its best!’

  Samantha Tonge

  ‘Sizzling, summery and totally delightful, this book is everything a holiday read should be! Mandy Baggot effortlessly transported me to the clear blue skies, sparkling azure sea and the perfect beaches of Corfu. A gorgeous hug-of-a-book and the ultimate summer romance’

  Zara Stoneley

  ‘A perfect beach read, this one had me hooked. Mandy creates characters that are full of life and absolutely delightful. I thoroughly enjoyed this book!’

  Jenny Hale

  ‘It made me want to pack my flip-flops and head straight to Corfu – laugh-out-loud funny, full of heart and melting with hot romance – what more could you need? This is fun, flirty and heartfelt romance at its very best’

  Annie Lyons

  To Mr Megalos, you are my rock, my soul-mate, my everything …

  One

  The Travellers’ Rest, Romsey, Hampshire, England

  8 June

  To-Do List

  Re-jig Ladies Who Lunch meeting.

  Speak to Stanley about the smell in Room 26 … and his own individual fragrance.

  Email Mr Kimber about the iPhone charger left in Room 10 DONE!!!

  More flowers in the lobby? Summer scents. Not too expensive.

  Book tickets to the new play coming to the Orb. Maybe Bistro Côte before?

  Buy some luxury cat food to stop Poldark straying to Mr Clements’ house. Is Sheba still the best?

  Remind Darrell it’s Amber’s birthday next week. Suggest the new Beyoncé perfume … or the latest weepy book about a dog who must fend for itself … or maybe an Oxfam goat gift.

  Abby Dolan sipped her frothy coffee. Cold again. Still, cold meant she had been totally focused on setting up her day with lists. Shaking back her long, brunette hair, she took comfort in the blissful contentment of having scheduled her day. She had focus. She had order. And her superb organisational skill-set was exactly why she had been successfully managing The Travellers’ Rest, Romsey for the past eighteen months. Well, she wasn’t officially the actual manager, that was Kathy. But Kathy was more an overseer rather than a do-er. And Abby was pretty sure Kathy had her sights set on the Birmingham Maypole branch. It was just a matter of time until Abby got promoted. And along with the new job title would come a bigger salary, perhaps even enou
gh for her and Darrell to finally move out of the compact flat above M&Co. Maybe even into a house with a garden. Nothing worthy of needing help from Monty Don, but just big enough for some planters – lavender, jasmine, perhaps some herbs. She’d been secretly dying to try and infuse a little spice into Darrell’s eating repertoire for a while now. There were only so many Mug Shots you could eat in a week.

  Her eyes went back to her list. If she tackled Stanley – not literally, that would be too close for comfort while he was eau-de-sewer – perhaps she could reward herself with calling the Orb. The rumour was Benedict Cumberbatch was going to play the lead in this six-week run. Who didn’t love a bit of the Cumberbatch?

  ‘Abby.’

  Kathy’s voice at close quarters had Abby dropping her pen to the counter-top. She spun around, a smile on her lips and a mind like Facebook analytics good to go.

  ‘Morning, Kathy,’ Abby began. ‘Now I know you said we had to rein things in a little, but I was thinking, how about some lavender on a plinth, next to the leaflets about Stonehenge and Avebury?’

  ‘Lavender,’ Kathy breathed out.

  Was it Abby’s imagination or did her manager look a little out of sorts? Those were very tired, stressed eyes staring back at her. Perhaps Birmingham Maypole had spurned her professional advances already …

  ‘Yes,’ Abby continued. ‘They’re cheap to buy, with a lovely colour and a sweet, clean fragrance. They also need hardly any water – you know how forgetful Stanley can be sometimes …’ she forged on. ‘Not that I’m having a dig at Stanley or anything …’ She pushed her to-do list under the morning’s newspaper. The raising-the-body-odour issue was her pet project.

  ‘Shall we go into my office?’ Kathy said.

