Just as he says that, the door is pushed open again. We both stare in surprise as a woman walks through, all long red hair and smiles. Green eyes, a knockout curvy figure. She’s wearing a full-length apron over a red gingham dress, and carrying a tray of drinks. From the smell, coffee.
‘Are you a mirage?’ I ask.
‘Aye,’ she replies, deadpan. ‘You’re hallucinating right now.’
Her eyes flicker over Brody, and she gives him an appreciative smile. ‘My my,’ she says, eyes bright, ‘I’d heard you were a big man! I saw you both walking past, and thought maybe you could do with some refreshments.’
She looks around for a place to lay her tray, finally settling on a big table near the fireplace, covered in a white sheet.
‘I’m Rosie,’ she tells us, looking around. ‘I run the café. Och, the state of the place…’
She genuinely looks distressed as she takes it all in. ‘We tried to help after Moira’s accident,’ she says, ‘but nobody could step in full-time. Plus Moira kept telling us all to stop bothering… she has her pride, that one, and she didn’t want to feel like a burden. Said it was bad enough she was dependent on Joanne, never mind the rest of us. Oh, you should have seen it here a few years ago…’
I find that I can quite easily imagine it. Having now met Moira, even in her reduced state, I can picture what a special place she made this. How she would have offered a safe space for anyone who walked through the door, how her little world of books and magic would have been so graciously shared.
‘We’re going to clean it up,’ I tell her. ‘We’ll make it good as new!’
Brody shoots me a sideways look. ‘Well,’ I add, ‘maybe not that good – but better at least!’
‘Couldn’t get much worse, could it?’ Rosie asks. ‘These old buildings are lovely to look at, but they take a lot of caring for. If you stop paying them attention, they get their revenge.Like women.’
She makes her eyes wide as she says the last bit, and I have to laugh. She’s wearing bright red lipstick, and it shouldn’t work with her pale skin and vivid hair – yet somehow, it does.
‘I don’t know much about that,’ Brody replies, gratefully taking a mug, ‘but I do know a bit about maintenance. Pretty sure that if we find the leak, we’ll be able to patch it up. Give it a fighting chance.’
Rosie puts her hands on her curvy hips and smiles. ‘I’m loving your accent! And thank you. Even if she is selling it, I hate seeing it like this, and I know a lot of others will feel like that too. If we can help, let us know. I tend to finish up at about four and then sort out the kids, but Xander and the other fishermen are often back earlier.’
‘That’s okay,’ Brody says firmly. ‘We’re fine. Just fine.’
She looks slightly surprised at his response, but just shrugs. ‘Aye, okay then. You know where I am if you need more coffee. Or a bottle of Glenfiddich. Or some company…’
She gives him a saucy wink with her final words, and leaves.
‘She was flirting with you,’ I tell him, pointing a finger. ‘Shelikesyou.’
I can’t say that I blame her. I mean, the man is sexy. Not quite silver fox, but definitely giving off an older-but-hot vibe, and his stern expression somehow makes him even more attractive. He’s a challenge, and some women like a challenge. Not me, I tell myself. I find everyday life enough of a challenge without throwing brooding strangers into the mix.
‘Some ladies just like to flirt,’ he replies, untroubled. ‘She doesn’t mean it.’
‘Oh. You can tell, can you? You have some kind of cop radar?’
‘Yeah. That’s exactly what they trained us in at the police academy – how to spot a fraudulent flirt. I just know, okay?’
‘If you say so! I admire her actually. She’s so confident. If I behaved like that with a man he’d run a mile!’
I realise as I speak that it sounds like I’m fishing for compliments, which is not at all what I intended. He quirks an eyebrow at me and shakes his head. ‘You’re good just the way you are, Kate. Don’t try and be someone you’re not. It never works, and you don’t need to.’
With that he turns his back on me and starts poking at the walls. I try to ignore how broad that back is, and I definitely do not imagine what it might feel like to slip my hands under his shirt and touch it. No, that would be very naughty of me indeed…
I’m blushing slightly as I turn my attention to the heap of damaged books. He’s right. They’re beyond help, and I pile them all into a black bin bag from a roll I found in the kitchen. Even the bin bags were covered in cobwebs. It’s grim work, and foronce I’m glad I’m not the kind of woman who has fancy acrylic nails. We go about our tasks silently, making some progress, taking a few breaks for coffee.
I pick up the pile of mail that I’d found lurking behind the door, and idly go through it. Most looks like junk, but some could be important. Important enough for me to use as an excuse anyway.
‘I think we should go and see her,’ I say eventually.
‘Who?’ he asks, distracted by a fast disintegrating copy of a Jackie Collins novel.
‘Mother Teresa. Who do you think?’
