He shook his head, smiling. “You’re a hard woman, Sheila. We might have cheaper in the back. Fee!” he called. “Got any bread in the kitchen from yesterday?”
A girl with short blue hair and floured arms emerged from the depths of the shop. “Bread from yesterday? Are you kidding me?”
“Sheila here was wanting a loaf on discount. See what you can find, okay?”
He held her gaze. Despite their difference in height—he was very tall, she was short—there was something similar about their faces. Same blue-green eyes, same long nose, same dramatic eyebrows. Was she his sister? I wondered. His boss? His girlfriend?
“Right,” she said grudgingly. “I’ll just have a look, then.”
Returning, she slapped a loaf on the counter. It looked to me exactly like the loaves on the shelves behind her.
“I’m only taking it to keep you lot from throwing it away,” the older woman said as she counted out her money.
The blue-haired girl rolled her eyes.
“We appreciate your business,” the guy behind the register said.
The bells over the door jangled as she left.
The girl—Fee—folded her arms across her floured apron. “What is your head stuffed with, straw? There’s no point in me baking to sell if you’re going to give it away.”
He shrugged. “Good neighbors make good customers. We take care of them, they take care of us.”
“The neighborhood is changing. We need to change with it.”
I listened, fascinated by their little drama.“You’ll be the ruin of us,” she cried, clutching her baby to her breast. “If we cannot pay the rent, we’ll be forced to emigrate to America.”
The poet—who was quite hot, actually—caught me staring. One eyebrow flicked up.
Flushing, I gathered up my cup and napkin to throw them away. “Thank you for the tea. And the toast.”
“No bother.”
“I, um, guess you get a lot of tourists in here.”
“More than last year,” he said.
During the pandemic, he meant. “And students,” I offered.
Something subtle shuttered in his face. “Some.”
Obviously, he had better things to do than make conversation with a dorky American grad student. “Do you know the way to the writing center? On...” What was it? “West Something Road?”
“The Oscar Wilde house. Westland Row. Turn left across the bridge, then follow the road past campus. Right on Townsend, left on Pearse.” I nodded, still pretending I knew where I was going. But apparently I didn’t fool him, because he added, “It’s not far. About fifteen minutes’ walk.”
“Thank you.” I lifted my bag to avoid scraping the broken wheel across the floor.
“I can call you a taxi,” he said.
“If it’s not too much trouble...”
“No trouble. My uncle Gerry’s a cabbie.”
“Oh. Well...” A headline scrolled through my tired brain.Abducted Woman’s Body Pulled from River, Still Wearing Cowboy Boots.
The eyebrow quirked again. “He won’t take advantage, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
My face was hot. “I wasn’t thinking that at all.” I didn’t evenliketrue crime stories.
