As the two men in front of her in the queue spoke—just atouchtoo loudly—about carbon-fiber wheels, Charlie pulled out her phone and scrolled idly through her favorite bookmarked websites. The Isle of Ormer community page, the Isle of Ormer estate agency site, her Ormer Google Alerts…
“What can I get you?” the barista asked.
Charlie had become engrossed reading about plans to set up a Christmas tractor run on the island. God, how adorable.
“Two flat whites, please, and one—” She looked over her shoulder again.
“White chocolate hazelnut latte with cream on top!”
“—of those,” she said. Fearne had been loud enough for the barista to catch every word.
As she returned to the table, Charlie almost collided with a young woman in padded leggings clutching a large takeaway cup.
“Oh my goodness,” she said, stepping in front of Charlie to speak to Oliver. “You’re Oliver Brennon, right?”
Charlie watched Oliver’s face cloud with embarrassment, just as Fearne’s lit up with total delight.
“Heis,” Fearne said, rocking her chair onto its back two legs and clapping her hands gleefully. “Are you a fan?”
“I’ve seen you race—you’re amazing,” the girl said to Oliver.
Oh my fucking God, Charlie mouthed at Fearne behind the girl’s back, then she had to go back to biting her bottom lip to keep from laughing. As far as she was aware, this had never happened to Oliver before. He was a semipro downhill mountain biker, as Fearne was—that’s how they’d become friends, and it was Fearne who’d introduced Oliver and Charlie—but it was not a profession that made one famous. Except in a bike café, maybe.
“Will you be competing at Downhill Dash next weekend?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be there,” Oliver said, rubbing his jawline awkwardly. His eyes flicked to Charlie and warmed with amusement as he clocked her jumping on the spot slightly, back to mouthingoh my fucking Godagain.
“I’ll be cheering you on!” the girl said, heading off to the door with a smile.
“Maybe she’ll bring pom-poms!” Charlie said as she slid into her chair.
Oliver put his face in his hands as Fearne laughed uproariously.
“You’refamous,” Fearne said. “Oh my God—Charlie Jones, girlfriend of a celebrity!”
“Please. Is Taylor Swift a celebrity’s girlfriend?” Charlie said.
But she was slightly thrilled by it all, actually. She knew Oliver was a total catch—of course—but sometimes she found herself comparing him to her ex more than she should have. She’d loved Berty so much, that was the trouble. They’d gotten together as teenagers, when she’d hardly believed that anyone, let alone the aloof, handsome Berty, wanted to takeherout to a movie. Even after almost two decades together, Berty had never stopped being her dream guy—she’d always felt so blessed to have found him.
And then he’d left her. Walked out of their flat with a random assortment of their shared possessions shoved in the suitcase they’d taken to Barbados the summer before.
But now she was with lovely, gorgeous Oliver, so none of that mattered anyway. And if she didn’t quite idolize him as she had Berty, that was probably a good thing—perhaps it wasn’t healthy to love a person so much. It certainly hadn’t felt healthy when Berty had left. Nobody should cry as much as she had cried; nobody should feel so agonizingly undone. Oliver was sexy and enigmatic, but less assertive and dominant than Berty had been. Berty-lite. Just what she needed.
Still, meeting one of Oliver’s fans did give him an air of mystique that he might have otherwise been lacking, a little.
The barista brought their coffees to the table, smiling at Fearne’s effusive thanks—nobody did gratitude more earnestly than Fearne. The three of them sipped their drinks. Oliver still looked amusingly uncomfortable. He was such a nice guy; Charlie felt bad for even thinking of him as in any waylessthan Berty. She gave him an extra warm smile over her coffee cup; his eyes crinkled back at her.
“We should get these for the shop,” Fearne said, pointing at theset of vintage cycling jerseys hanging beside the TV currently playing old highlights from the Tour de France.
“This is why I’m on decor,” Charlie said, examining the garishly colored T-shirts. “And also why there is a Pinterest board. Neon does not sayVintage, Please, Fearne.”
“Does it not?” Fearne pouted, unoffended.
She was notalwaysthe perfect business partner—absent much of the time for training and racing, uninterested in details, questionable taste—but the two of them had dreamed of opening a vintage clothing shop together since they were at school, and Charlie felt lucky every time she unlocked the door of Vintage, Please. She felt lucky all the time, really. Except occasionally at three a.m. when the insomnia was bad and the worst thoughts crept in, and she’d find herself thinking,You’re still not good enough, are you, Charlie? Will you ever be?
“Oh, you’re obsessing over your island again!” Fearne said—she’d just shamelessly unlocked Charlie’s phone, seemingly in order to check the weather forecast. “A tractor run. Adorbs. Shall we go see it this Christmas?”
“No!” Charlie said, a little too loudly. “No,” she repeated, in a more measured sort of way. She focused on Oliver—Fearne was not difficult to distract, thankfully, and this ought to do it. “You looksouncomfortable with your life of fame,” she said to him, leaning over to press a kiss to his cheek. He reached for her, pulling her onto his lap and burying his face in her neck.
