‘Goodnight, Sophie,’ he said, the springs creaking one more time as he settled himself.
‘Goodnight, Joe,’ I whispered back, rolling onto my side and closing my eyes with a smile.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Joe was a heavy sleeper.
He didn’t even stir when I climbed out of bed the next morning, dressing quickly and quietly, and edging past the sofa-bed to let myself out the cottage before he could wake. It had been a restless night, sleep hovering just out of reach from the moment I closed my eyes. Every time I felt myself slipping towards blissful oblivion, my brain decided to scroll through some of our greatest hits, all the classics with some new trauma thrown in for good measure. Everything I had to lose if people found out I was Este Cox, my mother’s disappointment, the fact I’d wasted five years of my life with an arse like CJ and even he didn’t want me, and the conversation I was going to have at some point in the near future with the man next door, who kept parking so close to my driveway, it was almost impossible for me to back out without hitting him. How difficult was it to pull up two more feet? He was definitely doing it on purpose.
And if that wasn’t enough, each time I rolled over,I heard Joe Walsh. The whisper of sheets against skin, the soft sighs and quiet murmurs, and every other barely audible exhalation that might as well have been a twenty-piece brass band. I couldn’t possibly relax with him so close to me. How could he lie there sleeping peacefully when I couldn’t keep my eyes closed for five minutes at a time? The audacity of the man. So, it was safe to say I didn’t look my best when I jogged down the side of the house, bypassing breakfast with the family, in favour of a walk to visit the best coffee shop in town.
Even though it was early, Sarah was already busy, most of the tables full and a short queue forming out the door. I recognised the tetchy expressions on their faces. You simply did not come between a person and their coffee before nine a.m. if you wanted to live to see lunchtime.
‘Taylor!’ she cried happily when she saw me hanging around the doorway. ‘Get in here. What are you drinking?’
Several pairs of eyes burned into my back. If looks could kill, I’d have been six feet under.
‘No, you’re busy,’ I said, loud enough for them all to hear. ‘I’ll come back later.’
‘You certainly will not. Get your arse back in here immediately.’
There was one thing scarier than an early morning coffee shop customer and that was Sarah Nixon. I knew better than to argue, shuffling through the tables with murmured apologies to anyone and everyone.
Ignoring the outrage with two large pink takeout cups in her hands and a paper bag of pastries hanging from her mouth, Sarah left her colleague in charge andbeckoned me to follow her down the little hallway and out a back door to an alley. Two plastic chairs sat at a small table, the York stone walls of the shops on one side of us, a row of trees on the other, early morning dappled sunlight shining through their branches.
‘It’s not a vanilla latte but you’ll like it,’ she promised, pushing one of the coffees towards me when I sat down.
‘What is it?’ I asked with a cautious sniff.
‘Mr Atkinson’s coconut flat white. Orders the same thing every day because he doesn’t like coffee.’
I took a tiny sip as she sat opposite me.
‘But it is coffee?’
‘I know.’ Sarah tore open the paper bag that contained two chocolate croissants. ‘But don’t tell him that. Now, tell me what’s going on and why you look like something the dog dragged in, ate up, threw up, ate again and shat out?’
And to think of the two of us, I was the romance writer.
‘It’s a lot of stuff.’ I crumbled a bit off the pastry, unsure where to start. ‘And it’s complicated.’
‘Have you forgot who you’re talking to?’ she laughed. ‘Don’t “it’s complicated” me. Is it CJ? Was he there last night?’
‘Yes, he was but no, it’s not him.’
It wasn’t. If CJ were a book boyfriend, he wouldn’t even get Daniel Cleaver status in my story. More like I was Elizabeth Bennet and I’d accidentally gone out with Mr Collins for five whole years.
Sarah studied me carefully and I kept my face busy, eating and drinking and not thinking about Joe or my mum or Joe orButterfliesor Joe. Eventually, she sat back in her chair and glared at me with accusatory eyes.
‘What?’ I asked, heating up under her gaze.
‘You said you weren’t seeing anyone but you’ve got romantic drama face.’
I tore off a huge piece of flaky pastry and stuffed it in my mouth. ‘I do not have romantic drama face. There’s no such thing as romantic drama face.’
But it was too late, she already smelled blood in the water.
‘Taylor, don’t be a dick. There are circles under your eyes darker than a black hole, you’ve got a mouth like a cat’s arse and you are inhaling that croissant like someone’s going to take it away from you. You’re an anxious eater and you’re never more anxious than when you have romantic drama. You didn’t come running in looking like the girl fromThe Ringjust to say hello, you came because you needed to talk to me, so go on, talk.’
