Page 23 of Storm in a Teacup (Love in Edinburgh #3)

Linny

On Friday, Carolyn comes out from the back, red rhinestone-decked purse clutched in her hand. “I’m meeting a friend for lunch, so I’ll be closing the shop for an hour.”

I hardly glance at her from where I’m organizing vases on top of an antique dresser. “I don’t mind manning the store for an hour. Or, I guess if you do want to close, I can get some stuff done in the back.”

“You need to have a rest every now and then, Melinda.”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Eat a meal. Go up to your flat to say a hello to that cat of yours. Walk over to the café and give that boy a good snog.”

“Ben’s not my real boyfriend,” I remind her.

“A man doesn’t have to be your boyfriend for you to snog him, love. Listen, I don’t care what you do on your own time, but whatever it is, it will be done somewhere other than my shop.”

With her hands, she shoos me out the front door, my feet stumbling beneath me, following behind me and locking the door. When I regain my balance, I fling an arm toward the now locked door. “My phone, keys, and wallet are all still in the back. ”

She clicks her tongue like that was my fault, and reluctantly removes one key from her keyring. It’s the key she has to my flat. “Here you are.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly, taking the key. “See you in an hour.”

She waves goodbye as I trudge up to my flat. I do as she suggested and eat a meal sitting down at my kitchen table. Then I say a hello to Oscar Wilde, who is too busy wreaking havoc by climbing to elevated surfaces he should not be able to access to give me the time of day.

If I had my phone, I would be content to slouch into the couch and scroll for the hour, but that is still locked in the store below. I stand with my hands on my hips as I assess my living space, searching for something to do.

On my mail table, I spot a box I have been meaning to put into a more secure location.

This small, black velvet box holds Mel’s wedding rings.

She gave them to me to keep safe because it eased her anxiety by having them in the city where she’s getting married.

I wander over to the table and pick up the box gingerly, like I could break it.

I crack it open and stare. This is admittedly not the first time I have done this—gazed at these wedding rings with a tiny inkling of envy.

I don’t do it a lot, and I’m really not that jealous.

I pick up the ring intended for Mel, pinching it between my fingers. It’s a silver band, matching her elaborate engagement ring. It’s simple, but elegant. I love it. It is perfect for her. I wonder…

Without even fully planning to do it, I slip the band on my left ring finger.

I immediately regret it.

This ring is tight. Too tight. I pull at the ring to remove it with no luck. Shit. I twist and turn the ring, but it won’t budge. “Shit,” I say aloud, still yanking at the metal band. It’s stuck. “Shit, shit, shit.”

I search around wildly, trying to figure out what to do. My finger is swelling around the ring. I run to the kitchen sink and douse my hand in dish soap, trying to wiggle it off—but my hands keep slipping and I can’t get a good grip.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t have my phone. Carolyn is out.

But Ben is downstairs.

I’m out the front door of my apartment before I even finish the thought.

I push into the café with a clatter. Gemma is behind the counter and says a confused hello to me as I rush past her, offering back little more than a grunt.

I push through the swinging door to the kitchen so aggressively that it hits the wall beside it.

Ben whirls around from where he’s working and drops his rolling pin. “Lin? What’s wrong?”

I hold up my trembling hand. “I can’t get it off,” I whine.

He approaches me and gently takes my hand, twisting the ring and trying to pull it off. I squeak in pain as he is not having any more luck than me. He swears under his breath. “Muffin, we might have to take you to hospital and have this cut off.”

I shake my head aggressively. “No, no. We can’t do that. This is Mel’s wedding band.”

His eyebrows raise, but he thankfully does not question why my cousin’s wedding ring is on my finger. He nods once and pivots around, walking away from me.

I let out a frustrated whimper before I realize what he’s doing.

He comes back with a bucket of butter. He sets the butter down on the counter beside us, scooping up two fingers full and slathering it all over my hand.

He tries to work at the ring, but my hand is shaking too aggressively for him to get a solid grip .

“Let’s sit,” he suggests, keeping his voice calm.

I fall to the ground without any more prompting.

Ben sits more gently, moving to cage me in his legs.

“Like this,” he says, adjusting us so his one leg is propped up and acting like a backrest for me.

My legs are bent over his other leg, skirt draping him like a blanket. We are incredibly close.

