Chapter 13 #2
Heather made a sickly aww noise. I barely registered it, too busy trying to sink into the casual touch.
“These look gorgeous,” Heather said, marvelling at the pastries. “Tell me again why you aren’t stocking these in Brown’s? People would go nuts for them.”
“Jess likes to keep it classic.”
“Maybe you should put together a taste-test, really show her what you’ve got. If these were behind the counter, no way people would be lining down the street for an overpriced cupcake.”
“I appreciate the solidarity, but I don’t think I can compete with gold-leaf accents.”
Heather looked ready to argue, but Emily tugged at her shirt. “Mummy, can we take Teddy to the ribbon stall so she can get one too?”
“Sure, sweetie.” Heather looked to me. “If that’s okay with you?”
“Please, Mummy, please.” Teddy squeezed her hands beneath her chin.
“Of course, let me grab some money.” I’d have to give her the emergency ten-pound note in my purse.
“I’ve got it,” Alistair said, already pulling out his wallet and handing Heather a folded note. Teddy jumped down the van steps with an excited, “Bye Mummy, bye Ali.”
“I’ll take them to get some snacks too. You guys must be starving,” she said to the girls, throwing us a wink as she left, no doubt thinking she was doing us a favour by giving us alone time.
I hated lying to her. Still, I smiled as I watched them walk away. When Ava slid her arm through Teddy’s, emotion clogged my throat.
The Macabes were good people.
Would Heather still think I was a good person if she knew I was lying to her face? Even if it hadn’t been my idea, I was fully in this now. Just as guilty.
“Lay it on me, then,” Alistair said as soon as they were out of sight.
“What?” I scrubbed at a spot on the counter with a rag.
“You’re pulling your angry face.”
What? “I don’t have an angry face.”
“It’s subtle, but you get this little vein down the centre of your forehead.” He indicated the spot with his finger.
“No, I don’t.” I brushed my hand over it, but he knocked it away.
“You do. It’s cute.”
Cute. What the hell did that mean?
I felt like a sixteen-year-old girl again, trying to read between the lines of the lyrics my crush posted as his social media status.
I hadn’t even imagined Alistair kept a sentiment like “cute” in his vocabulary. It was hardly the come-on of the century, but still, the words were like a dog whistle to the affection-starved corner of my brain.
I’d expected something more clinical. Your bone structure is anatomically sound. You know, something romantic.
“I already told you; I hate lying to your family.”
He shook his head. “That’s not it.”
“How could you possibly know?”
“Because none of my siblings would give a shit as long as we were both happy—”
We got cut off by a sudden rush of customers, who were mostly tourists craving their morning caffeine-and-sugar fix. The sudden crowd grew. Alistair started working a separate queue, serving a family who ordered an entire box of salted dark-chocolate cookies.
“What are you doing?” I gasped.
“Helping.” He reached across me for the tongs, his fingers brushing the back of my hand. Antiseptic and mint filled my nose. I lined my lungs with it, even as I stepped back. My hip bumped into the coffee machine, knocking the stack of fresh take away cups to the floor.
Why did it suddenly feel so much smaller in here?
I quickly stacked the cups back into place, waiting for the family to depart before whispering, “I don’t need any help.”
What happened to observing?
“Too bad,” he said, his voice an intimate rumble. “Boyfriend Alistair insists on it.”
It was unnerving how quickly he’d turned on this doting-boyfriend act. What happened to my serious, scowling neighbour, and how did I keep hold of this version of him?
“Lucky it’s all for show then.”
Was it my imagination, or did he hesitate?
“Exactly.” He slid behind me and as he reached for the stack of napkins; his chest dragged over my back. “And if you don’t think we always have an audience.” His breath was hot on the back of my neck. “You’ve been living in the wrong village this past year.”
A casual glance over the counter told me he was right. Gordon Murray and his wife, Victoria, ambled past, looking straight at us. Behind them, a trio of women I didn’t recognise were also looking our way, their expressions as keen as a seagull’s near a bag of chips.
When I handed the change to the final customer of the flurry, the three women were still hovering, not at all subtle as they continued to stare our way. “Friends of yours?” I asked Alistair, resting my hip on the counter.
His gaze flicked in their direction, an amused smile stretching across his face as he wiped the back of his hand over his forehead. Exertion had made him a little sweaty and, praise the lord, that curl was appearing. “You sound jealous, Lang.”
I did sound jealous. My voice had that aggressively cheerful vibe. Suzy Homemaker who was quietly considering arson. I crossed my arms over my chest. “Girlfriend Isla would be jealous.”
His smile stretched into his cheeks. “Then boyfriend Alistair would tell her she has nothing to worry about. The one in the middle is Lucia, an Italian tourist who dropped by the surgery yesterday with a mild concussion. I think she was more interested in getting my number than joining my patient roster.”
I couldn’t help my snort. Of course she was. “How often does that happen to you exactly?” And what was it about taciturn men that made women weak at the knees?
Some kind of Darcy effect?
He shrugged – which I took to mean At least once a day – and reached for a matcha cronut. “Is this baked with refined sugar?”
“Of course it is – hey,” I broke off as he bit into it. “That’s for paying customers—”
“And I’ll pay for it,” he interrupted, mouth full. “You’re more wired than usual.”
Probably the three coffees I’d had before nine a.m. Which were also likely the reason for the creeping headache I could feel coming on. “And you’re less stuck up than usual.”
He shrugged and swallowed half of the cronut in one bite. “Fuck that’s good, hanging out with you might be dangerous.” The second half disappeared just as quickly.
I was so surprised by his enthusiasm that I almost missed a woman drifting over to peruse the menu.
Snapping to my senses, I made a show of trying to look politely helpful but not overbearing.
Five minutes later she left with a box stuffed with cookies and filled croissants. A zing of pride shot through me.
We’d almost sold half our stock already and it wasn’t even lunchtime. If we continued this way, we might need to close up early.
I slipped the money into the cash box, pausing when I caught Alistair’s scowl. “What?” I asked.
“Isla!” a voice called from outside the van.
It wasn’t a scowl. It was a look of calculation. Cool calculation.
I followed the direction of Alistair’s pointed stare, and my blood turned cold.
Cameron. Striding across the green, a displeased expression on his face.
And just like that, my headache blasted full force.