Page 1 of Built to Last
Chapter One
Rose
No man,no matter how attractive, would stand between me and comfort food tonight. It might be September in England but it wasnevertoo cold for ice cream. Besides, after surviving this shit-show of a day I deserve to treat myself.
I’d just finished playing Sleeping Beauty for a children’s birthday party my best friend and boss, Aria, asked me to cover last-minute. Downside of working for your flatmate: they always know when you don’t have plans. The parents invitedwayover the number of permitted guests and thought it was acceptable to be mad atmefor not having enough gift bags for all the extra kids. Couple that with the fact two entertainment jobs in one day was too much to manage with my chronic pain and I was left one seriously tired and grumpy woman.
The ice cream aisle draws me closer with its siren song, promising sugar-fuelled bliss. I zero in on my target, also known as the freezer where they stock my favourite brand of mint choc-chip, and am so focused on the lone tub I see through the glass that I don’t notice the man reaching to open the exact same door. A warm calloused hand brushes mine and I yelp.
“Sorry, Princess.” A masculine sound of amusement rumbles like distant thunder from the broad, jumper-clad chest beforeme.Princess, really? Was it possible to strain a muscle from forcing your eyes not to roll? Why men insist on giving women they don’t know patronising nicknames is beyond my comprehension.
I jerk my head up to glare at the obstacle standing between me and my ice-cream and a soft gasp escapes me. There is a hot guy in the supermarket. Tall, white, around six feet, with chestnut-brown hair cut closer at the sides with a little length on top, and a toned but not bulky physique. In one of the romcoms my flatmate is obsessed with he would play the sexy yet approachable neighbour, returned to small town baseball hero, or brother’s best friend.
Judging by his smirk, maybe my reaction to him wasn’t as subtle as I hoped. Blue eyes that remind me of misty mornings in the countryside twinkle down at me, full of mischief. I can honestly say nobody’s eyes have evertwinkledat me before. Typical that the first time it happens he ruins the experience by calling me princess and trying to steal my ice cream. The universe demands balance I suppose—a guy with all this going on in the looks departmentanda likeable personality would tip the scales too dramatically.
“I’m not your princess,” I snap, patience non-existent after being forced to people too much today. The twinkle immediately dims in surprise.
“Sorry, I—” he starts.
“You what?” Isodon’t care about this guy’s excuses. My back is killing me and all I want is to get my mint choc-chip then go home, lie down, and hide from the world. Overcome by the urge to take my bad mood out on the closest arsehole, I let him have it. “You thought you’d throw out a patronising nickname because the dumb blonde should have known better than to be in your way?” My tone is harsh like the crack of a whip.
He chuckles, which only serves to raise my blood pressure to new heights, and reveals deeply irritating dimples that absolutely do not make him even more attractive, dammit.
“I get that you’ve probably been called charming your whole life with your smile and your whole…” I wave a hand, gesturing to his general appearance. “But this isn’t cute. All it does is tell me you’re full of yourself.” My breaths come quickly, my chest tight as if I’ve just run a marathon. I hate confrontation, but something about being calledprincessafter the day I’ve had is the final straw.
The guy simply stands there grinning. People don’t usually smile after being verbally eviscerated. Have I done it wrong? I tug at the v-neck of my jumper. Now I’m panic sweating—exactly the look one wants to achieve after telling-off a hot stranger.
“No, you um—” He coughs to cover what sounds suspiciously like laughter, and I narrow my eyes at him in irritation. “You’re wearing a tiara, that’s why I called you princess,” he explains.
My stomach drops to the soles of my baby pink docs as one hand flies up to the top of my head. No.
Sure enough, my hair is still adorned with the sodding tiara from the birthday party. With my naturally long blonde hair I don’t need to wear a wig for the character, and I was in such a hurry to leave the dreadful event I must have forgotten to take the damn thing off.
My cheeks heat and I know they’re red enough to rival the strawberry smoothie I spot tucked in his basket. “I’m so sorry.” I ammortified. There is no conceivable way to backtrack out of the situation I have bulldozed my way into. This is why I usually swallow my rage-y thoughts.
The tiled floor has the audacity to remain exactly as it is instead of opening to swallow me whole, leaving me to face the stunning man with laughter dancing in his cornflower-blue eyes. He reaches into the freezer towards the lone tub of mint choc-chip and my heart sinks—but, considering my behaviour and the lack of evidence to suggest this guy has also just accosted a stranger, he clearly deserves the treat more than I do.
“I really am sorry,” I rush to say, worried that he hasn’t said anything else. Given my performance, maybe he’s afraid to speak. A simplesorrydoes not seem like enough but I can’t think of any other way to try and smooth things over. “I never yell. I can’t believe the first time I yell at someone this happens.” Great, now I’m subjecting the handsome stranger to more of my word vomit. Clearly my brain-to-mouth filter has taken the night off.
“Here.” He holds the tub of mint choc-chip out towards me. Thelasttub. “Seems like you need this more than I do.”
“I don’t think I deserve it now,” I mumble around a grimace.
“Look, I can tell you’re embarrassed. I hope you don’t mind me saying so, but it seems like you’ve probably had a rough day and thinking I was being a creep was the last straw.”
“How could you tell?” I roll my eyes, giving a short, self-deprecating laugh.
His expression softens, transforming his eyes into inviting pools of warmth I would happily sink into. I am in too fragile a state of mind to be this dazzled. “Take the ice cream. If not for yourself, then for the safety of the next person you come across,” he jokes, offering me the tub again. A better person would refuse and let him have it, but I accept the tub, having come to terms with my train-wreck status for the evening.
His large hand wraps around most of the container and his fingertips brush my palm as I accept the peace offering. The shiver running down my spine has nothing to do with the frozen treat and everything to do with the callouses gently scraping across my skin. Where did he get them? Does he work with his hands? Or play an instrument? His eyes flare as if he felt the same sparks I did in the split-second of contact, but that’simpossible after how I’ve acted. Plus, I’m pretty sure I look as wrecked as I feel. I’m usually happy with my appearance but nobody looks their best in leggings, an old jumper, and a tiara, struggling to stand, with suitcase-sized bags under their eyes. It’s safe to say the runway is not calling my name tonight.
“Thank you,” I reply quietly. Glancing away I shift my weight uncomfortably realising we’ve drifted closer together during our exchange. Still, I don’t step back.
“You’re welcome,” he replies with equal softness. I find myself lost in the intensity of his gaze, my cheeks heating for a completely different reason. He wets his lips like he’s about to speak when a shop announcement blares, jolting us out of the trance we’d fallen into. He steps back, whatever he was going to say forgotten, and the chill from the freezers creeps into the space his lean body leaves behind. A much less pleasant shiver takes hold of me in his absence. “I hope your night gets better,” he tells me before leaving me frozen in place as I watch him walk away. Instead of feeling relieved, I’m oddly disappointed that I’ll probably never see him again. I sigh. At least I have my ice cream.
Last night, after indulging in a large bowl of mint chocolate-chip goodness and watching a few episodes of one of my favourite police dramas, the frustration and embarrassment had faded until I fell into a dreamless sleep. I didn’t see Aria, my flatmate and boss, but we’re getting coffee this morning and I’m desperate to fill her in on the party from hell and my mini meltdown once we’re settled in at our favourite spot.
The flat we share sits at the top of a small hill, with a view of the winding river that Riverbend was named after backwhen it was nothing more than a small settlement. We’re only a few minutes away from the high street full of small businesses, including our favourite coffee shop Snug. The number of independent local businesses in comparison to larger chains was one of the things that drew us to the area in the first place.