He takes my quaking hand in his and continues to spread the butter around it. As I watch, tears leak from my eyes. I need to get this ring off. It needs to be off of me.

Ben notices my tears and uses a buttery hand to wipe them from my face, effectively spreading the butter on my cheeks. “Sorry,” he mutters.

He refocuses on the ring, twisting and turning.

He pulls at the ring, and right as I think all hope is lost, it slips from my finger just as easily as it slipped on in the first place.

My finger pulses and attempts to bring blood back to the correct places as I finally let myself breathe, relief rushing through me.

“Your cousin’s fingers are freakishly small,” Ben comments before he sets the ring up on the counter next to the tub of butter.

He wipes his hand on the apron he wears, then, using that apron, tries to clean my hand as best he can. We’re both still slick and greasy. Tears gently escape my eyes, left over from the panic.

“We’re good, Lin,” he reassures me, wiping at the butter on my cheeks, clearing my tears as well. “I got it off.”

“Thank you,” I say, my voice small.

“Of course. Thank you for coming to me for help.”

He doesn’t make any attempt to move, so neither do I. We stay where we are, folded over one another and so close we can share breath.

Eventually, I admit, “I don’t know why I put it on.”

He nudges me with the leg behind my back. “Everyone does things like that. No judgment from me.”

“I guess I was wondering what it would feel like. I never…I never got to the wedding band part. Just the engagement ring part.”

He regards me curiously. “How did it feel?”

“Well, I felt nothing. It’s not my ring. The love of my life didn’t put it on my finger. But that nothing was very quickly taken over by panic.”

His leg bumps my back again. “Well, hard times are over now. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I finally go to stand up, using his shoulder as leverage, then I help him up. I grab the buttery ring from where he set it. “I should get this back to a safe place.”

“Maybe give it a little clean as well? Can you imagine if Julien tried to put it on Mel’s finger and it slipped out of his hands because of the grease?

That would be hilarious.” He coughs as a smile perks my mouth.

The image of Julien scrambling after a ring that won’t stay in his hands flashes through my mind.

“I mean, bad,” Ben corrects. “That would be bad.”

“Really bad,” I agree. I squeeze him on the arm. “I’ll see you later?”

“Of course. I’ll see you at mine for supper with Isla and Rachel tomorrow?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Bye, ring thief.”

…

The next day, Ben makes me leave the shop early to go grocery shopping with him for dinner, but I honestly think he just wants someone to trail after him with the cart. He grabs things off the shelves seemingly at random and throws them in the basket as I push .

I follow him through an aisle as he mutters, “Couscous,” to himself over and over until he spots it on the shelf. He nudges his eyeglasses up his nose with a knuckle as he stares down at the grocery list typed on his phone. To me, he spouts off everything he’s grabbed, then asks, “Anything else?”

“You haven’t told me what you’re making, so I don’t know.”

He wags a finger at me. “I told you, it’s a surprise.”

“Then garlic. We need garlic.”

He throws his head back gleefully. “We do need garlic! Come on.” He runs us back to the produce section, picking through cloves of garlic that all appear the same to me before he settles on one.

After we check out, Ben drives us back to his place, where I help him bring in all the groceries. His glasses get discarded on the kitchen table as soon as possible as he claims they’re annoying. He only wore them because he was driving.

His flat is on the ground floor—small, but nice. Ben says it’s about a twenty-minute walk from Somewhere Special, so unless it’s pouring or bitterly cold, he likes to walk. It’s clean and has private access to a back garden.

I give myself a little tour with his approval, poking my head into his bedroom and flipping on the light.

He has a bedframe—thank god—as well as several cardboard boxes piled in the corner of the room.

I’m about to switch off the light when I spot something that piques my interest. I wander closer to confirm what I already know it to be.

The crystals I gave him sit on his nightstand in what looks like the lid to a jar of marinara sauce.

I pick up the rose quartz, running my thumb over the smooth surface before dropping it back in his makeshift dish.

When I return to the kitchen, he asks, “Done going through my drawers?”

“I opened zero drawers, but yes. I like your place.”

He shrugs as he turns on the tap, sticking his hand under the water to test the temperature. “It’s a roof over my head.”

“Need any help?”

“Naw.”

“Then what am I supposed to do?”

“Keep me company.”