Chapter 6
Emma
Iam such an idiot.
The air outside the pub hits my face, but the humiliation hits harder. My heart is thudding, my stomach is in my shoes, and I cannot believe I reacted like that. Why am I like this? Why can’t I behave like a normal person instead of panicking the moment a man actually looks at me with interest?
“Emma, wait.”
I stop. Of course Christina followed me. I turn slowly. She doesn’t look annoyed. She just looks… worried.
She steps closer, voice gentle. “Em… I saw the way he looked at you. And the way you looked at him. Something spooked you. Tell me what.”
My throat tightens. The words come out small. “I don’t know. He asked me out and I panicked. Completely.”
She nods slowly. “Okay. That’s honest. But why did it scare you so much?”
I look down at the pavement. “Because… things like this don’t happen to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because they never have,” I say quietly. “Every time I’ve liked someone it’s gone badly. And when people tell you often enough that you’re not what anyone wants, it sticks.” My voice cracks on the last word. “Then he smiled at me and my brain just went into meltdown.”
Christina sighs softly, a mixture of affection and exasperation. “What am I going to do with you, Em?”
A weak laugh escapes me. “Hide me in a cupboard?”
“Tempting,” she says with a smile, “but no. You like him. He likes you. That’s all that happened.”
“I doubt he still does after my spectacular exit.”
“No,” she says gently. “You are doing that thing again. Assuming the worst. Automatically deciding you’re the problem.”
I swallow hard. “I’m just tired, Christina. Things going wrong… it wears you down.”
She squeezes my arm. “I know. But you also deserve something good. And you don’t have to figure it out all at once. Just take it one tiny step at a time.”
We reach my cottage. I hesitate at the door. “Come in?”
“Not tonight,” she says brightly. “I am heading home for a bath and a bit of online shopping. I need an outfit that knocks Bambi’s socks off.”
I blink. “Who is Bambi?”
“Phil,” she says, delighted with herself. “Timid. Sweet. Looks like a startled deer. I am determined.”
I laugh despite my mortification. “Happy hunting.”
She waves and disappears down the lane. I step inside, shut the door, and lean against it. Why can’t I be even half as brave as her?
I hate Mondays.
Mondays mean Christina is out doing all the deliveries, which leaves me alone in the shop. And being alone in the shop means dealing with people.
Real people.
People who want conversation and confidence I simply do not have on a Monday morning.
The shop bell chimes.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” I call, closing the walk-in fridge. I step out into the front room and spot Charlotte at the counter with a box in her arms.
“Morning,” I say, already smiling. Charlotte moved up from London too a few years ago. She took all the heartbreak from her divorce and poured it into art, and now owns a tiny gallery in the village. It’s become a bit of a tourist magnet.
We first met at a chamber of commerce meeting, we clicked immediately and ever since we’ve not just become friends, but she also supplies us with handmade pieces to display around the shop.
They brighten the place up and, if they sell, she gets the income and we get a small commission.
A win for everyone. Customers seem to buy flowers more enthusiastically when there’s pretty art next to them.
And Charlotte loves having her work in spaces real people frequent instead of hidden away in a gallery.
“New stock,” she says, tapping the box.
I peek inside and pull out three gorgeous vases, each with the kind of irregular shapes that make them look alive, somehow. At the bottom of the box are several small parcels wrapped in newspaper.
“What are these?” I ask.
Charlotte’s eyes light up. “Mini statues. Little pairs of people hugging. Sweet ones, not the sort you have to hide when the vicar comes in.”
I tentatively reach for one parcel.
She laughs. “Go on, unwrap one.”
I do, and my breath catches. Two delicate silhouettes folded into a soft embrace, clay painted in a muted stone texture that makes it look carved and ancient and modern all at once.
“Oh, Charlotte… these are beautiful.”
She beams. “I hoped you’d think so. They’ve done well at the gallery. Thought your customers might actually see them instead of just the tourists.”
I turn the statue over in my hands, imagining where it could go. “I want them somewhere people can’t miss.”
My eyes land on the mint green wall next to the entrance. Perfect.
“Here,” I say. “Absolutely here.”
Charlotte’s smile widens. “I can bring another twelve tomorrow if you want to make a feature out of them.”
“Yes. Please. They’ll look amazing.”
She leaves the box with me and heads back to her gallery. The second she’s gone, I drag out the flatpack floating shelves I bought months ago, determined to finally put them up.
Grass green shelves. Mint green wall. Warm clay statues. It’ll look gorgeous.
Or, at least, it would… if I had any DIY skills whatsoever.
Forty-five minutes later, I am dust-covered, sweaty, and muttering words my grandmother would faint over. The shelf looks… diagonal. Not in an artistic way. In a “gravity is winning” way. I test it with a glass paperweight. It rolls off immediately. I catch it by some miracle.
“I don’t think that’s straight.”
I freeze.
