Damaged Goods: A Small Town Romance (Ravenswood)

by Talia Hibbert

  And yet, it had been nothing like always. All because of Samir Bianchi.

  “Oh, shit,” he said. “That’s rough. I’m sorry.”

  “Eh. His liver. Not like it was a surprise.” She hesitated, slightly guilty about her own dispassionate tone. “It shook Mum up, though. She’s sober now.”

  “Huh.” There was a short pause that threatened to be awkward. Then Samir said, “So is she still an insufferable cow, or was that just the alcohol?”

  Laura shouldn’t have laughed. If she were a good, respectful, sensitive daughter, she wouldn’t have laughed. But she hadn’t been good, respectful, or sensitive for a long time, so she practically pissed herself.

  “Oh my God,” she wheezed, when she could finally catch her breath. “Jesus. You’re so unbelievable.”

  “I’m just asking the question on everybody’s mind, angel.”

  “No-one else is here, Samir.”

  “My mind, then. Whatever.” She could hear that old, infectious grin in his voice, charming as ever. God, she couldn’t believe she hadn’t recognised him—even in the dark, even when all he’d done was grunt and swear and be fallen on. Surely she should’ve known him. Surely she should’ve known her first kiss, her first love, her first everything. The only person who’d ever made her understand the phrase best friend.

  But it had been a while, and she wasn’t the person she used to be. He probably wasn’t either.

  And yet, he seemed so painfully familiar.

  “Both my parents died,” he said, “if we’re doing a family roll-call. Car crash.”

  “Oh, my God. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

  He snorted. “Either you’ve forgotten everything about my parents, or you’re lying through your teeth.”

  She was glad he couldn’t see her lips twitching. “I’m being respectful of the dead.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m actually out here celebrating.”

  “What?!”

  “Well, it was five years ago today. And I was feeling especially belligerent, so I came out to brood. You know how my mother hated brooding.”

  “Oh, yes,” she said solemnly, as if she couldn’t hear the teasing in his voice. “I remember.”

  Because really, his mother had hated everything. Anything. Whatever her children did, she’d disapproved of.

  The worst thing about Samir’s parents—worse than the cruelty, the manipulation, the toxicity—was the fact that Samir had loved them. Unlike Laura, he didn’t see his parents as pathetic fuck-ups. He wanted to please them.

  But they would never be pleased.

  So if he really was out here to celebrate… well, maybe she should be horrified, but really, she was glad. She hoped that he finally hated their guts. It was the very least they deserved.

  “How’s your brother?” She asked, just to say something.

  “Hassan? Boring. Married. He and his husband are in the RAF, can you believe that? They’re stationed in the Falklands.”

  “Really? Military?” She wrinkled her nose. Samir’s twin had been, if possible, even wilder than him.

  “Yeah; he says it helps with his temper. The order keeps him calm. “

  “What keeps you calm?”

  “Frequent masturbation,” he said dryly.

  It was a totally Samir thing to say. It was the sort of statement that had made her half-terrified, half-intrigued when they’d met as fifteen-year-olds. She’d never known anyone so casually outrageous, someone who said whatever came into his head and only wanted to make other people smile. But now, for some reason, the sharp honesty didn’t make her giggle. It made her swallow, hard, and clear her throat, and fidget awkwardly in the sand.

  He must have sensed her discomfort, because he laughed and said, “Sorry. I still have a questionable filter.”

  “You don’t have a filter,” she replied, a slow smile tilting her lips. She was probably blushing like a tomato right now.

  “Very true. And since we’ve established that—would it be rude of me to ask who knocked you up?”

  She snorted, laughter bubbling up without permission. “Someone with the necessary equipment.”

  “Someone sounds quite distant.”

  “Well, he’s far away from here. So distant is right.”

  “Hmm.” Samir’s air of constant amusement cooled, solidifying between them. She barely had time to wonder at the change before he said, “Just to clarify—is he distant because you want him to be, or because he’s a piece of shit?”

  “Um… both?”

