Chapter 5
Alex
England lose another scrum and Phil lets out the kind of despairing noise usually heard at funerals.
“Oh, come on,” he groans, dragging his hands down his face. “Hopeless.”
“To be expected,” I say, finishing the last of my pint. “Another?”
He doesn’t take his eyes off the screen. “Go on then.”
I grab our empty glasses and head to the bar. Martin, the landlord, is also watching the match with the intensity of someone monitoring a heart monitor.
“Two Oatmeal Stouts,” I say.
He barely tears his eyes away from the telly but nods and takes the glasses.
The door opens behind me. A draft sweeps in, along with the soft murmur of new voices.
I turn and spot Emma just behind Christina. Something loosens in my chest. I wasn’t sure she’d come. I’d hoped — but knowing how nervous she is, I didn’t count on it. Seeing her here feels… good. Better than I expected.
She’s wearing a top that suits her far too well, her cheeks flushed pink already. Her hair is up in a messy knot, a few curls falling loose. She looks… pretty. Not flashy. Not trying. Just pretty in a way that hits somewhere low and warm.
She meets my eyes for half a heartbeat, blushes violently, and immediately tries to hide behind Christina. Cute doesn’t cover it.
“You came,” I say to both of them, though my eyes can’t help lingering on Emma.
“It took a small miracle,” Christina announces proudly. “And one threat. But she’s here.”
Emma looks like she’d quite like the ground to open and swallow her whole.
“Well, in that case, let me get your drinks,” I offer.
Christina taps her chin, pretending to deliberate. “I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
She flounces off toward the table where Phil is sitting. Phil spots her heading his way and goes instantly rigid. Bless him. The lad can hang off a cliff edge in a storm, but one confident woman walks towards him and he forgets how to function.
Emma stays in front of me, twisting her fingers around her bank card like she’s trying to bend it to her will.
I take a small step closer, slow enough not to spook her. A stray strand of hair has slipped down her cheek, and without thinking, I reach out and gently tuck it behind her ear.
Her breath catches. Mine does too.
“What about you?” I ask softly. “What can I get you?”
She swallows. “Pint of lemonade, please.” Then she quickly adds, “I can pay.”
I shake my head lightly. “Not today.”
Martin slides over the pints and I gesture to them. “Why don’t you take these two to the table? I’ll bring yours.”
She hesitates, then nods. Her hands tremble a little as she picks up the drinks, but she carries them steadily across the pub.
Phil sits bolt upright as Christina chats at him. He is absolutely ramrod stiff. The lad looks ready to pass out. I bite back a smile.
I bring the drinks to the table and find Christina has commandeered my usual seat, leaving the only spare spot right beside Emma.
I won’t complain. I’ve lost any interest in the rugby in any case.
Emma sits holding her lemonade in both hands like it’s a life raft.
“So,” I say gently, “how does Fellside compare to London so far?”
She lifts her gaze just enough to look up through her lashes. She probably doesn’t realise how sweet yet sexy that is.
“It’s great,” she murmurs. “I hated London.”
“Same,” I say. “I’ve only been a few times. But it’s too busy. Too loud. Too many people pretending their coffee order is a personality.”
A tiny smile appears. Blink-and-you’d-miss-it, but it’s there.
“Done much exploring yet?” I ask.
“No,” she says, then her voice warms a little. “But I went for a walk behind the mill last week and got lost. And I found this small waterfall in a side valley. Not the famous one — a hidden one. It was beautiful.”
She lights up as she speaks, her whole face shifting. It’s like seeing a glimpse of her without the shyness wrapped around her like armour.
I scroll through my phone, find a picture, and offer it to her. “This one?”
Her breath catches. “Yes! That’s it.”
She turns the phone so Christina can see. “This is the waterfall I told you about.”
Christina studies it with great interest. “Stunning. Alex, take her there. She wants to go back.”
Emma stiffens immediately. “No, no, it’s fine. If you tell me the name I can look it up.”
“I’d like to take you,” I say quietly.
She stares at me, puzzled. “Why?”
“Because I want to spend more time with you.”
Her brow furrows. “Why?”
I smile. “Because you’re interesting. And I’d like to get to know you.”
She freezes.
Then stands so abruptly her drink nearly spills. “Sorry. I… I need to go.”
And before any of us can react, she’s out of her chair and heading for the door.
For a second I just sit there, stunned. I didn’t say anything outrageous. I didn’t touch her. I kept it light. So why did that hit her like a fire alarm?
Part of me wants to run after her, check she’s all right. The other part knows that would only make things worse. She looked spooked enough already.
I drag a hand over my face. Brilliant. Well done, Harris. One minute she’s smiling at a waterfall photo and the next she’s bolting like you’ve proposed marriage.
I let my hand drop and look over at the others. Christina presses her lips together, half exasperated, half worried. Phil just blinks up at me like I’ve spoken in riddles.
“Well,” Christina says at last, grabbing her bag, “looks like my friend is even weirder than yours.”
Phil splutters. “Hey!”
She pats his head. “It’s all right, Bambi. You’re cute-weird. She’s panic-weird.”
Phil’s face turns a shade that could stop traffic.
Christina steps back from the table but pauses, fixing me with a surprisingly serious look.
“Are you actually interested?” she asks quietly.
“More than is sensible,” I say, because there’s no point lying.
She nods once, decisive. “Then don’t write her off.
She’s not great with people. New ones, especially.
She doesn’t trust easily. Doesn’t expect anyone to pick her.
” She slings her bag over her shoulder. “If you’re serious, be patient with her.
Take it slow. Don’t disappear just because she panicked. ”
I nod, throat tight for reasons I don’t particularly want to analyse in a public place.
