Chapter 17
“So, the other night,” said Roman carefully, once they were seated with flat white coffees in front of them and an almond
croissant for Roman. He paused, tore off the end of the croissant, and then sat there looking at it, his brow knitted, as
if he had forgotten what to do with it next.
Jules could no more eat than run a marathon, not with her heart pounding like it was.
Abandoning the croissant, Roman was fiddling with his spoon now and avoiding her gaze. Then, with visible effort, he put the
spoon down in his saucer and looked up, his eyes ranging over her face as if he had never seen another human being before—as
if he were Adam, and she, Eve. His mouth was slightly open, in preparation for something he seemed to be having enormous difficulty
saying.
Jules nodded and sighed inwardly. She could see where this was going. She had waited through four agonizing days of radio
silence, and now it was obvious from his tense demeanor that she was about to get the kiss-off.
Fine.
It didn’t feel fine.
“I’m a grown-up,” she said. “You can spit it out.”
“It’s not you,” he said.
Oh, dear God, thought Jules, not the whole “it’s not you, it’s me” thing. Seriously? Her heart was still hammering hard, and she didn’t reply. She was terrified she was going to cry. Looking down at her hand,
resting on the table, she could see it moving slightly with every heartbeat. She slid it off the table and into her lap, out
of sight.
“This thing between our families,” he went on. “It’s ridiculous, I know... some historic squabble... whatever...”
“Yeah, so?” prompted Jules, eager to get it over with, but unable to resist issuing a futile challenge. “Romeo and Juliet,
you said.”
“It was stupid of me”—the corner of his mouth quirked up—“as you pointed out yourself at the time, I seem to recall. So, there
are forces at play,” he went on, giving a gusty sigh, leaning back in his chair. He rubbed his face with his hands. “Things
I don’t have any control over...”
Suddenly Jules couldn’t bear it. He was ending things before they had even begun. She wasn’t going to let it slip away if
she could help it.
“Look,” she said, “we’re head-to-head, I get it, but it’s our businesses— they’re head-to-head. That’s not us, as human beings, though, is it?” she implored, all memory of his mocking laughter at the dance
so many years ago forgotten or at least forgiven. It was as if that supercilious, posh, in-with-the-cool-crowd idiot she despised
as a teenager had never existed. She knew him now. He was kind. He was funny. God help her, he was hot .
“I’m a big girl,” she went on. “I know what I’m doing, you know what you’re doing... What’s to say two consenting adults can’t contemplate some sort of relationship despite what they happen to do
for work? Despite some row a whole load of dead people might have had with each other a hundred years ago and more?”
There was a glimmer in Roman’s eyes, just the tiniest spark of—what was it? Hope?
“You make it sound so simple,” he said, hanging his head.
“It is simple,” Jules insisted. “The shop competition thing, it’s totally separate from this. I want to beat you. You want to beat
me. It’s an even contest—except that I’m better than you, obviously,” she added with a sly grin. “And don’t tell me you don’t
enjoy it, just a little bit.”
Just for a microsecond, Roman’s expression told her he did, and then she saw something else: utter, bleak, devastating hopelessness,
quickly replaced with his usual neutral, inscrutable expression. The intimacy and connection of that kiss had gone. Totally.
Now it was her turn to rub her face with her hands. She pressed her fingers into her eyeballs until she saw stars as she thought
for a moment. “Here’s an idea,” she said at last, dropping her hands and pushing her empty cup to one side. “Why don’t we
continue to run our shops in competition with each other—same as we’re doing, no concessions, no mercy—and then, at the end
of the day, when the ‘Open’ sign turns to ‘Closed,’ why don’t we sometimes just spend a bit of time together? Just you and
me. Or with friends? It doesn’t have to be anything heavy. We can see where maybe this could go. And no one else’s opinion—no
other factor—is relevant to that. Right?”
“A summer romance?” he said, with a wry smile.
“Exactly,” said Jules, although she felt instantly deflated. Was that all it was to him? A temporary diversion? Didn’t he
have annoyingly elegant Cally for stuff like that?
She sat up a little straighter, channeling Flo for inner strength. “A summer fling is exactly what it is,” she declared firmly.
“God! What makes you think I want anything more?”
