by Zara Keane
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Stop with the matchmaking, Liv. Never gonna happen.”
“Never gonna happen again, you mean?”
“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”
Olivia choked back a laugh. “Not loving your predicament, but I’ll admit your aunt Deirdre’s face was a sight to behold.”
The lift shuddered to a halt, and the doors slid open to reveal the kitchen electronics department.
“Come on,” Fiona said, stepping out of the lift. “Let’s find a kickass coffee machine. Preferably one loud enough to drown out Sharon’s constant chatter.”
“You must be finding Gavin’s presence very unsettling if you left Sharon in charge when you made a dash for Cork City.” Olivia sent her a quizzical look. “That smacks of desperation.”
Fiona exhaled through her teeth. The thought of the mayhem her hapless assistant could cause in a few short hours was giving her hives, but the idea of a daily encounter with Gavin galvanized her into action.
“Put it this way. The shop’s heavily in the red and likely to sink further into debt the longer I’m forced to serve stale buns in the café. Sharon’s antics can’t alienate customers we don’t have.”
Olivia’s deep blue eyes twinkled. “The terms ‘Sharon MacCarthy’ and ‘customer service’ don’t belong in the same sentence.”
“She’s cheekier than my students. Why hasn’t Bridie fired her? She’s a nice girl, and she’s a decent worker when given clear instructions, but she positively delights in winding people up.”
“Ah, you know Bridie,” Olivia said. “She’s always had a soft spot for wounded birds.”
Fiona eyebrows shot north. “Sharon wounded? The girl’s as tough as fiberglass.”
“If she’s driving you mad, why don’t you fire her?”
Fiona shoved a stray curl behind her ear. “Because Bridie specifically forbade me to. I’m allowed to change whatever else I want in the shop, but Sharon stays.”
“Her family’s dodgy as feck. Ruairí is the first MacCarthy to do something with his life that didn’t result in a mug shot.”
“Provided Sharon doesn’t do anything illegal in the shop, she can plaster her bedroom walls with mug shots as far as I’m concerned.” Fiona stopped at the kitchen electronics aisle and eyed the multitude of coffee machines on display. “Right. I need a robust machine capable of making decent espressos, cappuccinos, and regular coffees.”
“Do you want a frother?” Olivia asked. “If so, don’t go for a machine with one of those nozzle yokes. They’re a bitch to clean. You’ll save time and stress if you spend a bit more and get a proper frother.”
“Okay.” She scanned the shelves packed with machines—small, large, and every size between. “There are so many to choose from. Any recs?”
“This is the model we have at home.” Olivia pointed to a large machine with an array of buttons and a digital display. “It was pricey, but I love it.”
Fiona glanced at the price tag and recoiled. “Is it hard to use?”
“Nah.” Olivia tossed her glossy red ponytail over her shoulder. “Dead easy. If you get this one I can run you through it.”
“Speaking of running me through things… I’ve a proposition for you.”
“Oh?”
“Remember how you planned to open a café?”
“Yeah. Those were the days.” Olivia’s laugh rang hollow. “Instead, I’m a secretary and general dogsbody in my husband’s legal practice. Not quite where I pictured myself ten years ago.”
“Long story short, I’m not happy with Gillespie’s baked goods. Today’s delivery was stale. I’m having no luck finding an alternative supplier at short notice, and I’m reaching the point of despair.”
“How can I help?”
“You can bake,” she said bluntly. “I’m offering you a bit of extra cash in return for some of your delicious muffins and scones.”
Olivia beamed. “Yeah, all right, but I can only manage a couple of hours a few evenings a week. Why don’t I show you how to prepare a few basic recipes yourself, and I’ll do the rest? Bridie has a decent oven at the cottage, if I recall correctly.”
Fiona nodded. “Yeah. It’s one of the rare modern appliances she owns.”
“Excellent,” Olivia said. “We’ll have a few batches of fairy cakes and sticky buns baked within a couple of hours. We’ll stop off and buy the ingredients on our way back to Ballybeg. I’ll show you how to soak the ingredients to make tea brack and fruit cake, then we’ll make them tomorrow evening.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It is. Don’t worry, Fee. We’ll have you serving excellent coffee and yummy baked goods in no time.”
