Chapter 9
It would have been easier to forget about last night’s disaster if the bookstore wasn’t right across the road from Warren’s favourite café.
He’d only dropped into town for a late breakfast before what he knew would be a long day, and resolved to maintain that plan.
Once he’d finished … staring. Once he’d caught sight of her rattling around inside.
Move it along, Warren. For Christ’s sakes, she wants nothing to do with you. You want nothing to do with her.
He all but carried his legs away from the café towards his van, parked on the corner.
The buttery smell of pastry emanating from Pam’s Pies tempted him, but he’d already had “brunch” – which he liked to say because it made his beans on toast sound fancier.
The old-fashioned bakery was his second favourite establishment in Belbarrow, especially after discovering delicious stone-baked pizza was on the menu.
A loud thwack sounded behind him just as he passed the window of golden bread loaves and Scotch pies, and he turned to find Eiley shoving a box of books out onto the pavement.
He waited for someone to help her with the heavy stock, but a passerby only dodged around her without so much as a smile.
From what he could see, nobody was inside, either. She was alone.
She shouldn’t have to be.
So he doubled back towards the entrance of the pie shop. They’d managed to talk without her getting angry on the drive home last night. Maybe she’d actually appreciate his help today, especially if he came bearing cheesy pizza.
And then he reversed, because he wasn’t sure she did deserve it, especially not from him. He’d say something too direct, she’d probably find something new to snap at him about, and he’d be left to feel like a fool for even trying.
Before he knew it, he was dancing back and forth between his van and Pam’s Pies like some sort of Scottish Andrew Lincoln in a Love, Actually scene – which, for the record, he’d only watched against his will when he couldn’t find the TV remote, a phenomenon that somehow seemed to happen every Christmas.
People were looking now, and he didn’t know what to do.
It was in his nature to offer help. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d returned to the scene of a job just to check in on those affected.
And she’d apologised. That surely put them on common ground.
The memory of her devastated features echoed in his mind, and he knew his bloody empathy was about to decide for him.
If she kicked him out, he’d leave immediately, and that would be that.
What was the worst that could happen? He’d have a whole box of pizza to himself? That would be a shame.
He’d try. Not for her, or so he told himself, but because that was what he did.
Inside, he found he wasn’t the only one queuing up for lunch.
“You really kept us all on our toes out there,” a curvy, dark-haired lass drawled by the mounted chalkboard menu.
He grinned bashfully at the woman, who had introduced herself as Blair, a teaching assistant at the village school, last week.
The firehouse was just across the road from the primary school, so his first taste of Belbarrow had been rambunctious uniformed school children and a couple of friendly staff members.
Blair’s skin was a glowy gold, her thick raven hair tossed across one shoulder.
Undeniably pretty, and undeniably flirting, just like last time they’d spoke outside the school gates.
He stood in line behind an elderly man with a cane.
“I was trying and failing to resist temptation.” He couldn’t help but respond in kind, meeting her sultry gaze.
“Ah. No fires to put out today?” she said, toying with the straps of her bag. She’d been dressed for school last week in an A-line skirt that had done wonders for her hips and thighs, but even in today’s casual leggings and subtle makeup, she still looked gorgeous.
“Thankfully not.” He debated if he should make the most of it. Ask her out to dinner. It seemed like she was interested and at least he’d not managed to offend her, which he didn’t take for granted after last week’s failed flirtation.
But something stopped him, a lump of cotton in his mouth. He sipped his takeout coffee, trying to pick his words. He was so used to being direct, not analysing his attempts at conversation, but that had blown his chance with Eiley. Maybe he should tread more carefully in future.
And also more quickly. Pam handed Blair a box over the counter, exchanging pleasantries while Blair paid, meaning he’d missed his chance.
When she finished, she turned back to Warren. “Hope to see you around again, soon.”
“Aye, enjoy your weekend.” It was a flat way to end the conversation, and he cursed himself for being too wrapped up in thoughts of Eiley – which quickly resumed when it was his turn to order. What would she like?
He opted for his favourite pizza topping, which no sane person would dislike: salami and mushroom.