  Abby swallowed. Her boss’s tone was straight-to-the-point and, frankly, a little brusque. Brusque was usually reserved for the salesmen who always insisted they could save them a fortune on Post-it notes. Everyone knew that cheap Post-it notes were a false economy. A few pence saved could be the difference between actually sticking or falling into the gourmet cannon of lamb you had placed on the reception desk for one second while you multi-tasked.

  ‘Shall I get us some of Chef’s limeade?’ Abby suggested. ‘It’s going down so well now the weather’s turned more South of France than South Shields.’

  ‘No,’ Kathy replied. ‘Thank you.’ She paused. ‘This won’t take long and … well, let’s just … have a chat, shall we?’

  Seven minutes. That’s what her eighteen months at The Travellers’ Rest had boiled down to: seven minutes. Tears were falling from Abby’s eyes as she staggered down the high street, not knowing where she was going or what she was doing. How could you possibly know what to do when you had just been told you no longer had a job! Just thinking the words made a little bile lurch into her mouth. Pretty Romsey with its cobbled market square, its shoppers’ arms laden with produce under multi-coloured summer bunting, budding hanging baskets swaying from pale-painted buildings and iron lampposts; the gorgeous scenery barely registered with Abby as she half walked, half stumbled towards her flat. It couldn’t be real. It had to be a mistake. That was what she had first uttered to Kathy when Kathy had said head office had ‘forced her hand’. Her boss had said that no one had worked harder for the company than Abby, but times were tight and they no longer had the budget for an assistant manager. Even now, when it shouldn’t matter to her anymore, Abby began to wonder who exactly would ever get up the nerve to tackle Stanley about his body odour issues. Not Kathy. Kathy had been side-stepping it for months. Perhaps Abby had jinxed her own luck by putting it on today’s to-do list! How could this be happening?! Who was going to make sure Mrs Gerald had her favourite table in the restaurant on Wednesdays? Who would coach the boy from the bakery in all things Home and Away, so he could woo the Australian girl at college? Who would remember to pay the window cleaner? She had never been reimbursed from the last time. She sniffed hard. She was not going to go back for the sake of twenty pounds. And head office didn’t want notice worked. They were going to pay her an extra month straight into her bank account because they wanted her gone. Now. Well, gone she would be. A little sob escaped as she thought about never standing behind the reception desk again. Never again would she be looking at the Constable painting of Salisbury Cathedral, or running a duster over the bust of Sir Terry Pratchett … and now her dreams of a house with a garden were dead in the water too. Her job! Her lovely, lovely job was gone! She needed a hug. She needed Darrell.

  Two

  The Oven Door, Romsey

  Abby guessed she had to look at it as an opportunity. She hadn’t really been happy, had she? Except she had. Predominately. Apart from the fact that a pay rise wouldn’t have gone amiss if her dreams of whole-house ownership were to be realised. Pastry. She needed pastry. Gazing into the bakery window her eyes fell on the extra-large flaky delights of the world famous in Romsey sausage roll. She loved everything about sausage rolls. From the slightly salty, hot seasoned pork in its centre, to the glistening, warm, melt-in-your-mouth outside … Darrell loved them too and despite trying to get him to be more fava beans than Heinz beans lately, treats were allowed. And God, did she need a treat right now.

  Ping! A text message! Yes! This was going to be from Kathy. This was going to be the I’ve-made-an-awful-mistake-I-should-have-fired-useless-receptionist-Miranda-who-doesn’t-know-the-difference-between-a-paper-clip-and-a-staple-instead text. Eagerly unzipping the front pocket of her bag, Abby pulled out her phone. She looked at the screen. It wasn’t Kathy. It was Melody. Her slightly younger, bouncier, blonder sister.

  There was no message, just a photograph. A perfectly calm, azure sea, a picture-postcard blue sky and … what was that? Abby had to squint at the screen to ascertain which male anatomy part was set just to the right of frame. Knowing her sister like she did, it could literally be anything. Bicep … she was going for bicep.

  And then another message arrived.

