Sunrise in Thistle Bay Read Online Claire Anders

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 76794 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)

Fall in love with Thistle Bay.

A childhood in care has left Cat Radcliffe craving connection and a place to call home. When she takes an assignment for a company in the Scottish seaside town of Thistle Bay, her focus is on doing the work well to get a good reference for her fledgling copywriting business.
Nick Bell has lived in Thistle Bay his entire life. His last girlfriend headed to London to escape small-town living and he vowed not to get involved with another city girl. When he meets Cat, he knows he should ignore his growing attraction for the girl who’s lived in eight cities in as many years.
Just as Cat is beginning to make plans for the future, an explosive secret shatters her world and sends her running back to the city.

Sunrise in Thistle Bay is a story of family, forgiveness and self-discovery.



Cat pushed her trolley of suitcases through the open doors of Edinburgh Airport’s arrivals hall and scanned the white cards held by people dressed in an array of wildly different styles. Her eyes fixed on her own name, Catherine Radcliffe. She had expected it to say Thistle Bay Chocolate Company. On the handful of occasions she had been collected at an airport for work purposes, the card had always had the company name written on it.

The man holding the card was one of the more smartly dressed individuals. He wore a black suit, white shirt and a dark green tie. He wouldn’t have been out of place at a funeral.

‘Hi,’ said Cat, managing to sound brighter than she felt. ‘That’s me.’

‘Miss Radcliffe. Welcome to Scotland.’ The man stepped beside her and took over the handlebar of her trolley. ‘Allow me. I’m Arthur.’ He placed the name card on top of her cases and steered the trolley through the horde of people gathered by the doors. ‘How was your flight?’

‘It was good, thanks.’ Cat played along with the usual airport small talk as they exited the terminal and walked to the car – black, of course – which was parked in a bay on the ground floor of the multi-storey car park. Arthur stowed her suitcases in the large boot and opened the rear passenger door of the sleek Mercedes.

‘I’ll return your trolley,’ he said. ‘You get yourself settled.’

Cat stared into the back of the car. This was the last part of her journey. The immaculate leather seats and the freshly vacuumed carpet in the footwells should have been inviting after fifteen hours of travelling. Instead, the hair on the nape of her neck lifted and beads of sweat dampened her collar.

‘Everything OK, Miss Radcliffe?’ asked Arthur, arriving back at the car.

‘Actually, would you mind if I sat in the front?’

Arthur closed the rear door and opened the front passenger one instead. ‘If that’s what you would prefer. You get travel sick, do you?’

‘Something like that.’

People who knew her story always presumed Cat would want to sit in the back of a car. After all, it was being in the back that had likely saved her life in the head-on collision that had claimed the lives of her beloved adoptive parents when she was six. But she preferred to sit in the front. The higher chance of death didn’t bother her. You’re dead – you don’t know about it, she had always thought. The problem is what you miss when you can’t see in front of you.

It had happened two years after the accident. Cat still remembered the crunching of tyres on the gravel driveway, the car pulling up in front of a house as she looked out of the window to see where they were stopping. Hartsfield Children’s Centre. She could still feel the chill that had spread through her eight-year-old body, the look on her foster mother’s face that told Cat everything she needed to know as she’d opened the car door for her to get out of the back seat. Cat had said nothing as she was led inside the building, her foster father trailing behind with her rucksack and a cardboard box. They’d all sat in a room with orange fabric chairs and a chipped coffee table while a woman introduced herself only as Mo. And then came those words that had stung her so badly as a child: ‘With our own baby on the way,’ her foster mother had said with a hand on her swollen stomach, ‘we don’t think we can help you become the person you are capable of becoming. We thought it best to let it happen as quickly as possible for you.’ Those words that, as an adult, she saw were just a cop out – the kind of thing that people said when trying to make themselves feel better for doing things they knew weren’t right. There had been no discussion, no time to prepare.