“That would be fantastic. Seriously, I have to do something to lure more customers into the shop, and the café seems to be my best bet.”
“Are things that bad at the Book Mark?”
“Unfortunately, yes. I don’t want to do the bare minimum to keep the shop afloat. If I’m to work at the Book Mark for the next few months, I want to make it profitable.”
“Do you have any ideas?” Olivia asked. “Apart from firing Gillespie’s?”
“I’ve jotted down a few, yeah.” Fiona rummaged through her bag and extracted a small notebook. “A monthly book club. A children’s story hour. An official stand at the Ballybeg Christmas Bazaar.”
“Wow. Sounds like a lot of work.”
“Better to be busy than bored.” Fiona shoved the notebook back into her bag. “I’d best pay for this machine before we get chucked out by store security for loitering.”
The fading autumn sunlight bathed Gavin’s home office in a warm orange. He yawned and stretched, pushed the chair back from his desk, and contemplated having another cup of coffee.
It had been a productive day. He’d arranged appointments with a couple of potential buyers for Clonmore Lodge, bought a new computer (essential in his line of work), and applied for a few architecture jobs. In the two and a half weeks since his unengagement and unemployment, he’d applied for every suitable position he could find advertised. At the moment, he was concentrating on the area around Cork City, but he’d likely need to cast his net wider once the rejections started rolling in.
Bernard Byrne’s influence in the building trade in Cork was considerable but waned the farther away from Cork one got. Staying in Cork was his goal, but he might not have a choice. Whatever happened, he only had a couple more weeks to decide whether or not to sign Bernard’s agreement. He was screwed whatever he did. If he refused to sign, he’d never work in the Irish building trade as long as Bernard held sway. If he signed, he’d have to keep Bernard sweet until the day he retired.
“Woof!” Wiggly Poo sat by his side, panting.
“You can’t possibly want more food.” Gavin gave him a vigorous scratch.
The dog wagged his tail in delight.
Ah, he was screwed. He hadn’t wanted a dog in his life—still didn’t—but the little fella was growing on him. He knew what it felt like to be unwanted. It was a raw ache that faded with time but never disappeared. He couldn’t inflict that on another creature, not even a dog.
Given that he hadn’t so much as sneezed in Wiggly Poo’s presence, it was safe to assume his allergies did not extend to labradoodles. “Come on, mate. Let’s see what we can find in the kitchen.”
Gavin padded into his cozy kitchen, opened a tin of dog food for Wiggly Poo, and fixed himself a coffee. Wiggly Poo devoured his meal faster than the time it took Gavin to down his ristretto.
He leaned against the kitchen counter and regarded his small home with affection. The converted fisherman’s cottage was a snug, four-room affair. He’d loved it from the moment he’d first walked through the low front door fifteen years ago. His mother had inherited the cottage from a relative, but it had been too small to accommodate her growing family with her new husband.
As far as Gavin was concerned, it was perfect. When his mother and stepfather had moved to Wexford, Gav
in had stayed on in the cottage. The instant he’d had the cash, he’d bought them out of their share of the house and done the place up.
He’d taken up the worn carpets to reveal the solid stone floors underneath and polished them to the nth degree before decorating them with patterned rugs. He’d replaced the peeling wallpaper with brightly colored paint. The walls in each room were a different color, offset by a white ceiling. He’d been obliged to follow the Ballybeg tradition of painting the outside of the cottage a vivid hue but had bent the rules somewhat by opting for black and white stripes.
When the piercing doorbell rang, he jumped, almost spilling his coffee. Frowning, he set the cup on the smooth granite counter. He wasn’t expecting any callers.
In the hallway, his visitor’s feminine form was visible through the door’s stained glass inlay.
Fiona stood on his doorstep. She had flour on her nose. He had a sudden urge to lick it off. What the flip was wrong with him? Was he losing what was left of his mind?
“Hello, Gavin.”
“Hey, Fiona. What’s up?”
She was wearing one of Bridie’s old aprons, floral with a lace trim. “Olivia and I are trying out recipes, but my aunt’s kitchen scales are broken. Can we borrow yours?”
