by Zara Keane
An hour later, Fiona was dusty and exhausted, not to mention on the verge of a full-blown panic attack. She glanced at the display on her mobile phone. The bakery delivery van hadn’t shown up, and neither had Sharon.
Feck!
She dialed Joe Gillespie’s number.
“Gillespie’s Baked Goods,” rumbled a deep voice on the other end. “How can I help you?”
“Joe?”
“Speaking.”
“It’s Fiona Byrne. You were supposed to delivery pastries to the Book Mark over an hour ago.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line and the scraping sound of a chair being pushed back. “I’m not due to deliver to the Book Mark until next Saturday. Sharon said the thirteenth.”
She gritted her teeth. Bloody Sharon. Was that why she hadn’t come in this morning? “Joe, I need a delivery today.”
“I’m sorry, but no can do. We’re swamped. I’ve no time to go out in the van again. If you can drive over here, I’ll see if I can fix you up with a few buns.”
A few buns. Fan-fecking-tastic.
“I’m alone in the shop. I can’t get to Cobh and back before the first customers arrive.”
“Sorry, Fiona. Do you want me to do a delivery tomorrow morning?”
“Yes, please.”
After she ended the call, she dialed Sharon’s number.
“Whazzup?”
“Whazzup is that you were due at the Book Mark by eight o’clock this morning. Instead, I’m standing here with five minutes till opening time, no baked goods to sell in the café, and no assistant. Where the hell are you?”
“Chill, Fiona.” Sharon yawned. “Didja want me in today? Cause it was our Shea’s birthday last night, and we were out on the razz. I’m flipping knackered.”
Fiona counted to ten in English and in Gaelic. “Sharon, Bridie employs you to help out in the Book Mark on Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. Every Wednesday, Thursday, and Saturday. If you want a job, get your arse in here pronto.”
“All right, all right. Don’t get your dreadlocks in a twist.”
Fiona stared at the phone. Her dreadlocks? The cheek of the child. She ran a hand over her wild black curls. The effect of Ballybeg’s sea air was to turn her naturally curly hair into a frizzy mess, but deep conditioning treatments kept it in pretty good nick. “If you want to get back into my good graces, stop off at a shop on your way and pick up something we can sell to café customers.”
“You’ll pay me back, right?”
Fiona tongued her lip ring and prayed for patience. “No, I will not. Consider it payback for screwing up my morning.”
“You’re going to be hell to work for, aren’t you?” Sharon gave an exaggerated sigh.
“A slave driver,” Fiona said dryly.
“Hokey dokey. I’ll be there in ten.”
Chapter Fifteen
AFTER MUIREANN’S EXIT from the scene of the crime, Jonas and Gavin gathered what few possessions could be salvaged and loaded them into the van. Jonas dropped Gavin to the cottage and helped him to carry the stuff inside.
“Whew,” Jonas said after they’d heaved the last box into Gavin’s tiny bedroom. “Done at last. You sure we shouldn’t have taken the lot to the dump?”
“If we had, I’d be naked. The books and tech stuff are ruined, but the clothes should wash up decent.”
Gavin cast a jaundiced eye over the boxes. After his ex-fiancée’s rampage, he didn’t have much left. He was pissed about the books, but he had to put a positive spin on the situation. Like his stereo system, his relationship with Muireann was beyond salvation. He should feel devastated at the thought of his would-be wife heading off on their honeymoon without him. He should feel outraged at her dumping the dog on him on a permanent basis. Yet all he felt was numb.
Jonas wiped sweat from his brow and stretched. “I could murder a cup of tea.”
“Not a beer?”
“Ah, go on then, but it’ll have to be a low-alcohol variety. Luca and I are driving to Dublin straight after I drop the van back to my dad. We have a meeting with Luca’s new teacher and teaching assistant tomorrow.”
They went through to the cramped-but-cozy kitchen where Luca and Wiggly Poo were enjoying a lemonade and a bowl of water respectively.
Gavin grabbed two beers from the fridge, popped the caps, and handed one to Jonas. He adjusted his jaw and tasted the words on his tongue. Sentimentality went against his nature, but some things needed to be said. “Thanks, mate. For everything.”
