She steps closer, voice gentle. “Em… I saw the way he looked at you. And the way you looked at him. Something spooked you. Tell me what.”
My throat tightens. The words come out small. “I don’t know. He asked me out and I panicked. Completely.”
She nods slowly. “Okay. That’s honest. But why did it scare you so much?”
I look down at the pavement. “Because… things like this don’t happen to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because they never have,” I say quietly. “Every time I’ve liked someone it’s gone badly. And when people tell you often enough that you’re not what anyone wants, it sticks.” My voice cracks on the last word. “Then he smiled at me and my brain just went into meltdown.”
Christina sighs softly, a mixture of affection and exasperation. “What am I going to do with you, Em?”
A weak laugh escapes me. “Hide me in a cupboard?”
“Tempting,” she says with a smile, “but no. You like him. He likes you. That’s all that happened.”
“I doubt he still does after my spectacular exit.”
“No,” she says gently. “You are doing that thing again. Assuming the worst. Automatically deciding you’re the problem.”
I swallow hard. “I’m just tired, Christina. Things going wrong… it wears you down.”
She squeezes my arm. “I know. But you also deserve something good. And you don’t have to figure it out all at once. Just take it one tiny step at a time.”
We reach my cottage. I hesitate at the door. “Come in?”
“Not tonight,” she says brightly. “I am heading home for a bath and a bit of online shopping. I need an outfit that knocks Bambi’s socks off.”
I blink. “Who is Bambi?”
“Phil,” she says, delighted with herself. “Timid. Sweet. Looks like a startled deer. I am determined.”
I laugh despite my mortification. “Happy hunting.”
She waves and disappears down the lane. I step inside, shut the door, and lean against it. Why can’t I be even half as brave as her?
I hate Mondays.
Mondays mean Christina is out doing all the deliveries, which leaves me alone in the shop. And being alone in the shop means dealing with people.
Real people.
People who want conversation and confidence I simply do not have on a Monday morning.
The shop bell chimes.
“I’ll be there in a moment,” I call, closing the walk-in fridge. I step out into the front room and spot Charlotte at the counter with a box in her arms.
“Morning,” I say, already smiling. Charlotte moved up from London too a few years ago. She took all the heartbreak from her divorce and poured it into art, and now owns a tiny gallery in the village. It’s become a bit of a tourist magnet.
We first met at a chamber of commerce meeting, we clicked immediately and ever since we’ve not just become friends, butshe also supplies us with handmade pieces to display around the shop. They brighten the place up and, if they sell, she gets the income and we get a small commission. A win for everyone. Customers seem to buy flowers more enthusiastically when there’s pretty art next to them. And Charlotte loves having her work in spaces real people frequent instead of hidden away in a gallery.
“New stock,” she says, tapping the box.
I peek inside and pull out three gorgeous vases, each with the kind of irregular shapes that make them look alive, somehow. At the bottom of the box are several small parcels wrapped in newspaper.
“What are these?” I ask.
