Chapter Nine
I sink lower into my seat, briefly meeting Alistair’s gaze as I do. He doesn’t say anything, but his eyes glitter with curiosity and warmth.
I stare resolutely at the table. Maybe if I don’t actually see Declan, I can pretend that the voice doesn’t belong to him. Never mind that my whole body feels like it’s on alert.
‘Clarrie!’ calls Ruth, her voice clearer as she emerges from behind the bookshelf. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, and my breath is tight in my lungs. I wish there were another six tables’ worth of wool between us. But if I keep my head down he’s going to think I’m scared of him.
So I look up.
Ruth is grinning at me, her smile wide and conspiratorial.
And beside her, his curls sticking up in a way that looks unfairly good and his green eyes bright, is Declan.
He holds my gaze, and I feel my stupid breath catch in my throat.
Dimly, I realise that he’s not wearing his cap.
Because of what I said yesterday? Or more likely, you know, because it’s dark outside. Get it together, Clarrie.
‘Clarrie, you won’t believe it, but Declan here found your keys.’ Ruth waves a set in her hand and I tear my eyes away from him to look at what she’s holding.
My keys to the shop.
They were on the freaking table in the deli yesterday.
And, just like that, anger flares in the pit of my stomach. ‘Did you steal them?’ I blurt out. He did – very memorably – leave before me.
‘If I stole them,’ says Declan with infuriating patience, like me leading with an accusation isn’t surprising, ‘why would I bring them back here?’
‘Oh!’ gasps Diane in a voice I’m pretty sure is meant to be a whisper but is very much not. ‘Maybe he wanted an excuse to see you again!’
Declan doesn’t look at her, but his eyes flash, and does he flinch ? An answering flush rises to my cheeks and damn it .
‘I had to go back to the deli for something,’ clips Declan. ‘They gave them to me.’
‘Why would they do that?’
‘I don’t know,’ says Declan. ‘Maybe they thought we were friends.’
I’m suddenly aware that everyone in Knit, Stitch and Yarn is following our conversation like we’re in a tennis match. Declan doesn’t even look at them, his gaze fixed firmly on mine. My face feels like it’s on fire.
‘Thank you,’ I manage to choke out. ‘That’s so kind of you to bring them here. How did you know where I was?’
‘I was on my way to the bookshop and I saw you come in here,’ says Declan curtly.
‘I tried this morning, but there was a crowd. The shop was already open, so I thought you’d manage until tonight.
’ His gaze flicks around at the group of people, as though just remembering they’re there, then down at the floor.
‘Right,’ I say.
This group of people who were very talkative a few minutes ago is completely silent. Waiting.
Declan clears his throat.
‘Well, thanks for your assistance,’ he says to Ruth, like he’s about to leave.
‘No.’
The word is short, firm and decisively uttered.
The silence – if possible – becomes even more stark, and everyone turns to look at pink-haired Susan.
She rests her knitting on the table, then narrows her eyes until they almost disappear.
‘I need your head.’
Declan frowns at me as though it’s me insisting that he can’t leave because of his head. For the first time since my conversation with Mum, I almost feel like laughing. Though in a desperate, hysterical kind of way.
When he hesitates, Ruth smiles at him kindly – I’m not sure she knows another way to smile.
‘You don’t have to stay, Declan,’ she says. ‘Though you are, of course, most welcome to.’
‘He does have to stay,’ says Susan. Then, in a move I definitely didn’t see coming, her whole posture softens.
When she speaks, it’s with a totally different tone to what I’ve heard come out of her mouth since I’ve been here.
‘My grandson lives in London,’ she explains to Declan with tears in her eyes.
‘He can’t afford to come back home for holidays, and I can’t afford to visit.
I’m making him this beanie to connect us. Your head is the same size as his.’
Everyone looks at Declan again. There’s no way he can possibly refuse without looking totally heartless.
For a second, he looks like he’s on the brink of leaving anyway, but then he exhales sharply and with a glance at me so quick I might’ve imagined it, he starts moving around the table to where Susan is sitting.
Her tears dry up almost instantly, and she points to the seat next to her.
‘Sit there,’ she says.
Declan sits and I keep my gaze carefully fixed forward. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Susan wrapping a piece of wool round his head to measure it. Declan moves slightly, and Susan smacks him on the arm. A laugh hums unexpectedly in my stomach, and I meet Alistair’s eyes to see him grinning.
The silence that’s overtaken the table begins to thaw, and gradually chatter starts up again. It feels as though Declan and I have always been part of whatever this madness is.
Then Sofia rests her hand against my arm. ‘He’s very handsome,’ she says. ‘Did you say you aren’t friends?’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I mean yes . I mean we aren’t friends.’
I stumble over the words and before I can stop myself my eyes flick to Declan again.
His gaze is on Susan in front of him. He doesn’t move, but there’s something about the way he’s holding himself that leaves me in little doubt that he can hear every word.
Although the tension could just be from the fact that she’s waving her knitting needles in his face.
