by Fiona Grace
“A cactus-wielding ex-wrestler?” said Brooke, appearing beside them holding a tray of coffees and sandwiches. “You wouldn’t be talking about me, would you?”
Lacey’s cheeks went instantly hot. It wasn’t like her to gossip about people behind their backs. She’d only been trying to cheer Gina up.
“Ha! Lacey, your face!” Brooke exclaimed, thumping her on the back. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. I’m proud of my past.”
“You mean to say…”
“Yup,” Brooke said, grinning. “It’s true. There’s really not as much of a story there, though, as people have made out. I wrestled in high school, then college, before doing a year-long stint professionally. I guess small-town English folk think it’s more exotic than it is.”
Lacey felt very silly now. Of course everything could be blown out of proportion and distorted as it was passed from one person to the next along the small town gossip system. Brooke being a wrestler in the past was as much of a non-event as Lacey having worked as an interior designer's assistant in New York; normal for her, exotic for everyone else.
“Now, as for wielding cactuses…” Brooke said. Then she gave Lacey a wink.
She decanted the food from the tray to the table, fetched bowls of water and kibble for the dogs, then left Lacey and Gina to eat in peace.
Despite the overly complicated description on the menu, the food was actually terrific. The avocado was perfectly ripened, softened enough to lose its bite but not too soft as to be mushy. The bread was fresh, seeded, and nicely toasted. In fact, it even rivaled Tom’s and that was the highest praise Lacey could really give anything! The coffee was the real triumph though. Lacey had been drinking tea these days, since it was constantly being offered to her, and because there wasn’t a local place that seemed to match up to her standards. But Brooke’s coffee tasted like it had been shipped straight here from Colombia! Lacey would definitely switch to getting her morning coffee from here, on the days when she started work at a sensible hour rather than at a time when most sane people were still snoozing in bed.
Lacey was halfway through her lunch when the automatic door behind her swished open and in waltzed none other than Buck and his silly wife. Lacey groaned.
“Hey, chick,” Buck said, clicking his fingers at Brooke and thudding down into a seat. “We need coffee. And I’ll take a steak and fries.” He pointed at the tabletop in a demanding way, then looked over at his wife. “Daisy? What do you want?”
The woman was hovering at the door on her tippy-toed stilettos, looking somewhat terrified of all the cactuses.
“I’ll just have whatever has the least carbs in,” she murmured.
“A salad for the missus,” Buck barked at Brooke. “Easy on the dressing.”
Brooke flashed Lacey and Gina a look, then went off to make her rude customers’ orders.
Lacey buried her face in her hands, feeling secondhand embarrassment for the couple. She really hoped the people of Wilfordshire didn’t think all Americans were like this. Buck and Daisy were giving her entire country a bad name.
“Great,” Lacey muttered as Buck began loudly talking at his wife. “These two ruined my tea date with Tom. Now they’re ruining my lunch break with you.”
Gina looked unimpressed with the pair. “I’ve got an idea,” she said.
She bent down and whispered something to Boudicca that made her ears twitch. Then she released the dog from her leash. She went pelting across the tearooms, leapt at the table, and grabbed the steak clean off Buck’s plate.
“HEY!” he bellowed.
Brooke couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing.
Lacey gasped, amused by Gina’s antics.
“Get me another,” Buck demanded. “And get that dog OUT.”
“I’m sorry, but that was my last steak,” Brooke said, flashing a subtle wink at Lacey.
The couple huffed and stormed out.
The three women burst out laughing.
“That wasn’t your last at all, was it?” Lacey asked.
“Nah,” Brooke said, chuckling. “I’ve got a whole freezer stuffed full of them!”
*
It was drawing up toward the end of the workday and Lacey had finished valuing all of the naval items for tomorrow’s auction. She was so excited.
That was, until the bell rang and in waltzed Buck and Daisy.
Lacey groaned. She wasn’t as calm as Tom, and she wasn’t as jovial at Brooke. She really didn’t think this meeting would go well.
