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7

A few months ago, I’d let Milly talk me into putting a suggestion box by the till. As it turned out, the residents of Chipping Fairford had a lot of stupid fucking ideas about what a coffee shop should and shouldn’t do, from hosting book clubs to hiring the venue out for weddings, parties and raves—who the hell in Chipping Fairford was trying to bring back raves?—to hiring out a table or two in a hotdesk deal for work-from-homers who wanted to get out of the house every now and then.

Despite what he said, that last note was definitely from Ray.

There were also a number of suggestions about what I, personally, should do: get laid, get over myself, smile.

Overwhelmingly, people wanted me to stay open later.

Chipping Fairford was a lovely little town to stroll through of a summer evening, or in the winter when the council strung the tree-lined streets with fairy lights. The problem was, strolling was all you could do. After half past five, everything was shut apart from the supermarket and the pubs, which closed at ten and eleven respectively.

I was considering it.

Reluctantly.

I didn’t want to stay open later. I already worked truly ridiculous hours, and I’d like to actually see my dog now and then.

I didn’t bring Phil to the shop with me. I’d tried it a few times when I first got him, but it wasn’t practical, and then there was that awful spat with little Dougal Hughes, Mrs Hughes’ Westie.

Dougal was about a hundred years old and had to wear cute little red boots for his arthritis. You wouldn’t think he had that level of violence in him.

Apparently, he took what he considered to be his territory very seriously, and on their first encounter had sent Phil running for the kitchen with his ears pinned back and his tail firmly tucked.

Having a dog hadn’t been in my life plan any more than being left to run the coffee shop alone had, but I’d acquired Phil under unusual circumstances.

Suzanne Lawson, who ran the newsagent’s across the road from The Chipped Cup, had tricked me into it.

Suzanne had been friends with Deirdre Sharpe, the ninety-four-year-old previous owner of my house. When Deirdre fell from her loft ladder, broke a hip, and died six months later, Suzanne had taken Phil on even though she lived in a flat and he was not what you’d call a flat-sized animal. It was that, or let the lawyers of Deirdre’s heirs, a nephew and niece who both lived abroad, drop him off at the nearest adoption centre.

And what do you think his odds were of being adopted, Suzanne had demanded when she lured me over under false pretences for a local business owner chat and instead pointed out her back office window at the pitiful creature sitting out in the rain.

Phil was hunched on a three-foot-square patch of muddy grass, staring blankly at the fence. His coat was soaking wet, his head was hanging, and rain was dripping off his big nose.

I’d never seen a more miserable looking animal in my life.

He was eight, she said, which meant he only had a few years left, and was I really going to be able to sleep at night if I turfed him out of the only home he’d ever known? Would I really be able to live with myself if I consigned him to a slow decline in a kennel somewhere, being passed over again and again by young families who wanted a cute puppy, and?—

To cut a long story short, I went home with a new dog, on the proviso that he could continue to hang out with Suzanne during the day.

He came into town with me in the mornings and I poked him through the door of the newsagent’s en route to the coffee shop. If I had the time to jog over the road and grab him for a lunchtime walk in the park I would, otherwise Suzanne did it, and I gave her a spare key so she could drop him home at the end of her day.

We made it work.

So I was considering the opening late idea but I’d have to check in with Suzanne first and see if she could keep Phil with her for longer.

But for now, I turned new customers away from half five, shooed any lingering table hoggers out at six, and by half six was running the second load of dirty crockery and cutlery through the elderly but game dishwasher.

I was truly knackered by the end of the work day. And this, I thought with a snort, was when Jasper expected me to skip off to the gym to do some more hard labour.

I mean, yes. I could have asked Pippa to close. Even on days she wasn’t working, I could ask her to come in and do it. She’d be delighted. She was one of those intimidating women who were doing things the whole time. I was sure that she’d enjoy bustling about putting my baby to bed for the night, but…maybe one day.

I escorted the last of my lingering customers out and was turning the sign to CLOSED when someone rushed up and plastered themselves against the door.

I was impressed that I didn’t scream. I was less impressed that I leapt back about two feet like one of those internet cats when confronted with a surprise cucumber.

I stood there, hand pressed to my chest, and glared through the glass at Kevin.

He waved, and jiggled the handle.

