Page 2 of Strawberry Moon

I snort. “So?”

“Lad, just let him talk without interrupting,” my grandad says.

Harry sighs. “Just once I would have liked to have gone to a family wedding with someone my family would actually like.”

“Is that important?” my grandad asks, his eyes very intent.

He shrugs. “I’d never let family disapproval sway me from someone I had strong feelings about, but I happen to actually like my family, and it would be nice to take someone home that they’d get on with.”

“And you thought James was it?” I say incredulously. “He had a fit if the newspaper around his chips was folded wrong.”

“You need a younger man,” my grandad says calmly.

My boss blinks, and I freeze in horror.

“Oh, yes?” Harry says, graciously ignoring this rude intrusion into his private business. “You think so?”

My grandad nods. “Someone kind and warm. Not like that drama queen who just left. He could make a four-act play out of putting some toast on.”

“Oh Lord, please take me now,” I say, looking up at the ceiling. “I promise I’ll make a super-sparkly addition to heaven.”

Harry chuckles and pats me on the shoulder. My shoulder’s slender, and his hand is big and so warm I can feel it through the thin cotton of my T-shirt.

“He’s probably right about his dating advice,” Harry says.

I bat my eyelashes. “ Really ?” I breathe. “You’d go for someone younger?”

He steps back. “I meant the warm and kind bit. Young probably wouldn’t be a good idea.”

“Why? You’re only thirty-seven.”

“Well, after two months of dating James, I feel closer to sixty.”

“Someone kind,” my grandad says, blithely ignoring my stare boring into his head.

“Remember that the next time you look.” He nods at both of us.

“Well, I must be off. Demelza will be shouting if I don’t change these library books for her.

” He leaves, and the shop door bangs behind him, letting in a gust of hot, dusty air.

As usual, I rush to fill the silence. “Well, that was my elderly relative who I’m packing off to a home forthwith. Please feel free to ignore him and forget you ever met him.”

Harry gives his warm, sexy chuckle. “I don’t mind,” he says softly. “He’s like you. Forthright and honest.”

I stare up at him, getting lost in his sea-glass eyes. “Really?” I breathe. “That’s how you think of me?”

“Of course. You’re w-wonderful, Clem. Like a breath of fresh sea air.”

I can’t contain my smile. It beams up at him, and I know it’s too bright and bold, but I just can’t help it. He’s so fucking lovely .

For a second, he almost looks dazzled, and I realise how close we’re suddenly standing. My heart picks up speed.

Then he steps back and the moment is gone. “Well,” he says. “Time for lunch.”

“Pardon?”

“Lunch. You can get off for yours.”

“Chance would be a fine thing.”

“Pardon?”

“Oh, nothing.”

He smiles at me. “I’ll cover you. Take your time.”

“Okay,” I say, trailing after him as he walks towards the till.

The shop’s door opens, making the bell ring.

“Hello, Mrs Morrison,” Harry says, giving her his warm, slightly shy smile. “How lovely to see you.”

“Ah, Harry, good boy. I’ve brought some books back for a refund.”

I pause in grabbing my bag from under the counter. “Oh my god,” I say.

My boss shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he whispers.

“She’s read those books more times than I read my sister’s copy of The Song of Achilles as a teenager. I only stopped because the pages stuck together.”

He inhales and begins to cough, so I pat him on the back. His muscles are clearly defined, and I might rub them for a bit too long. He’s very fit, as he loves to run, his long legs regularly eating up the town’s steep streets.

He stiffens and I become aware that I’m still rubbing his back, and we probably passed helpful and headed into creepy a few moments ago. “Sorry,” I say, stepping back.

I could swear he looks disappointed, but then he smiles at Mrs Morrison as she sets her bag on the counter, and I dismiss the notion.

“Right, I’m off,” I say. “Mrs Morrison, how lovely of you to have made this shop into a lending library without any grants from the council.”

“Pardon?” she says, her hearing aid squealing.

“Nothing. Harry, I’m bringing you back something.”

“Oh, I’m not hungry, but thank you.”

“A tomato and feta cheese salad from the deli,” I decode. “You always eat that.”

He gives me his sweet smile that exposes the tiny gap between his front teeth. It’s insanely sexy. “You always look after me.”

I’d like to , I think. I could take care of you like no one else . But I don’t say it. Instead, I sling my messenger bag over my shoulders and venture out.