Jonas grinned. “Ah, don’t go maudlin on me. Sure, you’d have done the same if it were me.”
“Yeah, I would.” And he meant it. He’d been tight with Jonas since his first week at the local secondary school. Most of the boys had given him a wide berth or ribbed him over his odd accent. Jonas hadn’t given a shite about his origins. He’d simply accepted Gavin in the here and now and blithely assumed the feeling was mutual. From the moment Jonas sat across from him at the lunch table and asked him to pass the salt, they’d had each other’s backs.
“I take it there’s no going back with Muireann?” Jonas asked between sips of beer.
Luca was coloring now, a wild kaleidoscope of colors resembling something that might—with a lot of imagination—be a cow.
“No.” Gavin scooped up Wiggly Poo and let him bury his snout into his neck. “I think it’s as good as over. She’s off to Mauritius with the twins.”
“Thank fuck for small mercies,” Jonas said, raising his beer bottle in salute. “Here’s hoping they emigrate.”
“Don’t hold back, mate,” he said with a dry laugh. “Tell us how you really feel.”
Jonas’s face crinkled into a smile. “Sure, you know what I think. Fiona did the three of you a favor by crashing the wedding.”
“Fiona’s beautiful,” said Luca solemnly. “Especially her hair. I’m drawing a picture of her.”
Gavin ruffled the little boy’s dark curls. “You’re only saying that because she’s got curly hair like you.”
“No, I’m not. She’s got nice boobs, too. See? I drew them, too.”
Jonas roared laughing.
Gavin rolled his eyes. “Like father, like son.”
“Nah. He has better taste in women than either of us.”
Gavin gazed out across the street to the crashing waves on the beach. “I’ll miss you two.”
“And we’ll miss you. Cheer up, mate. We’re coming down to visit the weekend after next. We might need to put in an appearance at the homestead, but we can definitely stay one night with you, if you’ll have us.”
“Of course I will,” Gavin said, smiling at Luca. “I’ll have him, at least. He doesn’t nick my beers from the fridge.”
Jonas drained his bottle and shoved back his chair. “Right, Luca. We’re off. Pack up your coloring stuff and say good-bye to Gavin.”
Luca gathered his colored pencils into a pencil case, careful to arrange them according to the color spectrum, and packed everything into his small rucksack.
Gavin walked with them out to the van. The rain had eased up, but the wind had not.
Jonas grabbed him in a bear hug and slapped him between the shoulder blades. “Take care, mate. Do the sensible thing and stay single.”
“If I was single in the legal sense, I wouldn’t be in this mess.”
“Of your two brides, my vote’s for Fiona. She’s turned into a mighty pretty girl. You’re divorcing her, right?”
“What else can I do? If we can’t get the marriage annulled, we’ll have to go through divorce proceedings.”
“Shame.” Jonas smirked, bending to pick up Luca’s rucksack. “Did more happen between the pair of you in Vegas than you’re letting on?”
Gavin’s cheeks burned. “Don’t be daft. We’re just pals.”
“Pals don’t get married.” Jonas tossed the rucksack onto the backseat of the van. “See you in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
�
�That doesn’t leave much to the imagination.”
Jonas grinned broadly and strapped Luca into his car seat.
Gavin bent to give the little boy a kiss on the forehead. “Take care, mate. Look after your dad.”
Luca’s small face creased in determination. “I will.”
Gavin stood at the gate, watching the van dwindle out of sight. Right now, he was persona non grata in Ballybeg. While Muireann and her parents weren’t exactly popular in the town, they were wealthy, and therefore influential. He was unemployed and unemployable, at least in the environs of the town.
In a few short months, he’d gone from solvent and mortgage-free to the reluctant co-owner of a heavily mortgaged monstrosity. But he’d turn it around. He had no choice. Both financial necessity and ambition wouldn’t allow him to give up without putting up a damn good fight.
A wet tongue slobbered on his neck. “Woof!”
He stroked the dog’s golden fur. Now it was just him and Wiggly Poo.
Thirty minutes after Fiona told Sharon to get her arse over to the Book Mark, the bell above the door jangled.
