“Don’t forget your pie,” I say. Relief rushes through me when he lets out a small chuckle. “It’ll be my treat, okay? You can tell Bea I’m back here and I’ll settle the bill when I leave.”
The next few seconds are a blur. Spencer closes the distance between us, the warmth of his body and the scent of his cologne filling my senses for a wonderful, brief moment as he leans in and brushes his lips against my cheek. I’m vaguely aware of him murmuring goodbye before he disappears out the door, letting it close softly behind him.
I insert a few coins into the jukebox and choose a song at random, then sink into the closest chair. The song has ended and I’m sitting in silence when Bea enters the room.
“You okay, kiddo? Before the hot Brit left, he thanked me for the excellent service and said he’d be back for a proper meal sometime soon. He paid for everything and tipped me more than the entire order was worth.”
I groan. The fact Spencer did that makes me like him even more. “Can I hang out back here for a while?”
“Of course,” Bea says. “Stay as long as you want. Might as well stick around long enough to have dinner in an hour or so if you don’t have any other plans.”
“I’d like that.”
Bea reaches into the pocket of her apron, which jingles merrily with coins. She pulls out a handful of change and drops it on top of the jukebox. “Try to limit the sad, sappy songs, okay?”
This draws a laugh from me. “You got it. Thanks, Bea.”
CHAPTER FIVE
The sound of a girlish giggle greets me a second before my seventeen–year-old employee, Jordy, thrusts her cell phone in front of my face. “Look at this, Hollie. It’s you.”
There’s a meme on the screen of a woman holding a stack of wrapped presents. Written above her head is, ‘All I want for Christmas is for someone to remember my December birthday’.
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Itisme. Or it would be if I didn’t have people like you in my life who won’t let my birthday go unnoticed.”
Jordy beams at me, tucking her phone into the back pocket of her jeans. The pants are a couple of inches too short and are ripped at the knees—and not the artful ‘I paid a small fortune to buy them like this’ kind of ripped, but rather the ‘these jeans have been worn so many times they’re literally falling apart’ kind. The plaid flannel shirt she’s wearing is several sizes too big, hiding her thin frame in its voluminous depths. I’m guessing the shirt, if not the jeans as well, are hand-me-downs from her older siblings.
She pushes her springy curls away from her face and taps her temple. “Your birthday is locked in the vault. December sixteenth. I have a reminder set in my phone too, just in case.” Her dark eyes sparkle with mirth, warning me I’m about to be on the receiving end of a joke. “The reminder is called ‘Hollie’s Fortieth Birthday’. I even figured out how to sync it with one of your favorite songs.”
My mouth drops open and laughter sputters out. “Jordyn Jenkins, you take that back! You know I’m going to be thirty-five, not forty.”
She cackles, backing away from me. “Isn’t it all the same once you hit thirty?”
I give an exaggerated groan. “Spoken like a true seventeen year old,” I say, then add, “You’dbetterkeep backing away.”
Her laughter trails behind her as she pivots and heads for the back room. She pauses when I call her name. “Out of curiosity, what’s the song?”
“‘Dancing Queen’,” she says, shooting me a cheeky finger wave before disappearing into the back room.
Can’t fault that, at least. God knows Jordy has seen—and heard—me rocking out plenty of times when ABBA has come on the radio.
“Fortieth birthday,” I mutter to myself, returning to my task of shelving canned goods. “Good thing I know age is just a number and I’m not one of those people having a meltdown about turning thirty-five.”
“Should I leave you alone with the canned peas and return some other time?”
Embarrassment rushes through me at being caught talking to myself. It eases ever so slightly when I recognize the Scottish-accented voice. Keeping my gaze on the cans in front of me, I lovingly stroke a can of green beans. “It’s actually theharicots vertsI was murmuring sweet nothings to, not the peas.”
“Ooh, kinky.”
I bark out a laugh, turning to face Fergus. “You have no idea. Also, hi.”
“Hiya.” He leans forward to kiss my cheek since my hands are full. “Isn’t shelving goods a bit below your pay grade?” He takes a few cans from the box in my hands and slots them into empty spaces on the shelf.
“Technically? Yes. But since we’re perpetually short-staffed and underfunded, I figure it’s better for me to chip in than for things not to get done.”
I don’t actually mind. Even though my current official job title at the Belle Vie Community Services Center is Executive Manager, I’ve been working here since I was in my early twenties, and I’ve done everything from stocking shelves in the food bank to serving meals in the adjoining soup kitchen to organizing donated items for the thrift shop. While the center started out as strictly a food bank, we’ve expanded to include comprehensive services to people in need in the community. The center’s name—Belle Vie—is a play on words; we live in Bellevue, Ontario, and ‘belle vie’ means ‘beautiful life’ in French, which is part of the center’s overall mission: to help the citizens of Bellevue live a more beautiful life.
“Funny you should mention that,” Fergus says. “It’s related to what I’m hoping to help you with today. Want to put me to work while we talk business?”
