Chapter 10
Emma
Christina bursts into the back room like she’s kicking down a door on a police raid. “Right. Start talking.”
I blink at her over a bucket of roses. “About what?”
She gives me a look that could wither crops. “You said the date was ‘fine’.” She even uses air quotes. “Emma. I just walked in on you two kissing like a pair of teenagers who’ve forgotten how oxygen works. That was not ‘fine’. So. Details. All of them.”
I open my mouth to deny everything, but my face has other ideas. My cheeks heat and I can feel a smile tugging at my lips. I try to hide it. I fail.
Christina spots it instantly. “Aha.”
She drags over a stool, sits, folds her arms and waits. I know that posture. It means resistance is pointless. So I tell her. Not every moment, but enough. Her expression keeps softening the more I talk, which only encourages the stupid smile on my face.
When I finally fall quiet, she studies me for a long second. “Alright. And how do you feel?” Her voice is gentler now, the teasing gone.
I fiddle with a stray leaf on the workbench. “Happy,” I say, surprised by how easily the word slips out. “Really happy. Which is… terrifying.” I exhale. “What if I’ve completely misread him? What if this is nothing serious for him? What if I’m already too far in?”
Christina tilts her head. “Okay. But how does it feel when you’re with him? Not when you’re thinking about it. When you’re actually there.”
I close my eyes for a moment and picture last night. The food. His laugh. The way he listened like I mattered. The kiss at my door that still warms the back of my neck just thinking about it.
“It feels right,” I admit quietly. “Like… like something fits. And I didn’t even realise something was missing.”
When I look up again, she’s watching me with an expression I rarely see on her. Soft. Hopeful. Proud.
“In that case,” she says, “trust what you’re feeling. And trust him a bit too. You deserve something good.”
Before I can reply, the bell at the front rings and she slips away, leaving me with my wildly unhelpful heart thudding in my chest.
I’m relieved when four o’clock arrives and we can close. My nerves have been bubbling all afternoon and I’m desperate to get home and decompress. I tidy the shop, lock up and head to my cottage.
The moment I step inside, I strip off my jeans and pull on my favourite yoga bottoms and a big soft T-shirt.
Dinner becomes a quick bowl of pasta, and then I decide I’ve earned a long bath.
When I bought the cottage, the very first thing I did was install a deep tub.
Not a standard size one where you have to decide if either your legs stick out or your nipples freeze off because one or the other is not covered by water.
It’s still the best decision I’ve ever made.
I light a few candles, run the hot water and pour in my lemongrass-and-coconut bubbles.
The scent fills the room and something inside me unwinds.
I’m just about to climb in when my phone buzzes.
I grab it and carry it to the bathroom, placing it on the little counter before easing into the hot water. Bliss.
I towel-dry my hands and check the screen.
Alex
Did you have a good day?
I smile before I even realise I’m smiling.
Me
I did. Did you manage to catch up on work?
As soon as I hit send, I wish I’d said something cleverer. Or flirtier. Or something that didn’t sound like a tax return.
Alex
Nope. My mind kept drifting to you, so I made a couple of mistakes but nothing I can’t fix tomorrow.
My pulse does something embarrassing.
Say something flirty, Emma. Anything.
Me
Did you know distractions can improve creativity?
I wince the second it sends. Brilliant. Quote a science fact. Very sexy.
Me
Ignore that. It sounded less boring in my head.
Alex
Hey, I could do with some creativity. I’m trying to think of an idea for our next date.
Next date. Those two words do a little somersault in my chest.
Me
Oh, I’m easy.
I freeze. Oh no. Oh no no no.
Alex
Is that so? ;-)
I want to drown myself. Fully submerge and never return.
Me
I meant I don’t need anything fancy. I don’t need wooing.
Alex
I don’t plan to woo you. I want to make memories with you. The kind we can look back on one day and say, “That’s where it all started.”
The bathwater feels suddenly too warm. My breathing speeds up. He can’t mean… surely not… long-term?