I reached out, snagged the corner of the sign, and slapped it to CLOSED.

Kevin didn’t even look at it. His eyes were fixed on my face, and he was smiling wide.

I pointed at the sign.

Kevin tracked my finger. He shook his head.

I nodded.

He jiggled the door handle again.

“Go away,” I said, even though he wouldn’t hear me through the glass. “Closed.”

“Ah, come on, Charlie,” he bellowed, making me flinch again. “Let me in!”

Oh my god. I definitely wasn’t letting him in now.

People were passing in the street behind him and his yelling had turned heads. Traffic was zooming past. If I opened the door and let him in, people would see, and either they’d be all, Oh ho, what’s going on there, then, look at Kevin Wallis getting the special treatment. Or more likely they’d think, Yay, Charlie’s finally opening up later, apparently all you have to do is stand outside and scream at him to open the door.

And all right, Kevin wasn’t screaming. He wasn’t being quiet, either.

He rapped on the door with a knuckle.

I snatched the CLOSED sign off the clear plastic hook suckered to the window and slapped it against the glass right in front of his face.

He couldn’t miss that. All I could see of him was his chin.

He went still, then he ducked sideways and peeked around the edge of the sign.

Nope. I slid the sign across the glass in front of his face again.

He crouched to look under it. “Charlie.”

I whisked it down.

He straightened.

I whisked it up again.

And then I suddenly thought, You are playing peekaboo with Kevin and people are standing there behind him watching.

A couple of girls in the local teenage uniform of big loose jeans, big white trainers, and little neutral crop tops (one white, one beige) had stopped to watch Kevin assault my door. They called something out to him, but I couldn’t quite hear from where I was. Kevin said something back and they laughed.

A guy with a pushchair slowed as he passed. Mrs Hughes, locking up the bookshop over the road, glanced over. The bus pulled up in the bus stop and a gaggle of commuters spilled out.

I hung the sign back on its sucker-hook and strode off.

I didn’t look behind me. All it would take was Kevin’s not-quite pout and his solid body pressed up against the glass, and I’d cave. I’d run back over there, snatch the door open, haul him through, and then…

Who knows?

Probably kiss the crap out of him in front of God, Mrs Hughes, and a bunch of bored teens. And I had no idea how that would land with Kevin, so.

I didn’t look.

I strode into the kitchen, popped open the door of the dishwasher, and nearly dropped a cup when a loud walloping bang sounded at the back door.

I bobbled the cup but managed not to drop it, thanks to long practice and fast reflexes. They weren’t that expensive when you bought them in bulk, but before Milly and Pippa, I’d gone through significantly more than I could afford, due to some of my more apathetic short-term baristas.

Either they knocked them off the counter, over-stacked the trays, or ignored the sign on the front of the dishwasher that said: CAUTION!!! WAIT UNTIL COOL BEFORE UNLOADING!!! then shrieked as if they’d touched actual fire rather than quite a hot piece of crockery before hurling the offending hot crockery to the floor.

The only people who came to the back were my delivery guys: Nadia from the bakery in the mornings, whoever DPD had working the Chipping Fairford circuit that day, and Dominic with my beans. And none of them came after closing time.

I opened the door.

“Kevin. What about ‘closed’ don’t you—oh.”

He put his hands on my waist, picked me up, and set me down out of the way as he slid on in.

What.

What just happened.

He picked me up ?

“You can’t just pick me up,” I told him indignantly, closing the door.

He took hold of me again, lifted me off the ground, and put me down. “Uh, yes I can.”

I swatted him. “I meant you’re not allowed to.”

He did it again then set me down slowly as he said with alarming certainty, “Yes, I am.”

I’d never been picked up in my life. Well. In my adult life.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “We’re closed. If you’re having a coffee emergency, you’ll have to go to Starbucks.” I made a face like I’d just sucked a lemon. “Or,” I said bravely, “go home and make yourself a cup of instant. Nescafe Gold Blend or something.”

“Oh,” Kevin said. “All right. Good idea.”

I grabbed him when he went to walk past me. “You little shit. Don’t you dare make instant.” I couldn’t bear the thought of it.

“You’re such a coffee snob.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, and it isn’t. It’s good taste. And principles.”

At least when my customers drank my meticulously sourced beverages, they weren’t also sucking down the tears of children and exploited workers.