Fiona looked up from the cash register where she was struggling to serve a customer. Her jaw dropped.
Sharon MacCarthy strutted into the shop wearing a canary yellow sequined top that displayed a generous amount of what the rag mags referred to as “side cleavage.” Her skinny jeans were ripped in strategic places, and her chunky heels added a good six inches to her lanky frame.
“Howya, Fiona. Howya, Missus Keogh.” Sharon flashed the briefest of smiles at Fiona and the customer, then continued to chomp on her gum. “I picked up a pack of them jammy biscuits from the Spar and more instant coffee cause we’re nearly out.”
Jammy biscuits? Instant coffee? What the actual feck?
Fiona gave Mrs. Keogh her change and bagged her romance novels.
“Give my regards to Bridie when you see her,” said Mrs. Keogh as she bumped her wheelie trolley out of the shop.
“Will do,” Fiona said. “Happy reading.”
No sooner had the door shut behind Mrs. Keogh then Sharon snorted with mirth. “Happy reading? Old Missus K.’s in here every Saturday filling her trolley with crappy books. I don’t know how she manages to get through so many in a week.”
“Mrs. Keogh is a customer.” And one of the few regulars the Book Mark still had if this morning’s trade was anything to go by. “Treat her with respect.”
Sharon slung her shopping bag on the counter and unpacked its contents. “Sorry about the cock-up this morning. I was convinced you’d said next Saturday.”
“You’re here now.” Fiona eyed the biscuits and instant coffee with suspicion, and jerked a thumb at the old coffee machine on the counter. “What’s wrong with the machine?”
“Banjaxed,” Sharon said cheerfully. “It’s been out of order as long as I’ve worked here.”
“Please don’t tell me you’ve been serving the customers instant coffee regularly?”
Sharon nodded. “Or tea.” She pointed to the box of tea bags perched on a wall shelf.
Fiona peered at the box. Was that dust? She took it down and inspected the use-by date. Her shoulders slumped. Great. Instant coffee and stale tea bags. No wonder business was slow. “Put a plate of biscuits on each table. If we’ve nothing better to offer our customers today, they’re on the house.”
Sharon opened the packets of biscuits and emptied them onto plates, then fired said plates onto the café’s six tables. “There,” she said, puffing out her sequin-enhanced chest. “We’re all set.”
Fiona raked her underling from head to toe. “Does Bridie let you wear these clothes to work?”
Sharon flashed her an impish grin. “Lord, no. She’s always on at me to put on a cardi.”
Fiona folded her arms. “Then put one on. This is a bookshop, not a night club.”
“You’re a hard woman, Fiona.” Sharon’s grin was as wide as the Atlantic. “I think we’ll get on great.”
“Hmm… that remains to be seen. When you’ve put on your cardigan, can you check what’s wrong with the cash register? In the meantime, I’ll see if I can rustle up a coffeemaker from somewhere.”
She pulled her mobile phone out of her handbag and flicked through her contact numbers. She had few friends left in Ballybeg and fewer still who wouldn’t be at work by this time on a Wednesday morning.
Her thumb hovered over the entry for “Eejit.” It was a new addition to her contact list, input in a fit of pique at Aidan Gant’s office on Monday morning. She hit dial.
“Hullo?” If Gavin’s voice were a weather forecast, it would have heralded an overcast day with a threat of thunder.
“It’s Fiona.”
Silence.
“Fiona Byrne.”
More silence.
Fiona dropped her voice to a whisper. “Your lawfully wedded wife, you eejit.”
He cleared his throat. “I recognized your voice, Fee. Just took me a moment to gather my thoughts.”
“Are your thoughts sufficiently gathered for you to do me a favor? After the Drew Draper screwup, I figure you owe me.”
“I owe a lot of people at the moment, Fiona,” he said with a low laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’m in the middle of writing job applications, but I was about to take a break. What do you need?”
“A coffeemaker for the Book Mark’s café. A machine, a French press, a stovetop espresso maker. Frankly, anything that makes real coffee will do.”
“Bridie’s instant powder not doing it for you?”
“Heartless sod,” she said. “How can you laugh at my predicament? We caffeine addicts need our fix.”
