“Ah. No fires to put out today?” she said, toying with the straps of her bag. She’d been dressed for school last week in an A-line skirt that had done wonders for her hips and thighs, but even in today’s casual leggings and subtle makeup, she still looked gorgeous.
“Thankfully not.” He debated if he should make the most of it. Ask her out to dinner. It seemed like she was interested and at least he’d not managed to offend her, which he didn’t take for granted after last week’s failed flirtation.
But something stopped him, a lump of cotton in his mouth. He sipped his takeout coffee, trying to pick his words. He was so used to being direct, not analysing his attempts at conversation, but that had blown his chance with Eiley. Maybe he should tread more carefully in future.
And also more quickly. Pam handed Blair a box over the counter, exchanging pleasantries while Blair paid, meaning he’d missed his chance.
When she finished, she turned back to Warren. “Hope to see you around again, soon.”
“Aye, enjoy your weekend.” It was a flat way to end the conversation, and he cursed himself for being too wrapped up in thoughts of Eiley – which quickly resumed when it was his turn to order. What would she like?
He opted for his favourite pizza topping, which no sane person would dislike: salami and mushroom. Then, in case she was a vegetarian, which he supposed would allow him to make an exception, he grabbed a Margherita as well. He added a box of chocolate doughnuts to the list, because everybody needed comfort food after a night like hers. Hopefully, they wouldn’t end up squashed in his face.
With the meals paid for and boxed up in his arms, he considered the moss-green sign of the bookstore just once more before he crossed the road. Did he want to do this?
If he didn’t, his stomach did.
Stuff it.He crossed the road.
The door was propped open by a box of books, so he knocked on the glass pane as he stepped in, no easy feat when juggling all his goodies.
Eiley was curled, unmoving, over the front desk, her face concealed by her hands and mussed hair. Another one of those needles lanced through him, one he wanted to pass off as plain sympathy but knew was slightly more. He supposed he had a soft spot for short, angry firecrackers who hurled verbal abuse at him.
“We’re closed,” she muttered, and finally lifted her head. He couldn’t tell if her frown was from fatigue or despair.
It was no surprise when her features shuttered further on seeing who her visitor was, although the bitter dislike only appeared half as strong today. Almost like she didn’t have the energy to commit to it, which suited him just fine. He just had to manage not to put his foot in it for one conversation. “You,” she uttered.
“Don’t act too happy to see me,” he joked. Then he paused. Was he being too much again? Why did he always go straight to humour when he was on edge?
“What are you doing here?”
“You looked like you needed help.”
“I don’t.”
“Well, then you looked like you needed pizza.” He placed the boxes on the counter in front of her, glad when her sloped shoulders loosened just slightly.
But she still looked tense as she straightened, eyes fixing on him. Finally, he got to see the colour of them in the daylight. Not green or blue, but somewhere in between, cast in grey like the Scottish winter skies. “Why does everyone think I’m some poor, helpless woman who can’t fend for herself?”
“I can think of a few words to describe you, firecracker, but none of them arepoororhelpless.” He sipped his coffee in an act of feigned nonchalance. “If you don’t like pizza, there are also doughnuts in there. And if you don’t like those, well … you might finally get rid of me for good.”
She sat, eyeing the boxes like she was expecting a clutter of spiders to emerge. He rolled his eyes. Usually, he had plenty ofpatience to spare. Needed it for the job. With her, she leached it all from him the minute they entered the same space, the same way the dehumidifier sucked away the damp. He needed to know what she was thinking, feeling, like a thread was pulled taut between them and it was his job to untie the knots.
“Look,” she said finally, “this is nice of you, but I have way too much to do.”
“Okay. I can eat and work.” He had to, most of the time. On busy days, he was lucky if he got the chance to scarf down a bag of crisps. Only since moving to Belbarrow had he learned that enjoying a full meal, sat at a table, was sometimes possible.
He slipped off his navy waterproof jacket – unnecessary considering the unending dry spell but a Scot could never be too careful – and rubbed his hands together as he took in the mess. Some of the books had been moved from the shelves into boxes, but not many. “So, how are we doing this?”
“I really don’t need you to help me.”
“So tell me to go,” he challenged.
She didn’t, instead poking into the first pizza box and winkling her nose. “Mushrooms?”
“Mushrooms are tasty!”
“They’re slimy and soggy.” She peeled off a slice of salami, and he set out the box of Margherita in front of her instead.
