Total pages in book: 149
Estimated words: 138965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 138965 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 695(@200wpm)___ 556(@250wpm)___ 463(@300wpm)
I peek through the glass, hoping to see Mr Chaps, who owns the shop. Nothing. ‘Your sign says you open at six thirty,’ I mutter to the window. ‘It’s six thirty-two, for crying out loud.’ Resting my forehead on the glass, I curse myself to hell and back. Molly was depending on me for paint, the paint that is now splattered over a lovely rhododendron bush thanks to a huge man in a huge truck.
My whole body goes heavy, and I jump a mile in the air when something lands with a bang at my feet. ‘Jesus,’ I breathe, seeing a stack of newspapers on the ground. Won’t people stop making me jump out of my damn skin?
‘Morning,’ a man chirps as he makes his way back to his van.
‘Morning,’ I mumble with my palm on my chest, looking back into the shop. My fright is forgotten, and I nearly kiss the glass when I see old Mr Chaps wobbling toward me. ‘Oh, thank God.’
I barely let the poor old man move from my path before I barrel through the door. ‘Morning, Mr Chaps,’ I call over my shoulder as I rush to locate my wants and stack them into my arms until my chin is resting on top of the bags of flour.
‘Morning, Miss Bright. You’re nice and early today.’ He passes me with his stack of newspapers, heading for the till.
‘I have an emergency,’ I call, struggling my way to the next aisle to find salt.
‘Here.’ I turn and find him holding out a basket to me. ‘You’ll drop all that and make a mess of my shop.’
‘Thank you.’ I let him help me transfer my bags of flour into the basket before I continue on my way. I find the salt and throw a few bags in, and then I’m in the bakery section. I snatch a croissant from the shelf and start nibbling at the corner as I head to the end of the aisle and take a left to the checkout. And stop dead in my tracks, my croissant hanging out of my mouth, my abruptness causing the heavy shopping basket to clang against my shins. I don’t even feel the pain.
I feel . . .
I swallow my mouthful, dropping the half-eaten pastry into the basket and quickly wiping the flakes away from my mouth. I don’t know his name, but he’s standing in front of the fridges. And he’s shirtless. Shirtless? I grimace, not because it isn’t a lovely sight – it’s a very lovely sight – but because every mortifying moment from last night has just come flooding back to me. The paint, my awkwardness, my rudeness, my inappropriate ogling. I’m ogling now, the weight of my overflowing shopping basket forgotten. He’s sweaty. His chest is glimmering. He has earbuds in. What’s he listening to? What kind of music does he like? Does he run every morning? How’s his truck? Should I talk to him? Thank him? What, for running me off the road? No, silly, for trying to tend to me after. For obviously forcing himself to smile in an attempt to ease me. He doesn’t smile often. I can tell. He has no wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, and every mature man has those. How old is he?
My brain spasms, and I laugh out loud. What’s with all the questions, Hannah?
Then he turns away from the fridge, and his eyes land on me. I snap my mouth closed, dip my head, and scuttle off, probably walking like I’m harbouring forty pounds of potatoes in my knickers. And yet again, I’m mortified. I heave my basket to the till and give a meek smile to Brianna, the shop assistant. She looks a lot more awake and chirpy than I do, and when I notice her attention isn’t on me, I turn and see that the guy at the end of the aisle is walking away toward the freezers.
‘Does he always strut around in just his shorts?’ I ask, returning my eyes forward and pulling some money from my pocket.
Brianna is now scanning my items, her eyes preoccupied, oblivious to what she’s actually scanning. ‘Yeah,’ she sighs dreamily.
I take a bag and start to pack my shopping. So I should expect to be rendered stupid often, then? Great.
Brianna finishes up, I hand her my cash, and she gives me my change, all without looking at me. ‘He’s a bit old for you, isn’t he?’ I say, probably inappropriately, as I slip my change into my pocket.
‘I’m nineteen.’
‘And how old is he?’ I should be ashamed of myself.
‘Late thirties, I think. But he looks better each time he comes back to town.’
I try not to be curious. I really try. ‘When he comes back to town?’
‘He’s been gone a month. And now he’s back.’ Her eyes dance. ‘I have to ogle him as much as I can when I can. Who knows when he’ll leave and when he’ll be back.’