5
I squintedup at the rundown building. The rain splashed down on the windshield as my grip on the steering wheel tightened. So many things needed to change. How could I expect people to want to visit and spend money in my store when the outside looked like the house in the Wizard of Oz that got caught in the tornado? The edges of the rafters were rusted and lifeless—the paint long since washed away. The forest green lettering on the front sign faded so you could only make out the last two letters.
My chest gave a sharp pang.
I’d barely slept a wink last night. Dragging my body out of bed this morning felt like my feet were laden with cement. Two cups of coffee later and I was still waiting for it to work its magic and banish the last vestiges of sleep from my brain.
Wishful thinking.
I’d fallen into a fitful sleep after dropping Rosie home. The image of her dress slipping down her peach-cream skin had been playing on repeat. But it was the look on her face that stole my sleep. The look of exhaustion weighing downher body, the black circles under her eyes, like she’d barely slept for weeks.
When she’d quickly drifted off, I hung up her dress and messaged my brother to let him know she was safe. He and his girlfriend had both sent me a stream of texts about Rosie. I knew Oliver’s concern was less for her and more for the love of his life.
As the top striker in the country, all eyes were on him as the season drew to a close. Fallon tagged along to support him, knowing he was shitting himself over all the attention. No matter how cool he played it, I knew the pressure was getting to him.
Years of being hounded by the press hadn’t desensitised him to the coverage. I actually think it did the opposite—especially with Fallon by his side. She was getting followed by men with cameras as much as him. Having every tabloid in the country write articles about them made him more anxious than usual.
I expected a few random calls here and there where he’d let off some steam or ask me to talk about something mundane to get his mind off practice or the upcoming match. In the middle of the night, the last name I ever expected to flash up on my phone washers. My mind immediately flew to the worst alternative. Someone was dead. Car crash. There was a meteor heading towards the earth. My sleep-addled brain had the tendency to overreact.
The second her whispered voice filtered down the line, all of those catastrophes paled in comparison to the fear that sliced me to the bone.
That girl.
That fucking girl who had been avoiding me for the past two months was in trouble.
The same girl who’d stopped coming to dinners andgames when she knew I’d be there. Who constantly invaded my thoughts since the first night we met.
The memory of the shadows under her eyes as I cleaned off her makeup had my fist flexing on the wheel. When was the last time she’d eaten a proper meal? The dirty dishes and piles of takeout containers told me it had to have been a while.
Not my problem. She’s not my problem.
She made that abundantly clear. Never once mentioning the kiss we shared that night in the pub over a year ago. She’d acted like it never happened. Her nonchalance became so convincing that I’d almost convinced myself it hadn’t. On the odd occasion when we’d been watching one of Oliver’s games, or out for dinner with Fallon, I opened my mouth to ask her about it—ask if she even remembered it. The thought of her wrinkling that cute button nose and telling me she hadn’t even thought about it once, stopped me every single time. I couldn’t handle that.
I swiped a hand down my face, glimpsing the bags under my own eyes in the rearview mirror. It’s not like I had a leg to stand on. Life hadn’t exactly been going my way recently.
Pushing myself out of my truck, I stalked across the gravel car park. Rain splashing down in a steady rhythm. I tugged on the collar of my shirt, pulling it up against the weather, and jogged the last stretch to the front gate. Already unlocked, thanks to Steve, my oldest employee. For a man in his sixties with three grandchildren—and another on the way—most days, he had more energy than I did. The shop had been open for only twenty minutes, but the lack of cars out front and people milling about widened that crater in my chest.
‘Morning, boss,’ Steve called from a register off to the left. His grey hair hung in a long ponytail, tied with a bobble at the back of his neck. The bristled ends were damp from therain, and the bright smile on his face was at odds with the gloomy day.
I dipped my head, shaking off the excess droplets, and headed over to him. ‘Morning Steve.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Long night?’
Obviously, my fatigue hadn’t been washed off in the scalding hot shower I’d forced my body into this morning.
‘Longweek.’
He nodded sagely. ‘It’s a bit like that, innit? My Claire was up all night on the phone with our daughter. You’d think after three kids, she’d stop fussing.’ His weathered palms lifted to the ceiling. ‘I get more grey hairs every time she announces another baby.’
His chuckle was light and full of warmth.
‘You might get used to it by the sixth one.’ I patted him firmly on the back.
‘Lord, help me,’ he muttered.
A stack of papers lay scattered on the countertop. I jutted my chin towards them. ‘Has the shipment arrived yet?’
Steve cleared his throat, reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
