‘Don’t joke,’ he said, feigning seriousness. ‘This place is on the up.’
She smirked. ‘I know. And so we’re going to pay Edgar a visit and tell him that we willnotbe accepting any offers from any mysterious, anonymous buyers today, despite the deadline.’
Daniel grinned, pleased. ‘And?’
Fern’s smile faltered just slightly. She knew what he meant.And what about you, Fern?
Her annual leave was ending. Technically, she was supposed to be back in London next week. Back behind her desk atSound & Fury, back to the inbox chaos, the editorial meetings, the playlist reviews, the after parties and, of course, Ella. She stared at the ceiling for a moment, feeling his fingers travel lightly over her skin. Did she really want to go back to her old life? To the job that once felt like everything but now felt a little hollow? To the flat that had been home for a long time but would now seem empty if she was living in it on her own?
She glanced at Daniel, at the faint stubble on his jaw, the warmth in his eyes. All this had come out of nowhere and yet she trusted him more than people she’d known for years. Somehow, without trying, he made her feel seen, steady and safe. Then there was the shop, this odd, creaky little treasure trove that had begun to feel like home in a way her city flat never had.
‘I don’t know if I want to go back,’ she admitted quietly. ‘To any of it. I don’t think I can manage without seeing you most days.’
Daniel smiled but didn’t say anything. He just held her a little tighter.
* * *
An hour later Daniel was sat in front of the computer. The Excel worksheet, usually as empty as the till, was full of numbers. Glorious, profit-shaped numbers. He scrolled down, eyes scanning the list of items they’d sold.
Across the room, Fern was elbow-deep in packing paper, wrapping a ceramic teapot shaped like a badger. She stuck a mailing label on the box then reached for the next item.
Looking pleased with himself, Daniel let out a low whistle. ‘You aren’t going to believe this.’
Fern didn’t look up. ‘Nothing would surprise me. Go on.’
He swivelled dramatically in the chair, scooped up his guitar and gave it a theatrical strum.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said before playing a bouncy tune, pausing every few bars to think of a rhyme, pulling exaggeratedly pained faces as he fished for words.
‘Oh we’ve sold the porcelain llama…’
(He grimaced like he wasn’t sure how that had happened.)
‘And the haunted garden gnome…’
(He raised his eyebrows and mouthed, ‘Seriously?’)
‘A wig from 1940…’
(He pointed at his own hair and mimed confusion.)
‘And a toucan made of chrome…’
Fern laughed.
‘Three thousand quid, I tell ya, We’re practically a bank!
‘The till is full of glory, The ledger’s in the green…’
(He glanced at the screen and gave it a thumbs-up.)
‘We might just pay the heating bill.
‘What a novel little dream!’
‘Three grand? Are you serious? This place has made three grand in a month?’
‘Absolutely serious.’