Fowey in summer brings new meaning to the word busy. Tourists fill the narrow streets with their sunburnt noses and loud voices. The shops and pubs are heaving, and the harbour is a beautiful sight crammed with boats of all sizes.

As I head down the narrow street outside the shop, someone says my name urgently. Turning around, I see my grandad sitting on a bench.

“Alright?” I say, wandering over. “I thought you were going to the library. There’ll be hell to pay if you don’t change those books.”

My grandma broke her ankle last month, so she’s having to rely on everyone to help out, which hasn’t come easy to her.

“I wanted to show you something first.” He pats the bench next to him.

I slide onto it looking at him enquiringly. “You’re behaving a bit strangely, Grandad.”

“Look at this.” He hands me a book.

It’s got a pink cover with a picture of a dark-haired man and a blonde woman embracing. I read the title— Torridly Yours —and hand it back to him.

“What about it? You know I don’t read romance. I like crime novels.”

He grins triumphantly at me. “I know. But this has given me an idea.”

“Do you actually enjoy reading them?”

He shrugs. “Your grandma does and that’s the point. She likes reading them and I like hearing her talk, so if I read them as well, I get my two favourite things.”

I smile at him. “You’re an excellent husband.”

“And you will be too.”

I blink. “I doubt it. I’d have to find someone prepared to take all this on.” I throw my hand discontentedly down my body. I’m wearing jeans that look like they’ve been spray painted on and a very tight T-shirt that proclaims, Hot Boys Ride Firemen .

My grandad frowns. “You are a bloody catch, Clemo,” he says fiercely. “And whatever man gets you will be very lucky.”

“Thank you but I think you’re a bit biased.”

“Well, of course I am. I love you. You just have to get the man of your dreams to love you too, and then you’ll be fine because he’ll treasure you the way we do.”

I pat his hand. “That’s nice.” I narrow my eyes. “Why do you look like you’re planning something?”

“Because I am.” He brandishes the book at me. “This one was about a girl who was in love with her boss, and when he needed a pretend girlfriend, she stepped in.”

“Well, that’s nice but I—” I widen my eyes. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

“Yes,” he says triumphantly. “Harry needs a boyfriend to take home. You can step up and do that for him.”

I shake my head. “Have you been drinking ? Harry would never do that.”

“Well, I reckon he might. I could see the desperation in his eyes.”

“Charming.”

“Oh, I don’t mean it like that, but he’s facing going on his own to this family do. He can take you. You can both do a bit of pretend boyfriending, and boom!” He claps his hands. “Within a few hours, you’ll be the real thing. It’s a well-known romance trope, so it’s bound to work,” he adds piously.

“And is that what happened to—” I pick up the book. “Jared and Fiona?”

He waves a careless hand. “Well, there were a few obstacles and the usual misunderstanding at the three-quarter mark.”

“What obstacles?”

“She fell in the road and got hit by a car.”

“Oh my god . I don’t feel happy at doing that. I mean, I adore Harry, but I don’t want to maim myself in the pursuit of love. I like all my limbs where they are, and I’d never suit a hospital gown. The blue would wash me out.”

“It was just a brief knock. Enough to have her confined to bed and for him to nurse her. And of course, for the one-bed trope to come into play.”

“One bed,” I breathe. “How stupendous. I could definitely do that.” I drift into a haze of Harry and I rolling around on a nice sturdy bed. I refocus when my grandad clears his throat. “But I’m not sure it’ll work.”

He takes the book out of my hand and pops it in his bag. “It will. I’ll renew it for another month. You borrow it and see what you think.” He stands up. “Right, I’m off to the library.” He taps his nose. “But this is between you and me. You know your grandma doesn’t approve of my schemes.”

“That’s because she’s the wise one in your marriage.”

He winks. “See you later, lad. Fish pie for tea if you fancy calling in.”

“Of course. Mum’s making bolognaise.”

We both shudder, because someone really should ban my mother from cooking for humane reasons.

He vanishes into the crowd, and I stare unseeingly at the Cornish pasty shop opposite me. Could I do this? Would Harry even want to do this?

A bead of sweat trekking down my face reminds me that I’m about to become stuck to a bench in Fowey with my own sweat. I stand up and suddenly I’m overtaken by the urge to do this. It could be my one chance to get Harry.

