Page 8 of The Gloaming

When things calmed down later in the morning, I grabbed a duster and got to work on the bookshelves. They were spotless, but without something for my hands to do, Jon’s death intruded on my thoughts like a sore I couldn’t stop poking. When that wasn’t enough, I unsuccessfully attempted to tune one of the battered guitars we kept in the back corner. Only Maggie’s request that I spare her bleeding ears eventually stopped me.

Around lunchtime, Tom called and asked if I would stay after closing to go over his findings. I agreed, mentallyrearranging my plans to track the blonde vamp. I assumed he’d got somewhere with his research, but he didn’t say more.

The afternoon dragged on. Customers came and went, and I steamed and frothed milk on autopilot, the rich smell of Jon’s monthly selection of coffee beans filling the air. The longer I was at the shop, the harder it was to think of anything else – and to push away the guilt that came alongside thoughts of him. I checked the clock every ten minutes, desperate to be done with people. All I wanted was to go home and curl up under the covers. But things didn’t quieten down until the light outside had faded from a warm orange to a pale coral.

Maggie and I were in the back when the bell over the door jingled twenty minutes before closing. I made my way through to the counter without looking up.

The watery winter sunlight had almost gone as I went to serve the waiting customer. He was something of a surprise – classically handsome with a shock of tidy, white blonde hair that caught the last pale rays filtering through the windows. He couldn’t have been more than thirty, but he was unusually self-assured as he stood, leonine, running his light blue gaze over the bookshelves and furniture like an art connoisseur assessing a new piece.

I cleared my throat, and he broke into an easy, bashful grin. I forced the muscles of my face into a smile. It was probably best not to scare the guy with the glower I’d been hiding all day.

“What can I get you?” I tried not to stare, but there was something unique about him. Every angle of his face was harsh and sharp, though his expression had softened.

He blinked at me. “What would you recommend?”

I held in an exasperated sigh. “It’s cold, it’s late in the day and I’m feeling indulgent – so something hot, sweet and milky.” He continued to stare at me with a blank expression. “Vanilla latte?” I asked.

His face relaxed again. “How could I say no when you justify it so articulately?” he laughed, and half-turned. He had his pick of tables since the shop was almost empty.

He pulled a fine leather wallet from his pocket and placed it on the counter. It probably cost more than everything I was wearing. “Make it two, if you please.”

I nodded. “I’ll bring them over.”

He made his way across the room to the far window, and I watched out of the corner of my eye as he took off his coat and folded it neatly along the arm of our shabbiest sofa, revealing the crisp white shirt and grey trousers he wore beneath. Maggie stuck her head through the door, and I poured milk into a jug as she assessed the new customer.

“He’s… striking.” Her expression said he was far more than striking.

“Yup,” I replied, laying out a saucer and spoon on a tray. “Interested?”

She shook her head and retreated into the back room. “I’ve got my eye on someone else.”

I smirked to myself as I carried the tray across to the stranger and made a mental note to mention her comment to Tom.

As I placed his drinks on the table, the customer put down the novel he’d picked up, leaned back, and spread his arms wideacross the back cushions of the sofa. He gestured with one hand to the space beside him. “Would you care to join me?”

Not really. The till needed counting up before we closed – but we weren’t busy. “Sure.” I took the seat across from him.

“My name is Adam. Adam Locke.” He didn’t take his eyes off me as he spoke, and I shifted under his steely gaze. The surrounding air smelled fresh, like citrus and cloves.

“Erin.”

We sat in silence for a few moments. The couple in the corner had finished up and were getting ready to leave. Adam continued to take in the room, as he had before, watching the others until they left.

“The second coffee is for you, by the way,” he said after several long minutes.

“Oh.” I picked up the chunky cup and saucer, grateful for something to do with my hands. “Thanks.”

What was this? Was he flirting? It didn’t seem like it, but I’d been wrong before.

“Are you the owner?” Adam asked as he reached for his latte.

“Yeah,” I replied, taking a sip. “Co-owner, with my friends Tom and—” I stopped. I wasn’t ready for this conversation.

“Tom and—?” he prompted. His voice was quiet, with a clean-cut, well-spoken accent that stood out in a place like Yorkshire. Jon had been the same.

I realised he was still waiting for an answer. “Tom and I own the café,” I explained, controlling my expression. “Our friend Jonathan recently died.”

Adam looked dismayed, and I almost felt bad for him.

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