Then, in case she was a vegetarian, which he supposed would allow him to make an exception, he grabbed a Margherita as well.
He added a box of chocolate doughnuts to the list, because everybody needed comfort food after a night like hers.
Hopefully, they wouldn’t end up squashed in his face.
With the meals paid for and boxed up in his arms, he considered the moss-green sign of the bookstore just once more before he crossed the road. Did he want to do this?
If he didn’t, his stomach did.
Stuff it. He crossed the road.
The door was propped open by a box of books, so he knocked on the glass pane as he stepped in, no easy feat when juggling all his goodies.
Eiley was curled, unmoving, over the front desk, her face concealed by her hands and mussed hair.
Another one of those needles lanced through him, one he wanted to pass off as plain sympathy but knew was slightly more.
He supposed he had a soft spot for short, angry firecrackers who hurled verbal abuse at him.
“We’re closed,” she muttered, and finally lifted her head. He couldn’t tell if her frown was from fatigue or despair.
It was no surprise when her features shuttered further on seeing who her visitor was, although the bitter dislike only appeared half as strong today.
Almost like she didn’t have the energy to commit to it, which suited him just fine.
He just had to manage not to put his foot in it for one conversation. “You,” she uttered.
“Don’t act too happy to see me,” he joked. Then he paused. Was he being too much again? Why did he always go straight to humour when he was on edge?
“What are you doing here?”
“You looked like you needed help.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, then you looked like you needed pizza.” He placed the boxes on the counter in front of her, glad when her sloped shoulders loosened just slightly.
But she still looked tense as she straightened, eyes fixing on him.
Finally, he got to see the colour of them in the daylight.
Not green or blue, but somewhere in between, cast in grey like the Scottish winter skies.
“Why does everyone think I’m some poor, helpless woman who can’t fend for herself? ”
“I can think of a few words to describe you, firecracker, but none of them are poor or helpless .” He sipped his coffee in an act of feigned nonchalance. “If you don’t like pizza, there are also doughnuts in there. And if you don’t like those, well … you might finally get rid of me for good.”
She sat, eyeing the boxes like she was expecting a clutter of spiders to emerge.
He rolled his eyes. Usually, he had plenty of patience to spare.
Needed it for the job. With her, she leached it all from him the minute they entered the same space, the same way the dehumidifier sucked away the damp.
He needed to know what she was thinking, feeling, like a thread was pulled taut between them and it was his job to untie the knots.
“Look,” she said finally, “this is nice of you, but I have way too much to do.”
“Okay. I can eat and work.” He had to, most of the time. On busy days, he was lucky if he got the chance to scarf down a bag of crisps. Only since moving to Belbarrow had he learned that enjoying a full meal, sat at a table, was sometimes possible.
He slipped off his navy waterproof jacket – unnecessary considering the unending dry spell but a Scot could never be too careful – and rubbed his hands together as he took in the mess. Some of the books had been moved from the shelves into boxes, but not many. “So, how are we doing this?”
“I really don’t need you to help me.”
“So tell me to go,” he challenged.
She didn’t, instead poking into the first pizza box and winkling her nose. “Mushrooms?”
“Mushrooms are tasty!”
“They’re slimy and soggy.” She peeled off a slice of salami, and he set out the box of Margherita in front of her instead.
“I knew you’d be a picky eater. Next, you’ll tell me you don’t like cheese.”
“Now that’s offensive. Cheese is my favourite.”
He watched, satisfied, as she tucked into the greasy goodness, battling with the stringy cheese when it stuck to her chin.
Her tongue slipped over her bottom lip after a gentle nibble, chasing away a smudge of sauce from the downturned corner, and he was suddenly hungry for something that wasn’t pizza.
Did she have any idea how fucking irresistible she was?
She couldn’t, because she did it without trying.
From the fire she’d ignited last night to the way she licked her fingers after polishing off the first slice, she was …
effortlessly herself. Hair wavy and untamed around her cheeks after last night’s downpour, attention half-stolen by the boxes around her: somewhere else, always somewhere else.
Under his skin.