Page 11 of Knots About You
Stooping to grab both, I gathered them up and carried them into the kitchen, plopping them on the counter. The pink bag was my first port of call. I peeled open the top, and my mouth filled with saliva at the gloriously fat blueberry muffin hiding inside. The top glittered with crystallised sugar, and I stuffed a massive bite straight into my mouth.
‘Oh my god…’ I mumbled around the sweet goodness while holding onto the counter for support. The person who baked the muffin deserved a medal of some kind. Perfectly tart berries and moist, cakey goodness.
At the bottom of the bag, dark handwriting scrawled across a receipt, just like the one from the night before, where he’d left me his phone number. Scooping it out, I read the brief note.
Village shop has necessities. The supermarket is in the next town over. I go on Thursdays if you need a lift – O
Okay. So it wasn’t exactly brimming with flirtation, but that was basically a date offering.Right?
Not that I was looking to date. It was too soon after Marty. But the thought of a hot night riding the big, gruff Scot certainly had a flush dancing right up to my cheeks and right down to my unmentionables.
Focus, Claire.
The intricate knot on the stringed package had me reluctant to untie it. I ran a finger over it and marvelled in the neat, almost braided feel of it. Locating a pair of scissors in a drawer full of miscellaneous bits, I cut around the knot and pushed it to theside. Not quite willing to put it in the bin with the rest of the string.
After stuffing another massive bite of muffin in my mouth, I opened the package. My clothes lay inside, not only clean and dry, but also ironed.
Leaning forward, I inhaled their scent. Washing powder.
I don’t know what I’d been expecting, but I’d hoped it would have a little something of him.
Stop being a creep. You don’t even know if he’s single.
But if he were single and did laundry and ironing, I might well marry him myself. A basic village map was drawn on the brown paper, showing the things Owen must have thought I’d like. The road to the beach. The two bus stops. A hairdresser and a library. The coffee shop. Heck, the pub was even circled.
I smiled to myself at the perfunctory and minimal penmanship. Owen clearly was welcoming enough not to leave a city girl lost, but there was nothing excessive in his actions. It was as if he kept himself more tightly regulated than even me.
But was he like a big bag of chaos underneath and masquerading as in control? Or was that just me?
Dressed and fully muffined, the time to brave the village had arrived.
Adorable cottages with slate roofs surrounded the central square of the village, which bustled. Not like central London did, but life was certainly on the go. A string of bunting hung down the front of the pub, presumably having lost a fight with the wind, much like I had. Floral window boxes and hanging baskets looked similarly weather-bruised, yet still burst with colour. Asage green bicycle leant against the Post Office come village shop, where I’d pop in to pick up milk.
A board stood in the middle of the square, displaying a multitude of notices and posters. It didn’t seem to have a lock, and there wasn’t a single willy drawn inside.
Suspicious.
A chintzy poster covered in pumpkins heralded an upcoming Autumn fair and farmers' market, while another spoke of a Halloween party in the pub. I laughed at the handwritten addition ofNO CHILDREN AFTER 8 PM. Underlined four times. Someone needed a night out worse than I did.
In one corner, there was a neat note on pale cream card, with small, printed lettering in a typewriter-esque font.
SPOTTED: A new arrival in Oz. No ruby slippers to be seen.
I crinkled my brow. Was someone putting on a play?
Coffee and Crumbs stood on one edge of the square, facing the not-yet-open pub. It was as pink as the muffin bag, with the woodwork perfectly pastel. Coffee and pastry notes drifted in the air, hitting me long before I reached the door.
Walking inside felt like being wrapped in a hug. The left side held everything you’d expect in a coffee shop. The hissing coffee machine gleamed beside tubs of dark beans. A glass display full of the most delectable-looking baked goods. Shining croissants and colourful tarts. My stomach rumbled despite its muffin-based offering.
My heart stuttered at the wall to the right. It was ceiling-to-floor colour. Books. So many books. A bookstore with coffee. Sack the cottage, I could curl up on one of the faded leather sofas and live right there.
The place smelled like heaven. Coffee grounds, paper and buttery sweetness. Sunlight pooled on the counter where an alternative-looking barista steamed milk in a small metal jug.
‘Morning!’ she sang in a honeyed Scottish lilt. ‘You’re new. I’m Eilidh. Like Hayley, but not. What can I get you?’
‘A cappuccino, please. And about twelve of everything else.’ I smiled.
‘I can highly recommend the pistachio cream croissant if you’re lost for choice,’ Eilidh said. ‘And then you can add on the others after if you still have room.’