My steps take me fast down the path, dodging around slow shoppers and tourists. “Excuse me. Twink coming through,” I shout, edging round a woman with a pushchair who appears to have been crowned Queen of the Pavement by the amount of room she’s taking up.

I burst into the shop and breathe out in relief when the air conditioning hits me.

Harry looks up from where he’s reading a book at the till. His eyes immediately brighten the way they always do when he sees me.

“Alright?” He looks at my empty hands. “Did you not get lunch?”

“Not yet.”

I pace towards him. Maybe I shouldn’t do this. But then I think of the years I’ve been in love with him. This could be my chance.

“What about taking me?” I blurt out.

He lowers his book. “Pardon?”

“I could be your boyfriend.”

Something flares deep in his eyes, like a star twinkling to life. “Clem?” he breathes.

“Oh, not for real,” I immediately say in case he starts running away. I’ve seen him run. I’d never fucking catch him. My legs are built for shopping and pub crawls.

He sags ever so slightly, and his expression changes too quickly for me to analyse it. Then he breathes in. “What are you talking about?”

I look around the shop but there’s no one in earshot. The shop is quiet because it’s lunchtime. A young couple in shorts and walking boots are browsing the maps section, while a mum is reading a book to her wriggling toddler. I edge closer to Harry anyway.

“You could take me to your family do, and I can pretend to be your boyfriend.”

“ What ?”

Everyone looks around and then goes back to what they were doing.

“What?” he whispers.

I run my hand through my hair, ruffling the blond strands.

“Think about it. It makes sense. You don’t want to face your family’s questions, so let’s pretend I’m your boyfriend.

It’s only for a couple of days,” I say and shake my head.

“Shame it’s not for longer. I’m like mould in dating terms. I grow on you if given time, and I’m very lush. What do you think?”

His mouth is open, and he seems incapable of making words, so I provide some more. It’s one of my many talents.

“Think about it. It makes sense. We both know each other, don’t we?” He nods. “I mean I know you put Branston Pickle on your chips, you like running because it clears your mind, and you love fantasy books as long as there’s a happy ending. What’s my favourite book and food?”

“The Miss Marple books because you like how it proves gossiping can actually benefit society, and fruit and fibre cereal all day long, but only if I eat the banana chips,” he says. He immediately looks surprised, as if he didn’t realise he knew the answers.

Warmth blooms in my chest. Harry knows more about me than my ex did. His knowledge was restricted to how many fingers it takes to open me up. Newsflash: it was always one more than he thought.

“Banana chips are the food of Satan.” He snorts and I lean forward. “Do you see what I mean?” I coax. “We can totally pull this off. What do you think?”

I hold my breath as he considers my proposition.

He taps his finger on the counter, his face showing a multitude of expressions that are hard to read. Then he looks at me. “Do you really think we can do this?”

I resist the desire to sag in relief. “Of course , we can,” I cry.

“And you wouldn’t mind pretending to be with me?”

I stare at him. “Not at all. Why?”

“Well, it’s a lot to ask of anyone.”

“You didn’t ask. I actually conceived the plot and offered myself up for the job,” I say grandly, not mentioning the advice I had from a senior citizen and a Mills and Boon library book.

“It sounds even more alarming when you put it like that. Do you think you could put up with me for that long?”

His tone is diffident, and I’m filled with rage at whoever made him doubt himself. I lean forwards, getting a whiff of sandalwood and spice from his cologne.

“Listen,” I say, keeping my voice low. “You are wonderful. You are funny and kind and clever. It is never a job to be with you.” He stares at me, and I notice that his green eyes have copper flecks in them which means that I am standing far too close.

I clear my throat and jump back. “So, what do you think? Is the romance plot on?”

“Is the what on?”

I wave a careless hand. “Oh, just a book I read,” I say airily. “What do you think, boyfriend?”

He studies me and then smiles. It’s wide and so charming. “You’re on.”

I resist the urge to do cartwheels and hold out my hand instead. “Shake on it.”

He hesitates for a long second and then slides his hand into mine.

His olive skin is tanned against my own pale, freckled skin.

His hand is big and his fingers long, and for some reason there’s something momentous about this.

A tingle runs down my palm, and his hand tightens on mine. When I look up, his eyes are dark.

“Thank you, boyfriend,” he says hoarsely.