Roman hated himself. He was weak, and as a direct result of his weakness, it was the woman he loved who was going to suffer.
Yes, he loved her—there, he had said it—and if anyone dared to tell him it was too soon to know, he would remind them of that moment at the dance, all those years ago.
No, this love had been a long time brewing.
And he knew he was going to cause her pain, and he had still given in to his selfish desire to know her better anyhow.
All because he was unable to resist the siren call of pretending that everything was okay, just to spend a little more time
in her company before she learned to despise him as much as he despised himself. They would “date,” it had been agreed. They
would “hang out.” Nothing heavy. No commitment. Just a few months of fun, over the summer.
And then... she would hate him.
As good as his word, Roman texted Jules to join him and some mates for Friday drinks at the Castle Arms.
She had drafted a “no thanks,” her hand hovering over “send” for ages. Mind you, Jules had been pleasantly surprised to see,
at Freya’s wedding, that Roman’s cronies had improved considerably, but teenage Jules, with the loo paper stuck to her heel,
cast a long shadow. Plus, she hated walking into pubs on her own, especially the Castle Arms, which was usually packed with
rowdy crowds watching football.
In the end, it was Flo who insisted she go.
“I’m not afraid to admit it when I’m wrong,” she told Jules.
“That young man has risen in my estimation. He may have been in my bad books for opening his shop, but, looking at our accounts, I am proud to say Capelthorne’s is more than up to the competition.
And he’s decent and aboveboard about it, I’ll give him that.
Now go, child. You’re far too young and beautiful to be spending Friday evening in your pajamas with your head in a book. ”
Roman must have briefed his friends as well: Jules could have sworn they were all acting like she had been doing Friday drinks
for years. Roman unobtrusively tucked her into his side, his hand casually resting on her waist, as she shyly accepted Gabriel’s
offer of a drink. It helped that Jess was there with a warm welcome, a peck on the cheek, and an introduction to her partner,
Aiden, whom Jules had seen but not spoken to at the wedding. Gabriel made Imo’s apologies, though, as Ruth was going through
a period of not settling well in the evening, and of course Jules didn’t have Freya to banter with, as she and Finn were still
on honeymoon.
Predictably the banter was closely centered on Finn and Freya’s wedding, with Ciaran forced to laughingly defend all the Irish
aunts and uncles who had entered into celebrations with such brio. The aunt with the green dress, the one who had been so
smitten with Roman, had gone missing at the end of the party and had eventually been found in the bowels of the town hall,
sleeping off her excesses in a broom cupboard.
“Listen, my auntie Breda is a legend in her own lunchtime,” Ciaran declared to teasing laughter. “Her Saint Patrick’s Day
parties have been known to go on for a week,” he told them all proudly. “That woman taught me to drink without making a prat
of myself. I will be forever grateful.”
“Shame she didn’t follow her own advice,” Jess told him slyly, but without malice.
“So, how’s the business mogul?” Aiden teased Roman. “Cornering the book trade in Portneath, I expect.”
“He is not,” retorted Jules hotly. “My sales figures were up eight percent year-on-year last week, thank you very much.”
“Respect,” said Aiden, lifting his pint in her direction. “Not just a pretty face.”
“Not even a pretty face,” muttered Jules, blushing, but the conversational ball had moved on, and thank goodness nobody was overtly
quizzing her and Roman about whatever this “thing” was between them.
Two Negronis in, and Jules was starting to feel like she was losing her grip on the conversational ball. She found herself
standing next to Gabriel, whom she had never once spoken to, because he was so posh and tall and handsome and just generally
unapproachable. Making herself look interested as she asked him a series of hopelessly ill-informed questions about his work
as a wrought-iron artist, she began to feel exhausted at keeping the conversation afloat. When he turned the tables to ask
about the shop, she launched into her pleasure that Imogen was going to be doing the artist-in-residence stint. At this, he
looked much more animated, his expression softening as he talked about how proud he was of her. He needed little encouragement,
Jules discovered, to bang on about her prowess as an artist, writer, and mother. It was a pleasure watching him be Imogen’s
number one fan.
Jules found herself just staring at his mouth—she could barely hear him in the rowdy pub atmosphere—and thinking how lovely