The words came out in an unpunctuated rush. She blushed and teased her lip ring with her tongue, sending an unexpected surge of longing to his loins.
“Uh, sure,” he said slowly, doing a mental inventory of the contents of his kitchen cupboards. “I think I have scales somewhere. Tell you what, I’ll have a rummage and call over when I’ve found them.”
“Thanks. I’ll be…” She jerked a thumb over the hedge dividing his front garden from Bridie’s, then legged it.
“Right,” he said into the empty air. “I’ll be right over.”
He rooted through several kitchen cupboards before he found an ancient pair of kitchen scales. He blew dust off them. “I think a quick scrub is called for, don’t you, Wiggly Poo?”
The puppy woofed his enthusiastic agreement.
When the scales were clean and dried, Gavin slipped out his front door. The dog squeezed between his legs and shot out into the garden and out the gate.
“Steady on, mate,” Gavin said, racing after him. “I doubt you’re welcome next door after the porcelain-smashing fiasco.”
“I’d say he’s smashed all there is to smash,” said Fiona, opening Bridie’s front door. She’d tied her curly hair up in a bun now, but the sexy streak of flour on her nose remained.
His eyes met hers and held them for a second. A soft patter began in his chest. Had she always had eyes that shade of green-blue, or was it the light?
His gaze dropped to the flour on her nose. He should tell her… Nah. She’d only go and rub it off.
She caught him staring. “What? Oh!” Her hand flew to her face and rubbed off the flour, revealing a smattering of freckles underneath. She smiled, drawing his attention once again to her platinum lip ring.
He’d never kissed a woman with piercings before. She hadn’t had them when they’d slept together in Vegas. Did she also have a… Jaysus. Get a grip, Maguire.
He hauled his thoughts out of the gutter and shoved the scales at her. “Here you go. They’re clean and everything.”
“Thanks. We need to get the measurements accurate for the fairy cakes.”
“I haven’t had fairy cakes in years,” he said, still fixated on the lip ring. They’d barely spoken since the day he’d dropped the coffee machine round to the café. He’d reneged on his promise to call by each morning for a coffee fix, somehow sensing his presence unsettled both of them. Yet when she’d sent Sharon to return his machine to him, he’d been disappointed.
“The scales might be banjaxed. I haven’t used them in ages.” He was babbling, hovering on her doorstep for no rational reason.
He’d messed up her life, all because he’d not had his wits about him that morning in Vegas, not made sure Draper had shredded the documents in front of him before forking over the money. He’d screwed up, and now they were all paying for it.
Wiggly Poo chose that moment to charge at Fiona, squeeze past her legs, and bound into Bridie’s house.
Oh, shite.
A screech from the kitchen indicated Wiggly Poo was up to his old tricks.
“The sticky buns,” Fiona cried and ran to the kitchen.
Olivia stood in the middle of the kitchen, an expression of horror on her face. Wiggly Poo had leaped onto the table and was helping himself to a cooling tray of freshly baked buns.
Stunned silence reigned until Fiona let out a crack of laughter. “There goes an hour of hard work.”
“I’m sorry,” he heard himself say. “The dog is a menace. I’ve signed us up for obedience school, but it doesn’t start for another couple of weeks.”
“Naughty dog,” Fiona said, scooping him up and lifting him far away from the tray of buns. “I’m no expert, but I’d wager those are not part of your puppy diet plan.”
Wiggly Poo licked her face.
Gavin’s loins tightened. He shifted uncomfortably and tried to think of ice-cold plunge pools. Aw, man. He was a hopeless case. How could he be envious of a dog?
Olivia picked through the remaining sticky buns. “We can salvage a few,” she said dubiously.
“No, we cannot,” Fiona said. “I’m not serving puppy-slobbered-on buns to my customers.”
“Sure, how will they know?”
“Olivia, business is tight enough without an outbreak of food poisoning on the premises.” Fiona laughed and extracted butter from the fridge. “No, I’ll start from scratch. It’ll give me a chance to practice for when you’re not available to help me bake.”
