and will not help me out of it.
(Anne Brontë,The Tenant of Wildfell Hall)
Klint still wants to go to the café the next day. I was hoping he’d change his mind once he saw it was inclement weather, but no such luck. The lure of cake sees him donning his waterproof jacket just before noon.
‘Are you ready?’ he asks.
‘It’s terrible out there. Can’t we go another day?’
‘We’ll take an umbrella.’
So, much against my will and battling a howling gale that no umbrella could possibly withstand, I drag my heels into the village, knowing there’s a good chance that we’ll bump into Dain. I’d rather he and Klint didn’t meet if at all possible, but it appears circumstances in that regard are beyond my control.
However, he’s not there when we arrive nor when we’ve finished ordering, so I breathe a sigh of relief. Klint heads to the back of the café to snag a table as it’s quite busy. The cold and the rain are driving people inside to order warm soup and hot drinks.
Joelle is her usual bright, breezy self as she bustles around, making our coffee and getting food out of the cabinet. I haven’t consciously thought of her being with Dain. But seeing her luscious long red hair swishing around and her pert bottom encased in skintight jeans sets off an unwelcome stab of pure jealousy. Lucky cow. Well, maybe not so lucky since they’ve broken up. But still ... she’s the standard he goes for.
Pushing down my feelings of inferiority, I attempt a smile when she makes conversation.
‘How’s the thesis topic going?’
‘Still thinking about it,’ I say.
‘Did you manage to talk to Dain?’
‘I did, thanks. It went well.’ A blush flares at the base of my throat, which I hope she doesn’t observe. The last thing I want is her thinking I’ve developed a crush.
I pay and take the tray with our lunch, disappearing before she can ask too many questions.
As Klint drones on opposite me, I tune out and eat my quiche and salad, feeling melancholic. I wish I were here chatting with Dain aboutThe Tenant of Wildfell Hall, not listening to him go on about steam engines.
My silent wish is answered. The door opens. There’s a swoosh of an umbrella closing, and Dain appears in the café. He’s wearing his Victorian coat and looking good enough to eat twice over.
Stomach clenching, I duck my head down, glad that Klint has chosen a seat off to the side. He’s also facing me, so he can’t see Dain nonchalantly leaning on the counter, chatting with Joelle. Half listening to Klint, I watch Dain out of the corner of my eye.Is he perving at his ex-girlfriend’s firm bottom and wishing they were back together?The thought depresses me further, and I close my eyes briefly. I open them to find Dain walking towards the table, clutching a couple of paper bags and gazing straight at me. My heart grows legs and tries to run, but I’m caught.
‘Hi! Joelle said you were here. I’m on the Scotch egg and apple tart today,’ he says, indicating the paper bags with a tilt of his head and a smile.
I wish I could smile back and talk about his food selection. But damn, if he goes on about it being different from the norm, Klint will suspect we’ve eaten lunch together more than once.
I shake my head softly, and he gives me a strange look. ‘Uh, hi,’ I say. ‘Klint, this is Dain, the guide at the Brontë Parsonage that I told you about?’
Klint pauses with a forkful of quiche midway to his mouth, then puts it down, silently scrutinising Dain. He’s sizing him up as competition—I just know it.
‘Hello, Dain. Nice to meet you,’ he says in his ‘I know my intellect is superior than yours’ tone. ‘Lizzy has had her nose in her laptop ever since your meeting. You’ve sparked an interest in something, though in what, she hasn’t yet divulged.’
Dain seems unsure how to respond since Klint’s comment sounds vaguely accusatory. ‘Glad to hear it. Anyway, I should go. I’ve got a busy afternoon. See you, Lizzy. And nice to meet you, Klint,’ he replies and leaves hastily, the café door clanging shut behind him.
I groan inwardly. That was awkward as fuck, and Klint was rude. I don’t blame Dain at all for scarpering.
Klint continues eating and doesn’t say anything about Dain, which intrigues me. Usually, there’s an interrogation.
Eventually, he puts his knife and fork together on his clean plate. ‘So that was the Brontë expert.’
I nod.
‘He looks like your typical nerdy bookworm. What’s with the steampunk get-up?’
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t think it was polite to ask,’ I say, feeling annoyed and not wanting to discuss it.