‘Oh, look at that,’ breathes Diane, looking between the two of us. My cheeks heat immediately and, not for the first time in the past forty-eight hours, I curse both Declan Archer and whatever genetics made me so prone to blushing.
‘Maybe you’re not friends because you’re destined to be lovers ,’ says Min before I can recover, and holy crap .
‘Hush up, all of you,’ says Alistair, leaning forward in his chair and banging on the table.
This time Declan does look over. Unreadable eyes meet mine before I can look away, and heat spreads through my chest. Seriously, is there no way to stop a blush before it makes it the whole way across your face? If Alistair notices, he doesn’t say anything. Just points a finger at Diane.
‘You’re just trying to take the attention off the sparks flying between you and Mr Grumpypants over there.’
Diane’s eyes go wide and Frank’s disappear under his eyebrows while Sofia crows with delight beside me.
‘This old fart?’ says Diane, recovering more swiftly and with infinitely more class than I managed to. ‘Like I’d have him.’
Frank guffaws. ‘Think very highly of yourself, don’t you?’
‘As I rightly should,’ says Diane.
Their bickering carries the conversation forward, the others joining in with their own opinions, and then Ruth brings a pot of tea over which seems to calm the whole situation down. Whatever the case, it has the very relieving effect of taking the focus off me.
When I manage to pull myself under control, I turn to face Alistair in the seat beside me.
‘Thank you,’ I whisper to him.
‘We’re a nosy lot,’ says Alistair. ‘I would have hidden you with my blanket, but I’m afraid it’s only just big enough to cover your forehead so far,’ he adds with a wink, holding up what must be six rows of stitching.
He notices my scrutiny of whatever it is he’s making.
‘Two and a half years,’ he says proudly. ‘It’s the least anyone has managed to accomplish in the history of the group, not that your gran didn’t try to beat me at being the worst.’ His voice softens. ‘She was up to row seven, last time we compared.’
My eyes meet his, but he doesn’t say anything. He just covers one of my cold hands with his warm one and before I can start crying, he begins talking loudly about how superior knitting is to crocheting, setting off another argument across the table between Frank and Diane.
I end up staying for almost an hour, and I don’t talk to Declan the entire time.
Still, his presence is like an annoying magnet, tugging at my senses.
I must get used to it eventually, though, because as time passes I begin to feel .
. . not comfortable, exactly, but not like crying any more either.
Alistair helps. He acts as my buffer, chatting to me between dropping bombshells in the conversations around us.
But when, towards the end of the evening, I overhear Diane enquire about Declan’s relationship status with what is most assuredly a furtive look at me, I freeze. What the hell, Diane?
‘I’m not dating,’ says Declan. His voice is slightly husky – he hasn’t spoken in the hour he’s been here – but there’s a firmness in it that I haven’t heard before.
He doesn’t offer anything further, and the entire group falls silent, like his words are still echoing in the air.
And oh my goodness is Min looking at me with sympathy?
I want to announce that I don’t even want to date him, but that will undoubtedly make them think I do.
‘Hear, hear,’ says Frank. Diane glares at him.
‘What is it that you do for work, Declan?’ asks Ruth tentatively, and a twinge of defensiveness and something else trickles through me.
‘I write,’ is all Declan says, but his voice is cautious now rather than curt.
‘A writer!’ says Ruth. ‘Would I know anything you’ve written?’
‘Maybe,’ says Declan. He doesn’t announce that he’s becoming the hottest thing since sliced bread – which, okay, fine, would be a weird thing to announce, given that bread is not hot unless you put it in a toaster.
And, even then, it’s either mildly warm or burnt, depending on how crappy your crap toaster is.
Then Ruth turns to me.
‘Clarrie, do you have any of Declan’s books in the bookshop?’ she asks. She’s so lovely and earnest and I want to shove her question back in her mouth.
‘We’ve got a few copies,’ I manage to mumble. I think about lying and telling her I sent most of them back to the publisher because it just wasn’t selling, rather than that we’ve all but sold out. But Declan will know I’m lying anyway, and it would probably just make him more arrogant.
‘Very good,’ she says. ‘Hopefully it won’t be as busy as it was yesterday – you had quite a crowd outside. Is there another Lord of the Rings book out?’
I don’t know how to answer. Declan’s mouth twitches, the side curving up ever so slightly.
‘If you do decide to buy a copy of my book, I’d be happy to sign it for you,’ he says to Ruth, and then he unleashes the smile – the real one – and it stuns at least half the room.
For the first time in an hour, the desperate urge to leave sweeps over me again. This time, though, it’s to get as far away from that smile, from his smugness, as I can. I manage a few more minutes before I push my chair back with a calm I don’t quite feel.
‘I should be off,’ I say to Ruth. ‘Thank you for tonight.’
‘It was so good to see you, darling,’ says Ruth, leaning in for a hug. ‘Maybe we’ll see you next month?’
She smells like lavender and warmth, and I nod noncommittally against her shoulder.
I don’t look back, but I can feel Declan’s gaze like prickles against my skin.
And, even though I’m leaving first, even though he still has a piece of Susan’s yarn wrapped around his head, I’m not entirely sure I won this round, either.