“Look at all this junk,” Buck said to his wife. “What a load of nothin’. Why did you even want to come in here, Daisy? And it smells.” His eyes went over to Chester. “It’s that disgusting dog again!”
Lacey clenched her teeth so hard she half expected them to crack. She tried to channel Tom’s calm as she approached the pair.
“I’m afraid Wilfordshire is a very small town,” she said. “You’ll run into the same people—and dogs—all the time.”
“It’s you,” Daisy asked, evidently recognizing Lacey from their two earlier run-ins. “This is your store?” She had a ditzy voice, like your average Valley Girl airhead.
“It is,” Lacey confirmed, feeling increasingly wary. Daisy’s question had felt loaded, like an accusation.
“When I heard your accent in the patisserie, I figured you were a customer,” Daisy continued. “But you actually live here?” She pulled a face. “What made you want to leave America for this?”
Lacey felt every single muscle in her body tense. Her blood started to boil.
“Probably for the same reasons you chose to vacation here,” Lacey replied in the calmest voice she could muster. “The beach. The ocean. The countryside. The charming architecture.”
“Daisy,” Buck barked. “Can you hurry up and find that thing you dragged me in here to buy?”
Daisy glanced over at the counter. “It’s gone.” She looked at Lacey. “Where’s the brass thing that was over there before?”
Brass thing? Lacey thought back to the items she’d been working on before Gina’s arrival.
Daisy continued. “It’s like a sort of compass, with a telescope attached. For boats. I saw it through the window when the store was closed over lunch. Did you sell it already?”
“Do you mean the sextant?” she asked, frowning with confusion over what a ditzy blond like Daisy would want with an antique sextant.
“That’s it!” Daisy exclaimed. “A sextant.”
Buck guffawed. Obviously the name amused him.
“Don’t you get enough sextant at home?” he quipped.
Daisy giggled, but it sounded forced to Lacey, less like she was actually amused and more like she was just being accommodating.
Lacey herself was not amused. She folded her arms and raised her eyebrows.
“I’m afraid the sextant is not for sale,” she explained, keeping her focus on Daisy rather than Buck, who was making it very hard for her to stay personable. “All my naval items are going to be auctioned tomorrow, so it’s not for general sale.”
Daisy stuck out her bottom lip. “But I want it. Buck will pay double what it’s worth. Won’t you, Bucky?” She tugged on his arm.
Before Buck had a chance to respond, Lacey interjected. “No, I'm sorry, that’s not possible. I don’t know how much I’ll fetch for it. That’s the whole point of the auction. It’s a rare piece, and there are specialists coming from all over the country just to bid on it. The price could be anything. If I sold it to you now, I may lose out, and since the proceeds are going to charity, I want to secure the best deal.”
A deep furrow appeared across Buck’s forehead. In that moment, Lacey felt even more aware of just how big and wide the man really was. He was well over six feet, and thicker than two of her put together, like a large oak tree. He was intimidating, in both size and mannerism.
“Did you not just hear what my wife said?” he barked. “She wants to buy your thingamajig so name your price.”
“I heard
her,” Lacey replied, standing her ground. “It’s me who’s not being listened to. The sextant is not for sale.”
She sounded far more confident than she felt. A small alarm bell in the back of her mind started ringing, telling her she was plowing headfirst into a dangerous situation.
Buck took a step forward, his looming shadow stretching over her. Chester leapt up and growled in response, but Buck clearly wasn’t fazed and just ignored him.
“You’re refusing me sale?” he said. “Isn’t that illegal? Isn’t our money good enough for you?” He pulled a pile of cash from his pocket and waved it under Lacey’s nose in a decidedly threatening manner. “It’s got the Queen’s face on it and everything. Isn’t that enough for you?”
Chester began to bark furiously. Lacey gave him a hand signal to stop, and he did, obediently, but he still held his position as if he were ready to attack the second she gave him the go ahead.