  There was a pause. Then, his voice gentler now, he asked, “Laura… are you here on your own?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “It’s not a big deal. I wanted to come alone.”

  He ignored that completely. “For how long?”

  “I told you,” she said, trying not to sound self-conscious. “I’m having a baby.”

  “Assume I know nothing about human gestation, since I don’t. How long?”

  “I’m due in September. Mum and Hayley are coming eventually—you know, in the last few weeks or so…”

  He sighed heavily. Her eyes tracked the motion of his shadowy outline, and she couldn’t be sure, but she thought he was raking a hand through his hair. It was a familiar motion, one she remembered even after fifteen years. Just like she remembered exactly how that hair felt, thick and soft and swirling from his crown in unruly waves.

  “We haven’t seen each other in years,” he said. “Years. We don’t… we don’t really know each other anymore. Technically.”

  Something in her instinctively wanted to disagree with that, after ten minutes catching up on a beach in the dark. Which was ridiculous. The little things, the surface things about him, might seem the same, but he must be different now. She was different now. She was a little bit ruined.

  She was damaged.

  “I don’t want to act like we’re still close,” he said. She thought it was unusually tactful of him to say close instead of what they’d actually been.

  But then, what they’d actually been was the sort of thing that didn’t matter as much at thirty as it had at fifteen.

  “I’m not going to storm into your life and act like your guard dog,” he muttered, and she realised that he was actually talking to himself. Convincing himself.

  “You’re not?” She asked, an edge of mischief in her voice. She hadn’t heard that edge in a long time. It was a shock, to have it back all of a sudden—but a good one.

  “No,” he said wryly. “I’m not. That would be out of order.”

  “Okay. But if you were going to do such a thing—”

  “See, everyone always called you the good girl, but I knew from the start you’d be a bad influence.”

  “If you were,” she repeated with a grin, “what would you say right now?”

  He heaved out another of those sighs. “I’d say I have a cafe in town called Bianchi’s. And you should come and see me tomorrow. And tell me about this guy with the necessary equipment and the bad attitude.”

  At the thought of sullying Samir’s ears with even the whisper of Daniel’s name, panic stung her like a jellyfish gliding out of deep waters. “I can’t do that,” she said, her throat suddenly tight. “I mean—he’s—I can’t talk about him. You’re—and he’s—I don’t want to talk about him—”

  “Laura,” Samir said, his voice achingly gentle. She felt his hand bump into her upper arm, and then her shoulder… and then, finally, he pushed her hair out of the way and rested his palm against the back of her neck. Just like he used to. “It’s okay,” he said. “Don’t worry. We can talk about whatever you want—about something else. Anything else. Okay?” He squeezed slightly, and she realised that her breath was coming fast. “Okay?”

  “Yeah,” she managed. “Cool. Yeah. Something else. Sorry—I’m kind of on edge. Long day.”

  “I get it,” he murmured. His hand left her as quickly as it had come, and she shouldn’t have felt like she’d just lost something.

  She did, t
hough.

  Even worse, as her panic drained away, embarrassment rose to take its place. Jesus. She’d just hyperventilated at the mention of her husband.

  Ex-husband.

  Ex-husband-to-be.

  Oh, she was so sick of thinking about this.

  But then Samir said, “Hey, do you remember when we convinced Hayley that me and Hassan were the same person?”

  And, all of a sudden, she wasn’t thinking about Daniel at all.

  Chapter Three

  Samir’s cafe wasn’t hard to miss. For one thing, he had a spot of prime real estate on Beesley-on Sea’s main promenade.

  For another, the shop’s sign was basically an enormous Italian flag. It stood out amongst the cobbled streets, to say the least.

  Laura smirked as she entered the cafe’s propped-open door. God, he was so annoying. He wasn’t even that Italian.

  And why was she thinking about him like that? As if she knew him? As if it had been a week since they’d last spoken instead of fifteen years?

  She couldn’t let herself get too comfortable, regardless of their history. Getting comfortable with men usually ended in tears.