She gives Phil one last affectionate tap on the head. “See you soon, Bambi.” Then she heads out after Emma.
Phil and I sit there in the quiet left behind.
He clears his throat. “Mate… you all right?”
I huff out a laugh. “Not my smoothest performance.”
Phil shifts, thinking. “For what it’s worth… she didn’t look annoyed. More… overwhelmed.”
I glance at the door she disappeared through. The draft from her exit still lingers.
“I’d like another chance,” I admit quietly.
Phil nudges my shoulder. “Then you’ll get one.”
I hope he's right.
Because for the first time in a long time, I actually want one.
We finish our drinks in a mostly comfortable silence. Phil checks the time and winces.
“Right, I’d better get going,” he says. “Jane’s roped me into helping at her tack shop tonight. Her assistant’s got norovirus, and apparently half the county has decided their horses urgently need salt licks, fly spray and luxury hoof balm.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Busy day in the world of horse fashion?” We drop our empty glasses at the bar on the way out of the pub.
He groans. “You’re laughing now, but last time I helped my sister a Shetland pony escaped its stable, ate half a display of apple treats and chased a spaniel across the car park. I nearly retired on the spot.”
I snort. “Good luck, mate.”
“If I don’t make it out alive,” he sighs as we step out of the pub, “tell Mum I was taken down by a feral pony.”
He heads off down the lane muttering something about hoof oil and chaos.
I take the opposite route home, the evening air helping — very slightly — to settle my head.
Inside my cottage, I drop my phone on the coffee table, collapse onto the sofa, and immediately replay the entire disastrous encounter with Emma.
Her smile at the waterfall photo. Her shrinking the second I showed genuine interest. Her sprinting out like I'd asked her to elope.
I rub a hand over my face. Brilliant work, Harris. Absolutely textbook.
I clearly need advice.
Which means calling Dan, the one person guaranteed to mock me first and help second.
He’s been my best mate since we were five. He’s the lad who once shoved a bully into a puddle for mocking my gap teeth, the only person who knows every bad decision I’ve ever made and still answers the phone.
I hit his name.
He answers on the third ring.
“Harris,” he says, voice warm, amused. “You only ring after three pints or a cock-up. Judging by the timing… cock-up?”
I groan. “How do you always know?”
“I have a gift. And a long history of rescuing you from your own stupidity. Go on then. What’s the damage?”
I flop deeper into the sofa. “A woman.”
“Aha!” He sits forward; I can hear the grin in his voice. “At last. Tell Uncle Dan everything.”
I tell him the lot: the pub, the conversation, the hair tuck I should maybe not have done, and Emma’s sudden sprint towards freedom.
He whistles. “Right. And you’re sure you didn’t loom? You have a tendency to loom when you like someone.”
“I did not loom.”
“Good. Looming is for villains.”
I sigh. “She panicked. Proper panicked. And I don’t know why.”
“Fine, fine. She sounds shy. Like, proper shy. So go slow. Steady. Friendly. No pressure. No big gestures.”
“That’s basically what her friend said.”
“Her friend sounds wise.”
“She calls Phil ‘Bambi.’”
Dan bursts out laughing. “Oh that’s outstanding. Poor bloke.”
I rub my forehead. “He hated it.”
“I would too,” Dan says cheerfully. “But still funny.”
“Can we focus?” I ask, though I’m smiling despite myself.
“Right, right. Back to Emma then.”
He goes quiet for a second, then says, “Look… I don’t know her, obviously. But from how you’re telling it, it doesn’t sound like she legged it because she was angry. Maybe she was just overwhelmed. It happens.”
I lean my head back on the sofa. “She did look startled.”
“Exactly. And that’s different from ‘get lost’. You’re used to women who jump straight in. This one might just… need slower steps. Could be wrong. I usually am.”
I huff a laugh. “That’s more like it.”
“Point is,” he goes on, “you didn’t say anything awful. You didn’t insult her. You didn’t spill a pint on her jeans. She just panicked. So go steady. Ease in. Let her get used to you.”
I exhale slowly. “I can do that.”
“Good,” he says. “Because if you’d properly blown it, she wouldn’t have bolted — she’d have told you to sod off before she left.”
I laugh despite myself. “Helpful.”
“I know. I’m basically a therapist,” he says, deadpan.
“God help us all,” I chuckle.
Dan clears his throat. “Right. Off you go. Slowly. And don’t brood. And for the love of sanity, don’t practise conversation starters in the mirror.”
“I don’t do that.”
“You absolutely do.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Night, mate.”
I end the call and let the phone drop onto my chest.
The cottage is quiet around me. Just the creaking of the floorboards cooling down, the faint hum of the fridge, the smell of woodsmoke drifting in from next door. Normally it settles me. Tonight it leaves too much space to think.
Christina’s words echo first. Go slow. Don’t vanish. She’s not used to people choosing her.
Then Dan’s voice, more cautious. Maybe she was overwhelmed. Try again — gently. I scrub my palms over my face.
“All right,” I say out loud into the empty room. “One more shot.”
Not because I think I’m owed anything. Not because it’ll be easy. And definitely not because Dan told me to.
But because something about Emma feels… unfinished. Like there’s more there if she ever lets someone close enough to see it.
One more chance.
If she bolts again — fair enough. I’m not chasing someone who doesn’t want to be caught.
She’ll just have to be the one that got away. The one I wonder about when I’m old and grey and Phil’s still being called Bambi.
I let out a long breath.
“One more shot,” I say again, quieter this time.
Then I push myself off the sofa, switch off the light, and head upstairs.
Tomorrow, I’ll take the slow route. And see where it leads.