Christmas at the Little Wedding Shop. Jane Linfoot
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far. Enough said. I might as well do the job properly and make my point. I give it a second, pray this won’t be the moment that Best Man chooses to walk through the door, and sneak the fastest-possible glance over my shoulder.
I only mean it to be a nano-second. But when I flick around and take in the ragged blonde hair and the sloppy sweater, something holds my gaze. And I can’t turn away. I’m smiling at scuffed suede boots that could almost belong to me. One minute I’m running my gaze up over that stubble, the next there’s a flash of blue green and our eyes have locked. When his delightfully lived-in face breaks into a grin and the skin at the corners of his eyes crinkles, my tummy flips. Nothing so huge that it officially leaves the building. But enough to throw me right off.
Shit. I force myself to wrestle my gaze away. As soon as Best Man shows up I’ll be out of here, and I’ll never have to look at this ‘soulmate’ guy again.
‘See what I mean?’ Poppy’s laughing. ‘So what’s the verdict?’
I make sure my shrug is spectacularly diffident and make a big thing of trying to stir my hot chocolate. Then I clear my throat and swallow madly, because somehow all my saliva has disappeared. ‘Nothing special,’ I croak, desperately playing for time. ‘Although you’ve got a point about his jeans. They could make great summer cut-offs.
‘Oh my God…’
At first I assume Poppy’s perfect ‘O’-shaped mouth is because she’s so shocked and disgusted I’ve rejected my perfect match.
‘Oh my God…oh my God…’ The third time she says it and her voice is mounting to a shriek, it has to be something else. ‘Oh my God, you might be in here…’
‘What…?’
‘Don’t look now,’ she says, completely unnecessarily, ‘but he’s… COMING OVER.’ She mouths those last two words silently. Which frankly is a bit stupid seeing as the whole café’s been scrutinising us since she screamed OMG.
I can tell he’s arriving way before I see him. First there’s Poppy’s completely uncool flapping of her fingers in front of her face. Although strictly, with my puce chops, I’m the one who should be doing the hand-fanning. And second, there’s the way she’s puffed out her cheeks so far she looks like a football about to pop. And bear in mind surf hunk is getting the full benefit of this as he comes towards us. Which I assume he has, because there’s suddenly the most fabulous scent of hunky male. Definitely not salty skin and seaweed, with an undertow of testosterone, which, let’s face it, is what most guys smell of here when they drag themselves up the beach. More, expensive cologne, crashing into a motorcycle engine, in a cedar forest.
I draw in a long breath as he circles the table and swaggers to a halt. After waiting a couple of seconds – I’m guessing to maximise the swoon effect – he seeks out my gaze with a disarming grin. As his broad hand extends towards me, I grit my teeth, and will my heart to stop galloping.
‘Hi, it’s Sera isn’t it? I’m Quinn,’ he says, his low voice resonating as he hesitates. ‘Quinn Penryn…?’ The questioning tone of his introduction makes him sound even more super-confident than he obviously is. It’s as if he’s so famous he thinks I should know him, and believe me I don’t.
Random guys hurling themselves at me is the last thing I want. And I’m not about to bend my rules now. Not for anyone, no matter how much I covet their jeans. The faster I stop this, the better for everyone. What’s more, I’m horribly aware that the whole café is watching us like we’re some kind of floor show. There’s no time to lose, so I launch.
‘Sorry,’ I say, throwing in the most distant, yet benign and unsexy, smile I can muster. ‘I’m going to cut you short here, Quinn. Because I’m really not interested.’ I’m actually feeling bloody empowered here. Not to mention proud of myself, for the small detail of slipping in his name too. ‘It’ll save us both a lot of time and trouble if I’m honest here,’ I add, by way of explanation. Because although I want to sound decided, I don’t want to come across as a complete bitch. Especially as we’ve got an audience.
The way his eyebrows shoot up, I’m guessing he’s not used to getting the knock back. Which is very probably the case, because close up, he’s even more delectable than he was from across The Shack. But something about his surprise supercharges my new-found confidence. I’m on a roll here.
‘Pickups by strangers really aren’t my thing.’ I say, and fix my smile, determined to hold it until he’s backed off. ‘So, thanks, but no thanks.’
I look back at my hot chocolate, give it another stir. And wait for him to go. How much more of a dismissal does Quinn Pen-whatever he’s called expect? He’s still here, because when I look down I can see those distressed boots of his. Which is the exact point I remember that eternal question we were obsessed with at school. That thing about the relationship between a guy’s shoe size and something else significant. Which, embarrassingly, is exactly what I’m staring at, at table level beyond my hot chocolate. If schoolgirl legend is true, and there is a link between the two, his feet are going to be size twelves. At least.
Screwing up my eyes to block out the view, I will Quinn to leave. To make it clear that I’ve moved on with my life, and I expect him to do the same, I take a massive gulp of hot chocolate. As my cup clatters back down, Poppy begins to flap again. From the way her eyes are popping like saucers, I’m guessing she’s trying to tell me something hugely important. But I’m not getting it. As she draws her forefinger under her nose, my frown deepens. If this dammed Quinn wasn’t still hanging around, Poppy and I would probably have collapsed in a heap of giggles by now.
Finally I give in. ‘What?’ I hiss at Poppy across the table.
There’s a low growl, which seems to be coming from Quinn. As I turn my face towards his, I see he’s biting his lip and holding in his laughter.
‘Don’t worry, Sera.’ Quinn says, completely misreading my feelings. ‘We’ve all been there. Chocolate moustache alert!’
He swoops, napkin in hand. Before I know it, he’s right in my personal space, dabbing at my upper lip. By the time I’ve formed my squawk of protest, he’s backed away again.
‘All done.’ He’s scrunching up the serviette and rubbing his hands on his thighs. ‘Drink up, then, and I guess we’re good to go.’
I tilt my head and my voice rises in disbelief. ‘Go where exactly?’ Surely I couldn’t have been clearer?
‘I know you were sounding reluctant before, but we do have a date.’ He slides out his phone, with a twitch of those lips of his. ‘Ten at the Surf Shack? Alice and Dan’s wedding? Ring any bells?’ He wrinkles his forehead.
Triple shit. There are times when you want a tidal wave to rush in from the sea and whoosh you away. And this has to be one of them. I’m frantically clutching my cardigan sleeves, winding my foot around my leg under the chair, as I try to hang in here. Surely this can’t be? Or can it? ‘Right, so you’re…’ This is so embarrassing, and what’s more, if I try to apologise that will only make it worse.
‘I’m Quinn Penryn, Dan’s right-hand guy.’ He butts in, but the words come out slowly, one syllable at a time, as if he’s explaining to a child. He’s still smiling, but this time there’s less sparkle and more relief. ‘Great to have cleared that up. Good to meet you… at last… Sera.’ There’s the smallest ironic twinkle in his eye as he holds out his hand. ‘I must say, you’re very different from your sister.’
I’m not going to show how happy I am he’s noticed. I shrug. ‘What is there to say, she’s in Brussels, I’m here.’
‘And cutting too. This kitten has claws.’ There’s a glint in his eyes as he lets out a laugh.
Whatever. That wasn’t what I meant. But I can’t help being pleased I’ve surprised him.
He leans towards me. ‘This is going be a lot more fun than I’d thought.’