“You’re planning on baking your own stuff to sell in the Book Mark café?” Gavin asked.
“Yeah.” She tipped flour onto the scales. “I’m not impressed by Gillespie’s.”
“Gillespie’s buns are bland,” Gavin said. “I’m not a fan.”
“You should call by and try out our wares. I’ll give you a bun on the house as a thank-you for lending me your coffee machine.” Her apron fit snugly around her backside. The same splendid backside he’d seen bared in all its glory a couple of weeks before.
His focus on ice-cold water deserted him, and the swell of his arousal strained the zipper of his jeans. Bloody hell. He had to get out of here before he disgraced himself. “Come on, Wiggly Poo. Let’s get you home before you cause more mayhem.”
The little dog wriggled in Fiona’s arms until she set him free. He bounded up to Gavin with the enthusiasm of a dog that hadn’t seen his master in a month.
Gavin picked him up and settled him under his arm. “I’ll come by the Book Mark with Luca at the weekend. He’s always up for a new book and a sticky bun.”
“You’re babysitting him again?” Olivia asked in a caustic tone. “Does Jonas actually live in Dublin? He seems to spend most of his time plaguing us with his presence.”
Gavin swallowed a laugh. Olivia and Jonas irritated the hell out of one another and had done from the time they’d been spotty teenagers. Time and alleged maturity had done nothing to change the situation. “Jonas and Luca are coming to keep me company in my splendid isolation.”
Fiona snorted with laughter. “Join the club. I suspect my tainted presence is part of the reason trade is slow at the Book Mark. My aunt and uncle aren’t speaking to me, and neither are their friends and acolytes.”
“It’ll pass,” Olivia said with confidence. “Once people find something new to trigger their outrage radar.”
Fiona packed a couple of fairy cakes into a paper bag and handed it to Gavin. “You can be my taste tester. Just keep them away from Wiggly Poo.”
“Thanks,” he said, careful not to touch her when he took the bag. “See you Saturday.”
He waved good-bye and took Wiggly Poo back to his cottage, trying hard to eradicate visions of Fiona’s luscious arse from his mind.
Chapter Seventeen<
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IT WAS SATURDAY and the bookshop was hopping. Thanks to Sharon and Olivia, word of the new coffee machine and edible baked goods had spread.
Fiona mopped sweat from her forehead. The fickle Irish weather had turned from mild to frigid in a matter of days. Which was to say the temperature was hovering around four degrees Celsius—low enough to give the Irish hypothermia.
Unfortunately for the staff of the Book Mark, the heating was on the blink. It recognized two settings: off or on at a level fit to give heatstroke.
And no, the bookshop was not equipped with air-conditioning.
“It’s bleeding savage out there,” Sharon said, lugging a box of books into the small stockroom. “But it’s worse in here. I ought to get danger pay for working in this heat.”
She suppressed a smile. “How does a glass of iced tea sound?”
“It won’t buy me a one-way ticket to Ibiza, but I’ll take it all the same.”
Fiona poured two large glasses of iced tea and added a slice of lemon. “The electrician’s coming by on Monday. We’ll have to put up with the heat until then. In the meantime, keeping the windows open is the best we can do.”
Mrs. Keogh heaped her pile of books on the counter.
“How are ya, Missus K.?” Sharon asked in a voice that projected around the shop. “More romances, I see. Did you ever try that Fifty Shades of Whatsit? There’s loads of sex in that one. I’m sure you’d love it.”
Poor Mrs. Keogh blushed to the roots of her snowy white hair.
Fiona shot her assistant a warning look. “Here, Mrs. Keogh. Let me help you load up your trolley. Would you like a sticky bun to enjoy at home? It’s on the house.”
“Oh, that’s very kind of you, dear.” Mrs. Keogh examined the glass display on the café counter, her hands aflutter. “May I have one with sprinkles on top? They remind me of the buns my mother baked when I was a child.”
“No problem.” Fiona put the bun in a paper bag and placed it at the top of Mrs. Keogh’s trolley. “Happy reading.” When Mrs. Keogh had left, Fiona faced her cheeky assistant. “Seriously, Sharon. You can’t speak to the customers like that.”