No. No, no, no. Not him. Not now. Not while I’m standing on a ladder looking like a DIY gremlin.
I turn slowly.
Alex is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, wearing cargo trousers and a fitted black shirt that should be outlawed.
“Oh. Hi,” I say, because apparently that is the only phrase my brain can produce under stress.
Pretend to be normal, Emma. Normal people say more than one syllable.
He walks closer, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Looks like you could do with my services.”
Cue panic.
Cue stomach drop.
Cue sudden certainty that I should not be allowed outdoors unsupervised.
“It’s fine,” I insist brightly. Too brightly. “Perfectly fine,” I assure him whilst gripping the shelf gently.
It chooses that exact moment to crack and fall into my hands.
Of course it does.
He raises a brow. “Would you like to retract that statement?”
“I just need to tighten the screws,” I mumble, as if that will somehow restore my dignity.
Why am I like this? Why can’t I say something normal like “yes please, help before I die under flatpack”?
He taps the wall lightly. “This is plasterboard. You need proper fixings.”
My cheeks ignite. Brilliant. Perfect. Love that for me.
“I can do it,” I mutter, stubborn out of pure self-preservation.
“I believe you can do many things,” he says with a soft laugh, “but shelf-building isn’t one of them.”
I bristle automatically. “I am capable. And what would a mountain rescuer know about shelf building.”
“Mountain rescuing doesn’t pay the bills. We are all volunteers. I’m a carpenter, a bloody good carpenter, actually.” He winks.
Be still my… vagina.
“So, I’m definitely better qualified than you,” he chuckles.
He gestures at the collapsed shelf like a barrister presenting evidence.
Do not die. Do not run. Do not throw yourself into the flower buckets. Just breathe.
He grins completely unbothered by my inner turmoil that surely must be written all over my face.
“What were you planning?” he asks, tilting his head.
Right. Words. Use them. Normal people use them.
I explain the idea. He listens patiently, picking up one of the statues with surprising gentleness.
“I like it,” he says. “Dark oak shelves with a moss green backdrop would look incredible.”
The idea hits me square in the chest.
“It would,” I say, then immediately panic that I sounded too enthusiastic. “But oak isn’t in the budget.”
He shrugs. “Then let me fix these.”
“That’s not—”
He steps closer, slow and careful. I tell myself to step back.
I do not step back.
His hand lifts and he touches his fingertip to my lips.
My heart stops. My brain stops. My entire nervous system resigns.
“Let me help,” he says quietly. “That’s all.”
Words? Gone.
Utterly gone.
So I nod. Like a puppet. A puppet who has absolutely no control over her own neck.
“You close at four?” he asks.
Another nod. Excellent. At this rate I’ll forget how to blink.
“I’ll be back then.”
He gives me a crooked smile and leaves.
The door has barely shut when Christina appears, clearly having hovered nearby like a very nosy guardian angel.
“Okay,” she says, eyes huge, “what exactly did I just walk in on? Because from the pavement it looked very… close.”
“Nothing,” I squeak.
She gives the broken shelf a pointed look, then my face, which probably resembles a tomato, and her expression softens.
“Em,” she says gently, “I love you. But that was not nothing. I watched through the window for a full thirty seconds. I have seen fewer sparks in a fireworks display.”
I groan. “Please stop talking.”
“No,” she says cheerfully. “Someone has to narrate your love life.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“It absolutely was,” she says, kindly but determined. “And you don’t have to be scared of that.”
I fold my arms, defensive. “Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. He’s gone now.”
“Mmhmm.” She narrows her eyes. “Gone-gone or ‘walking-off-to-avoid-you-passing-out’ gone?”
I hesitate. Her eyebrows climb.
“He… might be coming back,” I mumble.
Her whole face lights up with unholy glee. “When?”
“I don’t know,” I lie badly.
She stares.
I cave instantly. “Four.”
“Four,” she repeats, savouring it like a fine wine. “So he’s coming back. Today. At four. To see you.”
“To fix the shelves,” I insist.
“To see you,” she repeats.
I glare. She grins.
She picks up her bag and slings it over her shoulder. “Right. I am heading home early. Which means you will be here at four. No hiding in the back room. No running into the alley. And absolutely no pretending you’ve died.”
“I never pretend I’ve died.”
“Not yet,” she says, “but I’ve seen the panic in your eyes. You’re considering it.”
I splutter. “Christina!”
She lifts one gentle eyebrow. The eyebrow that means resistance is pointless.
I deflate. “Fine.”
She softens immediately and squeezes my arm. “You can do this, Em. And if you panic, I’ll be ten minutes away with my phone ready. But you’re not running this time.”
“Comforting,” I mutter, but my heart does a tiny, traitorous flutter.
She laughs. “It should be.”
And then she slips out, leaving me with a broken shelf, a box of tiny clay lovers, and a heart that refuses to calm down no matter how many deep breaths I take.