Lacey folded her arms and squared off to Buck, aware of every inch he loomed over her but determined to hold her ground. She wasn’t going to be bullied into selling the sextant. She wasn’t going to let this mean, hulking man intimidate her and ruin the auction she’d worked so hard for and was so looking forward to.
“If you want to buy the sextant, then you’ll have to come to the auction and bid on it,” she said.
“Oh, I will,” Buck said through narrowed eyes. He pointed right in Lacey’s face. “You bet I will. Mark my words. Buckland Stringer will win.”
With that, the couple left, swirling out the store so fast they practically left turbulence in their wake. Chester ran to the window, put his front paws up against the glass, and growled at their retreating backs. Lacey watched them go, too, until they were out of sight. It was only then she noticed how much her heart was racing, and how much her legs were trembling. She gripped the countertop to steady herself.
Tom had been right. She’d jinxed herself by saying the pair had no reason to come to her store. But she could be forgiven for assuming there was nothing of interest for them in here. No one would have been able to guess by looking at her that Daisy had any desire to own an antique navy sextant!
“Oh, Chester,” Lacey said, sinking her head into her fist. “Why did I tell them about the auction?”
The dog whined, picking up on the note of mournful regret in her tone.
“Now I have to put up with them tomorrow as well!” she exclaimed. “And what’s the likelihood they know anything of auction etiquette? It’s going to be a disaster.”
And just like that, her excitement for her auction tomorrow was dowsed like a flame between fingertips. In its place, Lacey felt only dread.
CHAPTER FOUR
After her encounter with Buck and Daisy, Lacey was more than ready to lock up for the day and head home. Tom was coming over tonight to cook for her, and she was really looking forward to curling up on the couch with a glass of wine and a movie. But there was still the till to balance, and stock to tidy, the floors to sweep and the coffee machine to clean… Not that Lacey was complaining. She loved her store and everything that went along with owning it.
When she was finally finished, she headed for the exit, Chester in tow, noticing that the hands on the wrought iron clock had reached 7 p.m., and outside it was dark. Though spring had brought longer days with it, Lacey had yet to enjoy any of them. But she could feel the change in the atmosphere; the town seemed more vibrant, with many of the cafes and pubs staying open longer, and people sitting on the tables outside drinking coffee and beer. It gave the place a festive vibe.
Lacey locked up her store. She’d become extra diligent since the break-in, but even if that had never happened, she’d have gotten this way, because the store felt like her child now. It was something that needed to be nurtured and protected and cared for. In such a short space of time, she’d fallen completely in love with the place
“Who knew you could fall in love with a store?” she mused aloud with a deep sigh of satisfaction for the way her life had turned out.
From beside her, Chester whinnied.
Lacey patted his head. “Yes, I’m in love with you too, don’t worry!”
At the mention of love, she remembered the plans she had with Tom that evening, and gazed over at his patisserie.
To her surprise, she saw all the lights were on. It was most unusual. Tom had to open his store at the inhuman hour of 5 a.m. to make sure everything was ready for the breakfast crowd at 7, which meant he usually closed at 5 p.m. on the dot. But it was 7 p.m. and he was clearly still inside. The sandwich board was still out in the street. The sign in the door was still turned to open.
“Come on, Chester,” Lacey said to her furry companion. “Let’s see what’s going on.”
They crossed the street together and went inside the patisserie.
Right away, Lacey could hear something of a commotion coming from the kitchen. It sounded like the usual sounds of clattering pots and pans, but in hyperdrive.
“Tom?” she called out, a little nervously.
“Hey!” his disembodied voice came from the back kitchen. He used his normal sunny tone.
Now that Lacey knew he wasn’t in the middle of being burglarized by a macaron thief, she relaxed. She hopped onto her usual stool, as the clattering continued.
“Everything okay back there?” she asked.
“Fine!” Tom called in response.
A moment later, he finally appeared in the archway of the kitchenette. He had his apron on, and it—as well as most of his clothes underneath and his hair—were covered in flour. “There’s been a minor disaster.”
