Page 9 of The Side Road (Love Chronicles #3)

CAMELS HAVE WOOL?

Tash arrived at Hook he had given her no option.

Holding two pairs of wet gloves, she side-stepped around the display table. Oliver moved in the same direction, and they were face to face. Seeing their predicament – he was blocking her way – she stepped to the right. Oliver had the same idea, and once again, they faced each other.

‘Oh my god,’ she muttered.

He was just so tall. A ringlet of hair had settled over his forehead. It was all she could do not to brush it out of the way.

‘Don’t move,’ she said, and walked around him.

He followed her to the counter. Opening his wallet, he pulled out his credit card. He was about to hand it over when she informed him the cost would be ninety-nine dollars. His credit card retreated.

‘Each pair,’ she clarified.

‘Ninety-nine dollars each pair ?’

‘They’re hand-knitted in camel wool,’ she explained.

‘Camels have wool?’

‘It’s a luxury fibre.’

‘It’s still a lot of money for something so . . . small .’

Mia knew a good pair of motorbike gloves cost a lot more. Despite this, she felt the need to elaborate. ‘There’s also a cable detail around the cuff that’s difficult to do.’ She showed him the contrasting trim.

He looked underwhelmed.

This wasn’t her fault. He should have read the sign on the door. And who brought an open, full-to-the-brim coffee into a craft store on the busiest day of the week? Live and learn, she thought. He won’t be doing that again.

She held out her hand for the credit card.

Oliver passed it over and she completed the transaction.

After patting the gloves dry, she wrapped them in tissue paper and placed them into a paper bag.

‘When you get home, wash them by hand in lukewarm water with a mild detergent. Then dry them flat in the shade,’ she instructed.

As he reached for the bag, a glazed look crossed his face.

She pulled it out of his grasp. ‘Please don’t get them dry-cleaned. Ever.’

‘Okay.’

She needed further validation because he looked like a man who misused dry cleaning. ‘Promise,’ she said.

‘I promise.’

Finally, she conceded and handed the bag to him.

Sheepishly, he smiled. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’

She nodded. No more encouragement was required.

He turned and lifted his gaze to the horizon – a sea of wool. ‘My idea of knitting is an old woman in a rocking chair making a shawl.’

‘That’s a dated stereotype.’

After resting an elbow on the counter, he leaned forward. ‘I guess you like…knitting?’

‘I own a wool store.’ She was putting a lot of effort into being obtuse .

‘Of course.’ He peeled himself off the counter. ‘I didn’t realise it was so…so popular?’

‘It’s always been popular. Recently, it’s come out of the shadows. Anxious people need something to do with their hands, and there are a lot of us. It’s also Instagrammable.’

He offered a laconic boyish grin. ‘Is that a real word?’

‘Of course it’s a real word.’

‘In the dictionary?’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Should we look it up?’

‘I’m not saying it’s a good word. I’m just saying it exists, and people use it.’

Enjoying himself, he smiled again. After turning to admire the racks of wool, he said. ‘This is an amazing store. I like the colour-coded displays. But do you think that’s racist, separating the colours like?—’

‘It’s just wool,’ she snapped. His teasing was getting under her skin.

About to laugh, Oliver looked at his feet.

Saige sidled up to the counter, holding her list of tasks. ‘Mia, sometimes you’re so gullible. Recycling is a joke. They lied to us; everyone knows that.’

‘I still think we should try,’ Mia said.

‘Traumatised,’ Saige mumbled. She floated away to tackle the recycling.

Tash caught her father’s eye. She pointed at the door, indicating he should wait for her outside.

Mia pointed to Oliver’s toasted sandwich, which was still resting on the display table. ‘Take that with you.’

Oliver left the store, taking his coffee-soaked gloves and toasty with him. The man moved with the clumsy grace of a large, awkward puppy. Last night in the dim light of the kitchen, he looked forty. Today, he acted like an awkward teenager .

Outside, Oliver sat down on a bench to wait for Tash.

He stretched out his long legs and crossed his ankles.

His toasty had gone cold and he was down a coffee, but he didn’t care.

It took him a few minutes to realise his heart rate was up, which made no sense.

MotoGP riders had advanced aerobic systems, which helped them withstand powerful energy surges during races.

He wasn’t anywhere near a racetrack, but his chest pounded.

Oliver considered himself to be highly coordinated.

Around a racetrack, he could manipulate a 180-kilogram, 260-horsepower motorbike at 350 kilometres an hour.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had tripped over something or spilled a drink.

Until today. This morning, he had pulled the curtains down.

A few minutes ago, he had dropped his coffee. Now his heart was racing.

It was too late for first impressions, but the next time he saw Mia, he was going to impress the socks off her.

Later that day, in the parsonage kitchen, Oliver explained the details of Elsie’s will to Tash. He told her about her grandmother’s request to be buried at the old cemetery and not in the pre-booked plot beside her husband of fifty-five years.

‘Way to hold a grudge,’ Tash said when she heard the news.

Oliver showed her Elsie’s passbook, pointing out the deposits and withdrawals. A sharp student, Tash quickly saw the connection. Then Oliver opened his phone and presented the photos of the forged documents.