  Whoops! Soz! Sent pic too soon. Out on a boat today with Igor #GreekLife

  Igor? That wasn’t a Greek name. Abby sighed. What did that matter? All that mattered was she had lost her precious job, the career independence she had wanted so much, and her sister was flaunting a sea scene that she had turned down eighteen months ago. Turned down for The Travellers’ Rest and Darrell. At least she still had Darrell … and fluffy, slightly flea-ridden Poldark, her cat … and a proper English sausage roll coming her way … She pushed open the bakery door.

  That delicious waft of warming bread, grain and a sweet undertone of icing-topped buns hit Abby’s senses and suddenly she was plunged back to being eight years old, holding her mum’s hand tight, she and Melody being allowed to choose a sticky treat. Was it really a sausage roll she craved right now or something sweeter?

  Before her eyes could meet the glass-fronted counter, a laugh permeated the bakery air. A laugh she recognised. Darrell’s secretary, Amber. Model-thin, glossy red-haired Amber surely wouldn’t hang out at a bakery? She was all David Lloyd Clubs and saving the snow leopards. Abby turned her head towards the section of chairs and tables where customers could sit down for a quick bite … and there Amber was … with Darrell.

  In a microsecond, the time it took for Abby’s brain to engage, the scene went from perfectly-innocent-boss-having-lunch-with-his-assistant to why-was-Darrell-holding-Amber’s-hand, then quickly why-was-Darrell-brushing-a-crumb-from-Amber’s-mouth-with-his-little-finger, to finally why-was-Darrell-edging-forward-in-his-seat-over-a-plate-of-macaroons …

  Abby wanted the world to stop. Just cease. Just long enough for her to walk over to the table, move the macaroons, move Darrell and deposit him down a wormhole, back to a time when Amber wasn’t his secretary, when his secretary was church-organ-playing, Mavis. Mavis may have fed him home-made scones which hadn’t helped his waistline, but she would never have allowed the corner of her mouth to be wiped with a pinkie …

  Eyes brimming with tears for the second time that day, Abby watch
ed as the inevitable happened right in front of her. Darrell and Amber, lips meeting, hands clasped together like they wanted to be entwined forever, a kiss that said this literal tête-à-tête was not just business.

  Ping ping!

  Abby was brought to by her phone again and the noise rose above the gentle hum of the coffee machines and slushy maker. Enough to make Darrell draw his eyes away from his date to her.

  Through her tear-glazed vision she saw him mouth the word ‘shit’ and then immediately get to his feet. And that action, happening ultra-fast, her world spinning like the National Lottery big money balls, made Abby react. She didn’t want to hear a word that would spill from his mouth. Flashbacks of snippets of conversation fell like summer blossom through her mind. I’ve got to work late tonight on the Crosby account. It’s the bowling work event, no partners and … you’re not keen on the shoes anyway, are you?

  Just how long had this been going on? Just how long had she been played for a fool?

  ‘Abby,’ Darrell called.

  Well, no more. Not even for a second. With the once welcoming hug of a smell from the Eccles cakes now making her feel queasy, Abby about-faced, head high, blurry eyes focused on her escape route. A few hurried, desperate steps and she was out of there.

  Three

  Abby Dolan’s flat, Romsey

  The text that had landed in the bakery some three hours and forty-eight minutes ago had been another one from Melody. This time a selfie, presumably with the owner of the bicep, Igor. There was her sister, long, tightly curled blonde hair mostly wrapped in a Greek blue-and-white headscarf, her deep-brown tanned body taut and slender, pearly white smile spelling out joy, perfect contentment, utter bliss …

  Abby took a hefty swig of the copper-coloured liquid in the glass she was holding and gathered her knees up into her chest as she sunk into the sofa she and Darrell had chosen just a few months ago. They hadn’t been able to decide between upholstery or leather so had plumped for a mix of the two. It seemed a ridiculous dilemma now. Swallowing back the Greek Metaxa brandy, Abby looked back to her phone and the text accompanying Melody’s last message.