Page 8 of Fireworks
“Yes, it is!” she was quick to defend, taking him aback.
“Okay. I suppose you’d know.” He cleared his throat, not willing to let this go. “Anyway, this alleged tree admirer ducked down when I saw them. Almost like they’d been caught out.” And because he knew he wasn’t wrong, not with the way her cheeks flared brighter, he continued, “They looked like a redhead to me. About yay high.” He motioned her height with his hand, which was shorter than him even when sitting on the stool.
Wincing, she pulled the sleeves of her tan cardigan over her fingers. Her nails were unpainted and slightly chewed. “Well, that’s very bizarre, but I can’t say I know anyone matching that description.”
“No?”
She shook her head quickly. “Nope. Maybe it was a customer.”
“So definitely not you, then, aye, with your red hair and yay high-ness?”
“I’m strawberry blonde,” she shot out. “And I was very busy doing … other things.”
“Ah, like hanging those wee leaves up in the window.” He’d noticed her a few short moments before he’d crossedthe road, poised on her tiptoes with her T-shirt riding up to display a sliver of her pale, curved skin. The view had been enough to make himwantto pick up a book.
Surprise trickled into her expression, fidgeting ceasing just for a moment.
“Exactly.” Too late, she must have realised what agreeing meant: confirmation he’d seen her both then and after. She shrunk away again. “No, I mean. I was nowhere nearanywindows today, in fact. I actually have a fear of them.”
“A fear of windows, eh? That must be rough.” He offered a playful grin, desperate to make her laugh. He wasn’ttryingto embarrass her. He was trying to sayyou like me, and I like you, so why not enjoy this harmless bit of banter?In a last-ditch effort, he lowered his voice and offered a wink. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think the trees are the only things that are nice to look at on Main Street.”
He was surprised when a harsh scoff fell from her, pointy chin jutting out with sudden confidence. “Ugh. Is that what women are to you – there just to be looked at? You’re really making your way around all of us tonight, aren’t you?”
It was Warren’s turn to recoil. “Excuse me, love?”
“Don’t call melove.” Her upper lip curled, none of her soft beauty evident, now. She might have been a different person altogether, voice sharp as razor blades. “I’m sure allthis” – she wiggled her fingers in a vague gesture – “works on most women, but at least have the decency to try it on with someone from a different family instead of picking your way around us. It’s a wee bit tacky, if you ask me.”
“Whoa.” Warren held out his hands in surrender, heart thudding. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“You were hitting on my sister-in-law half an hour ago!”
He followed the direction of her point, wincing when he saw the dark-haired woman he’d chatted to earlier sitting in a booth with four other people. One of them was an auburn-haired man who was trying to stand up while a blonde woman yanked his squared shoulders back, calming him.
And he was glaring. Quite a lot. At Warren. So was the woman’s presumed wife, also a redhead and also trying to intimidate him with two fingers flicking from her eyes to him, a promise:I’m watching you.
Okay. He was definitely off his game tonight. The urge to dart straight out of the door pressed in on him.
“That was a misunderstanding,” he blurted quickly. “I was only trying to make conversation.”
“Oh, yeah, because ‘do you come here often?’ is a totally normal thing to ask.” The bookstore woman rolled her eyes. “You know what? Iwasenjoying the view this morning, but just like most men, you opened your mouth and ruined it, so I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you.”
The bartender planted her drinks down, glancing warily between them. “Everything okay, hen? Not causing you any trouble, is he?”
“Everything’s fine. Thanks, Graeme.” She hit her card against the contactless reader with a quaveringly tight grip. Warren considered offering to pay to make up for upsetting her, but that would require knowing what he’d done wrong.All right, so he might have come across a little arrogant, but he’d been aiming for charming. It usually worked. Mostly. Sometimes. And what was so bad about the fact he’d also talked to her sister-in-law before? It was a village pub, and he genuinelyhadwondered if she lived locally after detecting a Glaswegian lilt to the woman’s voice. Although, now he came to think about it, “do you come here often?”didsound like a bad chat-up line.
“So I take it you’renotinterested in getting my number?” He blamed the drink for his cocky raise of the eyebrow, and for the pang that came when she crossed her arms in disgust.
“What gave it away?”
He tapped his chin, pretending to think about it. “The stick up your arse, maybe?”
“Oi!” Graeme jabbed a stubby finger at him. “You’ll not talk to a lady like that, especially not wee Eiley.”
If he wasn’t a mature thirty-three-year-old man, he might have answered with,She started it. As it was, he turned his back in defeat. It didn’t matter if she’d been rude to him. He was a foot taller than her, voice twice as deep, so anything he said in retaliation would makehimlook like the problem. Which he wasn’t, by the way.
“It’s okay. I’ve dealt with worse than him,” the woman muttered to the bartender, and then he heard the clattering of a tray being lifted and carried away. The air finally thinned when she disappeared, though he hadn’t noticed exactly when it had gotten so stifling.
Bollocks. Likely, that ginger bloke was about to come and pound him for hurtingwee Eiley’sfeelings, or worse, the doubly unnerving wife.