  Laura’s hand drifted down to cup her stomach as she wandered toward’s the cafe’s counter. There was a woman standing there, tapping at the till. If Laura was her old self, Daniel’s Laura, she’d say that the woman’s over-bleached hair looked like straw and the turquoise eyeliner bleeding into her crow’s feet was giving off Braveheart vibes.

  But Laura was herself now, not some pathetic, wounded creature lashing out at anyone who passed by, wielding preemptive cruelty as a shield. She’d come here to get her shit together and become mother material. So she should think instead that the woman’s French braid was cute, and that her fuchsia lipstick made her teeth look whiter.

  Actually, Laura shouldn’t think anything at all. She shouldn’t be here. She should be taking long, scenic walks through the town’s wooded trails, or booking back-to-back spa appointments with the town’s only beautician, or reading the literal mountain of self-help books still sitting in the Range Rover’s boot. Sensible things, in short, that didn’t involve gallivanting around after men. Right?

  Right. Definitely. In fact, the siren song of boring behaviour grew so strong that she actually turned to leave.

  And almost walked right into Samir.

  Oh, Christ. Samir.

  If she’d seen him last night, even just a little bit, she’d have known him in seconds. How could she not, when he was still so beautiful? Amber skin, chaotic, midnight hair, eyes dark and warm as hot chocolate… When they were young, she’d been an inch taller than him. Now he towered over her, and he was broader, too. He might even be bigger than Daniel.

  But she wouldn’t think about Daniel.

  There were other differences. His face had been finer, almost delicate, before, but now it teetered between lush and brutish. His nose was crooked, but his mouth was soft and wide as ever.

  And when he grinned… Oh, there was nothing different about that. His smile was a slice of sunshine. It was the sort of smile that promised he’d give you anything, do anything for you, just to make you happy. That he’d be happy to do it. He was that kind of guy.

  “Damn,” he said, his gaze raking over her body. For a moment, Laura felt the sort of odd, tingling flush that she hadn’t felt in forever, the sort that lit her up like a power surge. But then he said, “You really are pregnant,” and the power winked out with a pop.

  “That’s what they tell me,” she said cheerfully, while her brain melted through sheer embarrassment. Of course he hadn’t been looking at her like that. Why would he? And if he had, she would’ve been outraged, anyway. Horrified. Disgusted! She might even have slapped him. Gently, but still. The sentiment would’ve been there.

  The woman behind the counter took her pen out from between her teeth and gave a dramatic gasp. “Samir Bianchi,” she snapped, eyes narrowing until they were just glints of blue. “What did you just say to this poor girl?”

  “What?” Samir gave the woman a look of confusion. “What did I do now?”

  “You called her pregnant,” the woman said, as if he’d actually called Laura ugly or demented or French.

  “She is pregnant, Kelly.”

  Would anyone notice if Laura just… quietly… ran away?

  Probably. She let her face fall into her hands, instead.

  “You’re not supposed to say so, you bloody idiot. You’re supposed to say she’s barely showing! You’re supposed to say you can’t tell at all! Good Lord. Men!”

  The woman—Kelly—seemed to have completed her speech. After a moment, Laura peeked through her fingers, just to check if the floor was making any progress on the whole opening up to swallow her thing.

  Sadly, it was not.

  “Hey,” Samir said, catching one of her wrists. He tugged her hand gently away from her face and murmured, “Sorry. That’s Kelly. She’s nosy.”

  “I can hear you, you know.”

  He grinned, but didn’t look in the direction of the voice. “I only keep her around cuz she’s married to my best friend.”

  “Outrageous!” Kelly hollered.

  The cafe’s patrons seemed unperturbed by this entire exchange. Laura got the feeling it happened a lot.

  “Just so you know,” Samir said, “I meant that in a good way. You know, like, well done! There’s a baby in there! Sharing your oxygen! You look great.”

  That last sentence was sudden and blunt enough to make her blush, heat prickling across her chest. Jesus, she was blushing a lot recently. Must be a pregnancy thing. “Thanks,” she said, hopefully sounding like the epitome of cool. You know; instead of a tomato with vocal chords, which she totally was.

