Page 6 of The Side Road (Love Chronicles #3)

After an unpleasant experience with a rancid batch of oil – it was an imported variety – Mia decided her stomach couldn’t handle another drop.

While the family was upset to see her leave – her knowledge of olive oil was borderline expert – her side business was bringing in more money than the olive oil business.

Already selling homemade knitted products at local markets and country fairs, she moved her sales online. A traditional retail store followed.

Holly was a head shorter than Mia. With smooth, dark hair and large doe eyes that people found alluring.

Pregnancy fatigue had hit Holly hard at the four-month mark.

Sometimes, when she relaxed, her weary expression softened into an amused, friendly smile, which evoked a warm-hearted approachability.

These days, that was rare. Apprehensive about her future, Holly seldom relaxed.

Mia took the box of cloudy oil from her friend and placed it on the counter.

‘The filters on the centrifuge broke,’ Holly said. ‘There’s olive flesh in the oil. We can’t sell it, but it’s fine to use. Don’t keep it for too long, and store it in?—’

‘A cool, dark place. Yes, I know.’

Holly rubbed her chest. ‘I have reflux. I can’t stop burping and I haven’t slept lying down for a week.’ She eased herself into a low-wicker chair. Her feet found their way to the footstool. Mia tossed a knitted chicken called Quinn at her. Holly caught it and hugged it to her chest.

‘Piccolo?’ Mia asked.

‘Yes, please. The look I get from Angus when I don’t order decaf is life-threatening.’ The best coffee in town was served by Angus at the Horse Trough Cafe. Back in its prime during the 1800s, the two-story building served as a hotel.

Mia switched on the coffee machine.

‘Last night, Miles and I had this huge fight about Seinfeld . Do you think Seinfeld is funny?’ Holly asked.

‘For a show about nothing, yes. ’

‘Well, I don’t think it’s funny, and it drives him crazy. He wants me to pretend to like it.’

‘You shouldn’t have to pretend.’ Mia handed over the coffee.

Holly took a sip. ‘Happiness in a cup. Sometimes I stare at the back of his head and think, How can this be forever? I’ve ruined my life. Is he even the one ?’

Mia blinked. ‘You’re having second thoughts about Miles?’

‘Yes. I feel better now that I’ve told you.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me before?’

‘I was deciding if the pregnancy hormones were clouding my judgement.’

‘Were they?’

‘No. Yesterday at lunch, Miles said that giving extra virgin olive oil to the public was like feeding strawberries to pigs.’

‘He said that?’

‘Yes. Then we argued about the teaspoons. He thinks they’re too small. They were a wedding present. I don’t care about the size of the teaspoons.’

‘Honestly, they are a bit on the small side.’ Mia understood why Miles disliked their cutlery; their teaspoons were tiny scoops, with ridiculously short handles, but the olive oil comment was unkind.

‘How was the wake?’ Holly asked.

‘It was fine. I almost kissed a man’s neck,’ Mia confessed.

Holly lifted her gaze. ‘Sorry. You kissed someone’s neck?’

‘No, but I wanted to. I was fixing the collar of his jacket, and there was this tiny mole. It was right in front of me. And I closed my eyes and thought about kissing it.’

‘Did his collar need fixing?’

Mia nodded. ‘I was drunk – two gin and tonics on an empty stomach. ’

‘I’ve seen you drunk. The only thing you kiss is your dog.’ Holly sipped her coffee in silence. When she finished, she placed her cup on the table and asked, ‘Is he cute?’

Mia nodded. ‘He’s a mechanic. And he rides a motorbike.’

‘Sounds risky.’

‘Tash told me he once rode a postie bike across Australia – from east to west – for a charity ride.’

‘Tash is the girl you hung out with after her grandmother died.’ Holly stroked the knitted chicken.

Mia collected the cups and took them into the kitchen. ‘Yes, she’s enrolled in my Sit & Knit group.’

‘This can’t be the knitting group I go to.’

‘No, it’s the PG, Saturday morning version. You’re enrolled in the wine-drinking evening group. Are you coming next week?’

‘Those women hate me. They called my wool acrylic.’

‘They weren’t lying. Your wool is acrylic.’

‘They were wool-shaming me. Not all of us can afford mohair at forty dollars a ball. My wool comes from recycled water bottles. It’s sustainable and wrinkle resistant.’

‘It’s good wool – for acrylic.’

‘Anyway, I can’t come,’ Holly said. ‘There’s an event at the restaurant. I’m supposed to be hosting. What’s the next step with Neck Man? Are you going to sit on his bike and wear his leather jacket?’

‘You forget, I have my own leather jacket.’

‘Yours has a Labrador patch on the elbow. It’s not an alpha male, motorbike-riding jacket. Why do you always go for the bad-boy types?’

‘Because I’m fatally attracted to the wrong type of man. And there will be no next time, because nothing is going to happen. Can you give me a lift into town? Last night, Blanche drove me home, and I need to pick up Leo’s bike. ’

Holly held up the knitted chicken. ‘Can I keep this?’

‘She’s not finished. Her eyes are wonky.’

‘I thought that was intentional, like a design feature.’

‘I’m not catering to the margins. You can have Pete the Pig for thirty-two dollars and ninety-five cents. Less a ten percent discount for family and friends.’

Holly handed the chicken back. ‘You used to give me stuff for free all the time.’

‘Now I have a business. My time is money. But I’ll trade you for the box of oil.’ Mia handed the pig to Holly.

Holly hugged Pete to her chest. ‘It’s not the same.’