Alex
What are you doing tonight?
Me
I’m probably going to watch this documentary about black sites in the UK.
Not torture black sites! Dark sky sites. Places where you can see the stars. They’re all around the Lakes.
Alex
You like stargazing?
Me
I do. I’m not into the science of it. I just like feeling small in a good way. Christina finds it boring and I don’t want to go alone, so I’ve never been.
Alex
Is the documentary on now?
Me
In an hour. That’s why I’m having a bath first.
Alex
You’re having a bath right now?
I shut my eyes and groan. Why did I say that?
Me
Yes.
Alex
You’re killing me.
My stomach swoops. I sink a little deeper under the bubbles.
Me
What are you doing?
Alex
Was cooking. Burned it. I blame you entirely.
Me
LOL. You texted me! I should let you finish your dinner.
Alex
I’ll text you later. And Emma… I can’t wait to see you Friday.
I stare at the message far too long. I type “Me too”, delete it, type it again, delete it again. My heart is already halfway out of my chest. No need to throw the rest after it.
Me
Have a good evening.
I set my phone aside and sink into the water, letting the warmth close over my skin. Something is shifting. Quietly, tentatively, but undeniably. For the first time in years, I don’t feel like running.
For the first time in years, something feels like it might actually go right.
My phone buzzes again for a second my heart jumps stupidly, thinking it’s Alex. But the name on the screen makes my stomach dip.
I sink lower under the water, wishing I could pretend I didn’t see it. Then I force myself to answer.
“Hi, Mum.”
“What took you so long to pick up?” she asks in that falsely-bright tone she uses when she wants to sound concerned rather than annoyed.
“I was getting out of the bath,” I lie.
“Oh good.” She sounds pleased with herself, as if she’s completed a motherly duty. “I just wanted to check in. It feels like ages since we’ve spoken.”
We spoke last week, but challenging that would only start an argument. “I’ve been busy,” I say.
“So I’ve heard,” she replies, in the careful voice she uses when she’s nudging the conversation somewhere. “Gina rang me this morning. You remember Gina. My friend from Fellside. Her sister still lives there.”
A slow pause follows, one she expects me to fill. I don’t.
“Well,” she continues, “apparently her sister saw you yesterday. With someone.”
A quiet ache settles under my ribs. “Word travels fast.”
“Small villages always do have a way to spread the gossip.” Another soft, loaded pause. “I just wanted to say… be careful.”
I shut my eyes. “Careful how?”
“Well, darling…” Her voice drops into gentle caution, the kind that sounds caring if you don’t listen too closely. “Men like that — very handsome, very charming, I hear — they have options. They don’t always choose girls who aren’t… quite their usual type.”
The breath I take is sharp, though I try not to let it show. “You don’t even know him.”
“I don’t have to,” she says kindly, which somehow makes it worse. “A man like that can have anyone. And I don’t want you getting hurt because you’ve misunderstood his intentions. You feel things so deeply. You always have.”
I grip the edge of the tub. “You’re assuming a lot.”
“I’m being realistic,” she answers, certain and soft. “You have a lovely personality, Emma, truly. But men don’t marry personalities alone. I just want you to manage your expectations.”
The words land exactly where she aims them, like always.
“I have some dinner on the hob.” Another lie. “I should go.”
“Of course. I only worry,” she replies, satisfaction tucked neatly under the sentence. “Promise me you’ll keep your feet on the ground.”
“I will.”
“Good girl,” she murmurs, then hangs up.
The silence afterwards is thick. The water is warm but somehow I feel chilled all the way through. Only ten minutes ago I was smiling into my phone, feeling hopeful, lighter than I have in years.
Now Mum’s voice sits in my chest like a stone, whispering old stories I thought I’d outgrown. Stories about women like me needing to be grateful. Needing to expect less. Needing to settle.
And the worst part? Some tiny, traitorous part of me still believes her.