  “Don’t thank me. Come and sit down.”

  “Um… Okay?”

  His grip on her wrist loosened, and for a moment she worried that he might let go.

  Well, not worried. It would’ve been fine if he’d let go. Definitely.

  But he didn’t, in the end. His palm slid down to meet hers, and then, somehow, they were holding hands. He led her to the back of the cafe, skirting past cute little tables with piles of seashells at their centres, towing her like a rowboat. She stepped over a sleeping guide dog as Samir said to its owner, “Give up yet, Bex?”

  The woman sitting by the dog clicked her tongue. “Piss off. I’ll have it by tomorrow, I bet.”

  “We’ll see.” They reached a row of cream-and-red leather booths, and Samir slid in on one side as Laura took the other. Lowering his voice, he leaned over the table and explained, “We have this weekly riddle… competition, I think you’d call it. It’s complicated. She thinks she’s smarter than me.”

  “Is she smarter than you?” Laura whispered back.

  “Depends on who you ask. But, just between us, God, yes.”

  Laura laughed, leaning back against the booth’s soft cushions. “You know, this is cool. This whole place.” And it was. If she remembered correctly, last time she’d been in Beesley, this lot had been a typical, greasy seaside cafe. Now it was a pretty, clean seaside cafe with a wonderful smell emanating from the kitchen and Samir’s name on the menus. She wondered exactly how that had come to pass. She wondered a lot of things about Samir, actually. But she wasn’t quite sure how to go about getting answers.

  She should’ve known he’d make it easy for her, though. He always had.

  “Thanks,” he grinned. “You know what? I worked my arse off for years, saving up so I could open a place like this. And I was so fucking close. Then my parents died and left us about twice as much as I’d saved.” He rolled his eyes. “Sod’s law. Worked out great, really. But we’re not here to talk about me, are we?”

  “I don’t know,” she said nervously. “Couldn’t we be here to talk about you? I’d like to talk about you.”

  He looked at her for a minute—just looked, dark eyes drilling into her in a way that dragged her back through time. He’d always had this ability to
know, behind all his laughter and irreverent charm, when it was time to be serious. Apparently, he still had the knack, because his voice gentled and he said, “You don’t need to worry, angel. I’m not going to grill you or anything. I just want to catch up.”

  She wet her lips nervously. “Okay. Cool.”

  “You want a drink? Shit, I should’ve gotten you a drink. Are you hungry?”

  “Um… no,” she lied, “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

  He snorted. “You’re a horrible liar. Five minutes of looking after a pregnant woman and I’m already starving you. You want an omelette?”

  “You’re not looking after me,” she said indignantly.

  He arched a brow as if to say, That’s what you think. “Clearly I’m doing a piss-poor job of it. Omelette; yes, no, or other?”

  “Um… well, I wouldn’t say no to an omelette, actually. With ham. And cheese. And maybe some chips. And a salad,” she added, even though she didn’t want a salad at all. Vitamins were good for the baby, so she made it her mission to stuff down as many green things as possible.

  “Coming up,” he said, sliding out of the booth with a wink.

  Oh dear. Oh dear.

  She really, really wished he hadn’t winked.

  Samir stuck his head through the little window that separated cafe from kitchen and called in to Max, “Ham and cheese omelette with everything.”

  Max looked up from the hissing hob, whiskey-brown eyes sharp. “Where’s the ticket?”

  “No ticket.”

  His face split into a grin. “Ah. Would this be for your lady friend, then?”

  “Jesus. Do you and Kelly do anything other than talk?”

  “Oh, yes,” Max said, eyes dancing. “We do lots of other things. Like—”

  “At work,” Samir said hastily. “I meant at work. You know what? Never mind. Keep your grand passion to yourself. Filthy old man.”

  Max snorted. “Get your head out of my kitchen, Bianchi.”

  “Yes, Sir.” With a mocking salute, he turned towards the coffee machine, where Kelly’s eldest daughter, Daisy, was pretending to make a cappuccino while texting under her apron. Ingenious, really.