“Tell you what. As long as you’ll let me come by for my morning coffee, I’ll loan you my machine until you get a new one.”
The church bells were chiming eleven o’clock when Gavin Maguire strode into the Book Mark, larger than life and sexier than sin.
In the time since she’d last seen him, he’d smartened up. Which was to say he was no longer sporting a two-day beard, bed head, and rumpled clothing. He was clean-shaven and wore formfitting jeans and a red-checked shirt. He looked good. More than good.
He caught her staring, and his amused half smile made her cheeks burn. “Morning, ladies.”
Gavin maneuvered his way past Fiona, his hip brushing her side for a millisecond. Her tummy did a funny flip, and her cheeks grew hotter.
Sharon, seemingly oblivious to Fiona’s discomfiture, went into full flirt mode. “How are ya, Gavin? Surviving life as a single man?” She sashayed across the bookshop and posed her canary yellow bosom directly under Gavin’s nose.
“I’m grand, Sharon.” He retreated from her sequined glory. “And yourself?”
He deposited the large box he was carrying on the counter and took out a modern coffee machine and an assortment of colored capsules.
Sharon fluttered her eyelashes. “I’ve a raging hangover but the sight of you and real coffee is making me feel much better.”
Fiona crossed her arms. The flaming cheek of the girl. She’d had no complaint about the caffeine situation before Gavin the Coffee Hero rode to the rescue.
The bell above the shop door jangled, indicating the arrival of another customer. An elderly man in tweeds came into the shop, and nodded at them.
Gavin flashed Fiona a knowing smile, adding fuel to her rapidly rising temper. “Looks like both you ladies could do with a coffee. Why don’t I show Fiona how to work the machine while you serve Mr. Delaney?”
Sharon shrugged in the nonchalant manner of a woman confident that if this specimen of manhood didn’t succumb to her sex appeal, the next one would. “Right-o,” she said and strutted off to wow the hapless Mr. Delaney with her charms.
Gavin filled the machine’s water tank and inserted the plug. For a large man, he had surprisingly slender fingers. Long, supple, graceful. Concert pianist fingers, as Fiona’s mother used to say.
He toyed with the colored capsules, each touch like a caress. His azu
re blue gaze pinned her in place. “How do you like yours, Fiona?”
She blinked, gave herself a mental shake. What the feck was she doing fantasizing about Gavin Maguire? If it wasn’t for his fuckwittery, she’d be lounging by a pool in Singapore.
“Hard,” she said hoarsely. “No, I mean strong.” Get a grip, Fiona!
He arched a dark blond eyebrow, an amused curve to his sensual lips. “A ristretto?”
“Yeah,” she muttered, ignoring the throb in her unmentionables. “That’s what I meant.”
The curve of his lips grew wider. He was enjoying this, the prick. Enjoying seeing her blush and stammer like the green schoolgirl she’d once been. Well, feck him. She left that girl behind years ago.
“I can make my own coffee.” Her fingers closed over his. The two of them were close now. Close enough for her to smell the spicy scent of his cologne and the minty tang of his sharply exhaled breath.
They stood there a moment, fingers frozen in an unwitting caress.
A shiver of awareness made her tremble. She released his hand and stood back. “Ristretto’s fine.”
Chapter Sixteen
“WHAT’S THE RUSH?” Olivia asked as Fiona dragged her into the lift of Debenham’s department store and hit the button for the second floor. “I thought you borrowed a coffee machine from Gavin.”
“I did. That’s the problem. The deal included him dropping by the Book Mark for his morning coffee.”
Olivia tossed her glossy red hair over her shoulder. “Okay, let me get this straight. Gavin brought the machine round yesterday. You lasted one morning of him stopping by the shop?”
“Having him about is… unsettling.” What an understatement. She’d been hyper aware of his presence the entire ten minutes and forty-five seconds he’d spent in the café, conscious of his every move and every breath. If she had to live in Ballybeg for the next few months, the last thing she needed was Gavin Maguire underfoot and under her skin.
“Do you see a lot of each other now you’re living next door?” asked Olivia in a coy tone.