Pawn Shop

      Lily Harlem

      I glanced up from my crossword puzzle as the bell above the shop door tinkled. A man, broad shoulders, bright white smile and wearing black wraparound shades, strode into the warren of dusty shelves and cabinets. He moved with purpose, the material of his jeans hugging the tops of his long thighs and his paces eating the ground.

      I’d bet my last ten quid he wasn’t from around here. Fenchurch Brokers had been my home from home since I was a young girl and I’d taken it over when Pops had died ten years ago. I knew everyone’s face, the way they knew mine.

      ‘So what have you got for me?’ I asked, then realised a few moments too late that I’d fluffed my brunette locks over my shoulders and licked my lips.

      His broadening grin told me he was used to the effect he had on women, of any age.

      Inwardly I berated myself. I was the local bank-of-crisis, get-money-quick supplier. I bought crap, or treasure, for pennies, and sold it on for a few quid whenever red letters landed on doormats or kitchen cupboards were bare. I didn’t do the whole simpering female thing. That just wasn’t me.

      ‘DVDs,’ he said and dumped a dark-green carrier bag on the counter.

      ‘Not much call for them, I’m afraid.’ I sighed, trying to feign nonchalance. ‘What kind of films are they?’ I put down the pen I was holding, to keep me from tapping it on the counter.

      He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels. ‘This is a pawnshop, right?’

      ‘Yes.’ His cologne was wafting towards me – tropical breeze and fresh open water. It seeped up my nostrils, sped up my pulse and created a tickle of sensation around my temples.

      Damn.

      ‘So I can sell you these, for cash,’ he went on, ‘and if I decide I want them back, and they’re still in the shop, I can repurchase them?’

      ‘That’s generally how it works.’ I noticed that his bottom lip was fuller than the top and had the tiniest indentation in the centre. To my annoyance I found myself utterly mesmerised by it and unable to tear my attention away from his mouth.

      ‘Great.’ He pushed the bag nearer to me. ‘Because I don’t need these anymore, I’ve watched them all. But I’d like the chance of getting them back if I can at some stage.’

      Standing, I smoothed my skirt and glanced at my displayed cleavage. Today I wore a low-buttoned, silky-black blouse and a string of pearls. ‘Are they recent movies?’

      ‘Yeah, all from the last year.’ He cocked his head and grinned, his gaze following mine and leaving a heated trail down my throat and over my chest.

      I withdrew the first DVD from the bag. Full of Tristan. On the front was a picture of two naked guys standing facing out to sea, one with his hand on the other’s arse.

      ‘They’re not conventional blockbusters,’ he said. ‘More of a speciality, you know, collectors’ editions.’

      I frowned and pulled out the next one. The Gardener’s Best Tool. I studied the cover: a large green bush strewn with underwear, from behind the foliage two pairs of feet stuck out in such a way it was obvious what the couple were doing.

      He leaned forward on the counter, placed his elbows at points and rested his chin on his clasped hands. ‘I understand if they’re not your thing,’ he said then bit down on his bottom lip, flattening out that delectable dink. ‘Some people just can’t cope with porn, especially older generations.’

      The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. What the hell did he think I was? Some old lady about to get shipped off to the nursing home with nothing more to look forward to than Strictly on a Saturday night? Cheeky bugger!

      ‘I don’t have a problem with porn,’ I said, casually stacking the DVDs on top of one another and counting them with a neutral expression on my face. Eighteen in total.

      He lifted his shades, propped them on his head. His irises were an interesting mix of hazel and green and reminded me of melting mint-choc-chip ice-cream.

      ‘You don’t?’ he asked, raising his brows.

      ‘No.’ Small drops of sweat popped on my cleavage as his eyes twinkled. Damn it, why was I letting some gorgeous young man get to me this way? I was Nadia Fenchurch – no one got to me.

      ‘So how much will you give me for them?’ he asked, touching a small silver cross that sat in the hollow of his throat.

      ‘Well, there are eighteen, I reckon I’ll sell them on for just a few quid each, so twelve pounds the lot.’

      He raised his brows. ‘That’s not much, hardly worth the bother.’

      I shrugged. ‘You want an extra few bob in your pocket or what?’

      ‘Barely get me a couple of pints.’

      ‘Better than giving them away.’

      ‘Mmm.’ One side of his mouth twitched into a half-smile.

      I reached for his empty carrier bag and set about smoothing it and folding it. A completely unnecessary task but I had to do something to engage my fiddling fingers.

      ‘I suppose it will be interesting,’ he said.

      ‘What will be?’

      ‘To give them to you.’ He dropped his shades down over his eyes again.

      ‘What does that mean?’

      He shrugged,