“Still here, then,” he says, stopping just shy of beingtoo close.
“Yup.” I rub my hands together, making it clear I’m cold and won’t be sticking around. “Until Dad’s back on his feet.”
“Tomorrow, if he’s got anything to do with it.” He pulls his phone from his pocket and waves it. “Most messages from one person I’ve ever had in my life.”
I laugh, genuinely, because I can only imagine how much my dad’s trying to do from the comfort of an armchair while his leg is resting at ninety degrees. When the laughter dies down, Pete is staring at me.
“Seeing as you’re still here, how ’bout we catch up over a drink? It’s been a while.”
Yup. As predicted, and I work hard on keeping my cringe to myself.
A couple of years older than me, Pete’s worked for my dad since he was sixteen. Once or twice through the haze of too much alcohol, I’ve thought he was hot, with his floppy hair and permanently ruddy cheeks, maybe even ended up with his tongue down my throat, but it never went any further, and not since I was seventeen.
Ten years ago.
I’ve changed in that time. I’ve learned I can’t run from my feelings.
I can’t hide behind someone else. I can’t agree to marry another person, no matter how much I care for them, in the hopes they can erase any memories I don’t seem to be able to forget. Because the ugly truth is my heart has only ever belonged to one person.
Until I deal withthat, I won’t be going for drinks with anyone.
But it’s too early to get into a conversation aboutthe state of my love life, so I just say, “Sure,” and thumb behind me. “I should leave you in peace and get going before my muscles seize up.”
Pete nods. “Always happy to be interrupted by you, Story.”
I let out an awkward chuckle and try not to grimace. I haven’t beenStoryfor six years. It’s a name I’ve grown to hate. A name too reminiscent of painful memories.
“It’s ah . . . Sophie. I don’t go by Story anymore. But yes, probably see you tomorrow.”
“I’ll be here,Sophie.”
Sprinting out of the yard, I’m almost home when I remember I’m supposed to go to the bakery and take a left turn. It takes me a minute to realize the tightening in my chest isn’t from running too fast, but because I’m heading down the lane that leads past Hendricks and Miles’s cottage. I don’t even know if they still live here. Do they still live together now that Hendricks is with the blonde?
I can’t imagine she’d want to live with Miles. And I doubt Miles would ever live with a woman, even one in a relationship with his brother.
OhGod.
What if they’re there now? What if they come out when I pass?
For a second, I hop about on my feet, deciding what to do. I could turn back and cut across the field, but I hate the mud more than I hate the idea of bumping into Hendricks. So instead of slowing down, I sprint, narrowing my eyes to the point I can only see a tiny shard of the road in front. If I can’t see the cottage, then logic dictates that the cottage or anyone in it can’t see me.
I’m still sprinting by the time I reach the fountain and only slow down when I run into the crowds already shopping on Valentine High Street, and maneuver so I’m swallowed into the throng. It’s the first time I take a full breath.
There’s a freedom to being hidden by strangers, and it’s both overwhelming and exhilarating. I’m a spy on the run, even if it’s only from my own overactive imagination. But I learned a long time ago that my mind is always overactive when it comes to Hendricks.
My thoughts are swirling enough that I don’t notice the group in front of me veer into a store. I only take a couple of steps alone when I hear someone calling my name and spin around.
Agatha Chase wears a pinched look of frustration, standing on the pavement outsideAgatha Chase’s Love Emporium,dressed in her customary deep purple and black. Swathes of fabric billow around her, and she either doesn’t notice the people pushing past her to get inside or she doesn’t care enough to move.
“Oh, hey, Agatha.” I hug her before I realize what I’m doing.
Her bracelets jangle against my ear as she grips my shoulders and pulls me back. “Finally,Story. I was expecting to see you months ago. Oh well, better late than never.”
I’d forgotten how little sense she makes. I concluded long ago that it’s in her delivery. Sometimes she’s wistful, giving the impression she’s working on a different plane of existence than the rest of us, and sometimes—like right now—she’s forceful to the point where all you can do is nod politely in agreement.
And people lap it up. Outside of the Burlingtons,she’s probably one of the wealthiest members of the village because of the many love potions and spells she makes. She’s living proof that love is a money-spinner.
Especially with her three-for-the-price-of-two deals.