“Don’t want a coffee, anyway,” he said, and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. He was wearing cargo pants, and he had about twenty pockets to choose from, including a couple of pouch-like ones hanging from the side.

“What is this?” I reached out and poked one. “This has to be overkill. How many pockets do you even have? How many pockets can one man possibly need?”

“Lots,” he said. “I’ve got two front pockets, a phone pocket, couple of knee pockets for pads, two butt pockets, and two holster pockets. The one you’re fondling is a holster pocket.”

I snatched my hand back. “I’m not fondling your holster pocket.”

That sounded so rude.

And…yes. All right. Fine.

I had thought about Kevin in his work trousers once or twice.

I’d never found the construction worker type particularly appealing, but that wasn’t a surprise. I hadn’t spent any time sighing over policemen, paramedics, firemen, postmen or any other uniformed men. Outfits didn’t do it for me.

I’d certainly never looked twice at Craig Henderson in his work trousers, apart from that one time I threw him out because he came in covered in plaster dust and paint and thought it was all right to shake and slap it out all over my table and floor.

But Kevin, well.

He filled his out quite nicely.

“You can fondle me if you like,” he said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I don’t mind.”

“What? No. I don’t?—”

“You can fondle any of my pockets.”

“Will you please stop saying fondle?”

“Okay.” He tilted his head and thought for a moment. “You can caress any of my pockets.”

“Ugh. Kevin, no. I’m not interested in your pockets or in…that. Any of that. No.”

“Save the dirty talk for the bedroom, eh?” he said. “Gotcha.”

“That’s your idea of dirty talk?”

“No, but it’s you, so. I’m dialling it down. No need to bust out my best sexy moves standing here in your kitchen when you’re supposed to be making me a latte.”

Right. It was me. Charlie. Not one of his girlfriends.

Thank goodness.

And wait a minute… “Kevin, I’m not making you a latte.”

He smiled at me.

I waved my arms around. “I’ve just cleaned everything and shut down. I want to go home. If I make you one now, I’ll have to go through the cleaning process all over again. There’s rules.”

“I’ll come home with you and you can make me one there.” His eyes gleamed. “I can fix your cabinet doors while I’m waiting.”

“What is this sudden obsession with lattes!” And with my cabinets?

He cocked his head. “Dunno, really. It’s not sudden, though.”

“No? Because up until Saturday when you saw my Instagram, you’ve been a flat white kind of guy, all the way.”

“That you know of,” he said mildly. “I could have been getting lattes other places. You don’t know.”

I stepped right up into his space, and poked him in the chest. “You better not have.”

He dipped his chin. “I could have been coming into your coffee shop every day for a couple of years now, checking out your menu. Thinking about trying out your latte.”

This close up, his brown eyes really were lovely. They were also very, very determined.

He continued, “Maybe I’ve been ordering a flat white for ages, but secretly wanting your latte. Maybe I’ve been thinking, I’d like to try one of those. Bet it would be sweet. Bet it would taste great. Bet I’d like it way more than a flat white. Maybe, Charlie, maybe I’ve got nothing but lattes on my mind all day long.”

I stared at him. He stared back.

Well, far be it from me to get in the way of a fellow coffee enthusiast.

“Fine,” I said.

I didn’t realise we were standing so close, or that he somehow had a hand resting at the small of my back, until he shifted and his thigh brushed the inside of mine. “Yeah?” he said.

“Yep.” I braced my hands on his chest and pushed back. “You can come home with me and I’ll make you a latte. Even though Pippa made you one this morning.”

“I don’t want Ms Carrington’s lattes, Charlie. I only want yours.”

“All right. I’ve got to finish closing and I’ll be out of here in ten minutes. Meet you at my place in forty?”

“Yeah.”

He seemed so intense about getting his latte that I almost expected him to say that he’d stay while I wrapped things up, and then frogmarch me to my car and ride my bumper all the way home. To my surprise, he headed out the back without further argument, and left me to it.

Taking work home was a terrible habit of mine. Up to this point, I’d kept it to doing accounts or placing orders, or any one of those endless administrivia tasks that seemed to eat up all of my spare time.

Taking a customer home was ridiculous.

Then again, Kevin wasn’t just a customer, was he?