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This is not happening.
With a weather-beaten face and hair more sun-bleached then she’d ever seen it, Andrew stood before her, not as she’d last seen him in the modest dress of a sailor waiting for his next voyage, but as a man of comfortable affluence. He’d always been tall and rangy, but now he seemed to fill the entire front room of her shop. He was forcing her to pay attention to him. To notice the way his jacket stretched over well-muscled shoulders. To fight a blush that spread as her eyes raked over his body, taking all of him in and finding him—despite her better judgment—just as attractive as the last time she’d seen him.
More.
“Why are you here?” she choked out.
“You know this man?” Wark asked, putting his body between Andrew and her.
She pushed out a breath as though she’d been forced underwater and only just allowed to bob to the surface. “I do.”
“Has he been bothering you?” asked Wark.
Of all the times for this impolite, inappropriate ass to play the gentleman . . .
“No. I haven’t seen him in—”
“Weeks,” said Andrew with a laugh. It was passable enough to the casual observer, but she could hear the brittleness in it. “I was on a buying trip and I’ve been remiss in paying my best customer a visit.”
“A buying trip?” Wark asked at the same time as the word “customer” formed in silent question on her lips.
“I’m one of Mrs. Parkem’s suppliers.” He nodded a bow. “Andrew Colter, purveyor of fine buttons, ribbons, and notions for ladies’ fine garments.”
She squinted at him hard. It had finally happened. The salt water he loved so much had washed all of the sense out of his rock-hard skull and left him a stark raving lunatic.
But then Andrew folded his arms so that his right arm lay across the front of his chest. He tucked his thumb, ring, and pinky fingers behind his others, making a discreet two.
A lump of unexpected emotion formed in Lavinia’s throat. It was a sign—their sign—they’d used when they were children whenever one of their mothers tried to scold them for getting up to no good on the dusty streets or rocky shores of Eyemouth.
The two of us, we’ll never tell.
“Mr. Colter, you must read minds, for I’m nearly out of mother-of-pearl buttons,” she said, swallowing down the slight prick of tears that threatened at the unexpected memory.
“We can’t have that,” said Andrew with a nod.
The door to the shop swung open, and Moira hurried in, shaking rain off the double cape of her coat.
“It’s blowing a gale outside, Lavinia,” the lady sang out before clapping eyes on Andrew. “Oh, hello.”
“Madam,” said Andrew with a respectful bow.
“Mrs. Moira Sullivan,” her friend said, making no effort to hide her examination of Andrew from head to toe. Lavinia squeezed her eyes shut. Love her though Lavinia did, Moira would certainly sense the crackle of tension in the room, and then Lavinia would be forced to answer questions. Many questions.
“Mrs. Sullivan, Mr. Andrew Colter,” she gritted out. “He keeps me in buttons.”
“Would that we all were so lucky,” said Moira with a wry tone that told Lavinia that the older woman saw straight through the lie.
A fierce blush crept up the back of Lavinia’s neck, but she forced herself to keep her chin up. This was her shop, and she was not going to stand for this absurdity.
Lifting the counter flap, she marched out, catching a glimpse of Fiona peeking out from the door that led to the salons. “Moira, if you’ll follow Fiona, she’ll show you to your room.”
Fiona’s eyes widened, but she nodded. With one last glance at Andrew, the lady followed.
“Now, Mr. Wark,” said Lavinia, opening the shop door, “I trust that you will have a good day. Please tell your mother I will have her dress ready for her fitting Friday.”
Wark’s eyes narrowed, and he scowled at Andrew again. For a moment, Lavinia thought he might protest and try to act the savior again, but for once he did as he was told, bowing and murmuring his good-byes.
She shut the door firmly behind Wark and then spun around to face her former fiancé.
