Chapter 4
Emma
Christina is watching me like a disappointed schoolteacher. Arms crossed. Foot tapping. Full judgement face activated.
“Stop denying it, Em. An absolute hunk of a man was flirting with you and you just stood there like your vocabulary had gone on strike.” Christina has spent the entire morning replaying Alex’s visit from yesterday as if it were her new favourite hobby.
I glare at her over the stem I’m trimming. “He wasn’t flirting.”
“He absolutely was.”
“He was being polite,” I say firmly. “People here are like that.”
Christina lets out a dramatic groan and flops back against the doorway between the front and back rooms.
“Polite men do not volunteer as tribute to help you practise talking to strangers.”
My cheeks start burning all over again at the memory. Alex Harris, with his ridiculous grin and easy confidence. Me, making a noise that didn’t even qualify as a word.
“He was just teasing,” I mumble. “People tease.”
“He was not teasing. He was flirting with you.” She points at me accusingly. “And you liked it.”
I nearly drop the carnations. “I did not!”
Christina gives me a look that says try again.
Before I can defend myself further, she softens and shifts her weight. “Look… I actually popped into The Unicorn last night after we closed.”
My head snaps up. “You did what?”
“I wasn’t going to drag you twice down there,” she says simply. “So I had a peek, saw they weren’t there, and left. But they’ll be at the pub today. Saturday’s a big rugby day. Practically a village pilgrimage. So,” she claps her hands, “we’re going.”
“No, we’re not.”
“Yes, we are.”
“No, Christina.”
“Yes, Emma. Because if I don’t get you out of this shop soon, you’ll start growing roots.”
I huff. “I am not going to the pub just to watch you flirt with every man who walks past.”
She smirks. “Every man? No. A carefully curated selection? Absolutely.”
“Christina.”
She puts a hand on her hip. “Fine. How about this. If you refuse to come, I will make you do the presentation at the next Chamber of Commerce meeting.”
My stomach plummets.
Standing up in front of strangers. Being stared at. My personal nightmare. And I know her too well to assume this was just an empty threat. Oh no, she would absolutely make me do it.
She sees the panic and raises an eyebrow. Checkmate.
“Well played,” I mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Hurrah!” She throws her hands up like she’s just won a holiday. “We leave straight after closing.”
I stare at the bouquet I was working on, mind blank. The colours all clash suddenly. My brain is too busy imagining seeing Alex again. Sitting near him. Attempting words.
Utterly terrifying.
Christina disappears to the front of the shop. “Half an hour until closing. No backing out.”
True to her word, she flips the sign to “Closed” at four o’clock and sweeps back in like a one-woman weather system.
“Right. Cottage. Wardrobe. Let’s go.”
“I look fine,” I say. “It’s a pub, not a date.”
She doesn’t waste breath arguing. She simply plucks my keys from my hand and strides through the back door, curls bouncing as if she’s leading a parade.
By the time I catch up with her, half my wardrobe is already spread across my bed.
“What are you doing?” I ask, horrified.
“Looking for something that isn’t a funeral outfit,” she says, rooting around. “You own approximately seven colours: black, black, dark grey, navy, black again, and this floral top you keep buried because you’re terrified of looking nice.”
“I’m not terrified of looking nice,” I protest. “I’m terrified of looking ridiculous.”
Christina pauses at that, her expression softening. “You’re not ridiculous. You’re just out of practice. Let the top give you a nudge.”
I wish I had even half her confidence. Christina grew up hearing she could be anything she fancied.
When I was sixteen, my mother told me no decent man would ever want me unless I lost weight.
I know now how cruel that was, but some things don’t wash off.
They settle. They shape how you move through the world.
Confidence doesn’t spring up easily on poisoned soil.
Christina dives back into the pile and lets out a triumphant gasp, holding up the pale blue top with navy flowers, the one I bought for a wedding and haven’t touched since.
“No,” I say instantly. “Too much.”
“Em,” she groans, “it’s a pretty top, not a ball gown. With jeans, it’s perfect.”
I stare at it. Sweetheart neckline. Soft belt at the waist. Feminine. Visible.
Christina’s voice drops. “You deserve to feel nice. Not for him. For you.”
That gets me more than I want it to.
“Fine,” I mutter. “But if I look ridiculous, I’m blaming you.”
“You’ll look beautiful,” she says, completely certain.
I roll my eyes and head to the bathroom to change before my brain talks me out of the idea.
When I step back into the room, Christina beams. “See? Gorgeous.”
Heat creeps up my neck. The top feels bolder than anything I usually wear, and for a moment I’m convinced there’s far too much colour and far too much neckline on display. Too much me, really. Still… it isn’t as awful as I feared. There’s even a tiny part of me that likes how it looks.
Christina slings her bag over her shoulder. “Come on, before you talk yourself out of it.”
I grab my phone and card, trying not to second-guess every stitch of fabric. The pub’s only down the road; no grand preparation or essentials handbag required.
We step out into the sweet early evening air, and my pulse gives a ridiculous little leap.
I’m about to see him again. Alex Harris. And I haven’t the faintest idea what I’m doing.
Christina links her arm through mine. “Time for operation ‘Get Emma socialised’.”
“I hate this operation.”
“You’ll live,” she says breezily.
We head down the road toward the pub. The sky is stretched out the sun still high in the sky, the last of the heat shimmering off the rooftops. The village feels relaxed and summery, all gentle light and open windows. The complete opposite of how my stomach feels.
Christina bumps her shoulder against mine. “So. Alex.”
“No.” I stare ahead.
“No what?”
“No talking about him.”
“We’re literally walking to a place where he probably is.”
“That is precisely why we’re not talking about him.”
Christina laughs. “Come on. Admit it. You fancy him a little.”
“I don’t know him,” I say, flustered. “You cannot fancy someone you know nothing about.”
“Of course you can. That’s what half of romance novels are built on.”
“I don’t fancy him,” I insist. “He’s just… very confident.”
“And handsome,” she adds.
“That too.”
“And funny.”
“Yes.”
“And he looked at you like you were interesting.”
I trip on a paving stone. “No he didn’t.”
“He absolutely did. I know that look.”
“People… men don’t give me that look.”
“Because you never let anyone get close enough to give you one… look that is,” she giggles at that last comment.
I groan. “Can we please stop analysing this like it’s a GCSE text?”
“Fine,” she says lightly. “Then answer this: if he asked you out, would you go?”
I splutter. “He won’t.”
“That’s not the question, Emma.”
We pass Mrs Fletcher’s garden wall. I lower my voice as if the rose bushes might be listening.
“I don’t know,” I whisper honestly. “Probably not. I’d just… panic.”
Christina squeezes my arm. “That’s all right. Panic is allowed. But so is saying yes.”
We reach the corner where The Unicorn sits, tucked behind the square. Saturday night hum drifts out — laughter, clinking glasses, the low rumble of rugby on TV.
My heart thumps so wildly I’m sure everyone in the village can hear it.
Christina gives me a bright smile. “Ready?”
“No,” I say again.
She grins. “Perfect.”
And with that, she pushes open the door.