“Minor?” Lacey mocked. Now that she knew Tom wasn’t fighting off a kitchen intruder, she could appreciate the humor in the situation.
“It was Paul, actually,” Tom began.
“What’s he done now?” Lacey asked, recalling the time Tom’s trainee had accidentally used baking soda instead of flour in a batch of dough rendering the entirety of it unusable.
Tom held up two almost identical-looking white packages. On the left, the faded printed label read: sugar. On the right: salt.
“Ah,” Lacey said.
Tom nodded. “Yup. It’s the batch for tomorrow morning’s breakfast pastries. I’m going to have to remake the whole lot, or risk the angry wrath of the locals when they arrive for breakfast and discover I have nothing to sell them.”
“Does that mean you’re cancelling our plans tonight?” Lacey asked. The humor she’d felt moments earlier was suddenly dashed, and now in its place she felt heavy disappointment.
Tom flashed her an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry. Let’s reschedule. Tomorrow? I’ll come over and cook for you.”
“I can’t,” Lacey replied. “I’m having that meeting with Ivan tomorrow.”
“The Crag Cottage sale meeting,” Tom said, snapping his fingers. “Of course. I remember. How about Wednesday evening?”
“Aren’t you heading off for that focaccia course Wednesday?”
Tom looked perturbed. He checked the calendar hanging up, then let out a sigh. “Okay, that’s next Wednesday.” He chuckled. “You gave me a fright. Oh, but I am busy Wednesday evening after all. And Thursday—”
“—is badminton practice,” Lacey finished for him.
“Which means I’m next free on Friday. Is Friday good?”
His tone was just as happy-go-lucky as usual, Lacey noted, but his blasé attitude over cancelling their plans together stung her. He didn’t seem to mind at all that they may not be able to see one another in a romantic capacity until the end of the week.
Though Lacey knew full well she had no plans on Friday, she still heard herself saying, “I’ll have to check my diary and get back to you.”
And no sooner had the words left her lips than a new emotion crept into her stomach, mixing with the disappointment. To Lacey’s surprise, the emotion was relief.
Relief that she wouldn’t be able to have a romantic date with Tom for a week? She couldn’t quite compreh
end where the relief was coming from, and it made her feel suddenly guilty.
“Sure,” Tom said, seemingly oblivious. “We can put a pin in it for now and arrange to do something extra special next time, when we’re both less busy?” He paused for her response, and when it didn’t come, added, “Lacey?”
She snapped back to the moment. “Yes… Right. Sounds good.”
Tom came over and leaned his elbows onto the counter, so their faces were level. “Now. Serious question. Are you going to be alright for food tonight? Because obviously you were expecting a tasty, nutritious meal. I have some meat pies that didn’t sell today, if you want to take one home with you?”
Lacey chuckled and smacked his arm. “I don’t need your handouts, thank you very much! I’ll have you know I can actually cook!”
“Oh really?” Tom teased.
“I’ve been known to make a dish or two in my time,” Lacey told him. “Mushroom risotto. Seafood paella.” She racked her brains for at least one other thing to add, because everyone knew you needed at least three for a list! “Um… um…”
Tom raised his eyebrows. “Go on...?”
“Macaroni and cheese!” Lacey exclaimed.
Tom laughed heartily. “That’s quite an impressive repertoire. And yet I’ve never seen any evidence to support your claims.”
He was right about that. So far, Tom had made all the meals for them. It made sense. He loved cooking, and he had the skills to pull it off. Lacey’s culinary skills weren’t much above piercing the film of a microwavable dish.
She folded her arms. “I haven’t exactly had the chance to yet,” she replied, using the same jokingly argumentative tone as Tom in the hopes it would mask the genuine irritation his comment had roused in her. “Mr. Michelin Star pastry chef doesn’t trust me near the stove.”
“Should I take that as an offer?” Tom asked, wiggling his eyebrows.
Damn pride, Lacey thought. She’d walked right into that one. Way to set yourself up.
“You bet,” she said, feigning confidence. She held her hand out to him to shake. “Challenge accepted.”