Page 15 of Storm in a Teacup
Ben clears his throat. “Well, I’m going to keep being a coward and sneak out the back.” He whips off his apron and hangs it on a hook by the door. “Thanks for coming tonight.” Then he’s gone with the swinging door closing behind him, and the back door slamming shut moments later.
Okay, then. My attention falls back to the dough he left on the counter. That needs to go in the fridge. I find plastic wrap, wrap it up, and place it in the gigantic stainless-steel fridge before goingback out to join the party, avoiding Gladys like the plague and eavesdropping on the conversation Rachel is having with a wild-haired middle-aged woman in a lavender vest and black wide-legged trousers.
I sip through another glass of wine, then slip out, heading my short distance back home.
CHAPTER FIVE
Ben
I’m still in love with him. But he doesn’t love me back. I thought distance would help me fall out of love, but it has not.
I release a small groan, shoving my hands in my jacket pockets as I run away again. Well, one could argue I amstrollingaway. Strolling away to avoid an uncomfortable situation.
My life sucks. And it’s my own damn fault.
I knew David was going to be there tonight. I did, and I thought I would be okay. I mean, I’ve hardly seen more than a glance of him here and there over the past six months, but tonight was supposed to be fine because it was inmycafé. We were finally supposed to speak. Be normal. Be friends again.
But I’m a coward. I overheard Rachel tell Isla he was on his way and instantly ran to hide in the kitchen.
Isla is going to kill me tomorrow for ditching her. Nothing new. She’s been plotting my demise for months now. I moved here to be closer to her, to start the café, to be a part of the life of everyone I love in this city, but I’m not. I’ve distanced myself. Of course, I still spend time with her—and with Rachel—but the purpose always has the safety net of the café. Every time she’sasked me to do something social, something David could potentially show up to, I’ve declined.
What I’m doing isn’t healthy. I know it, but I can’t stop. I keep waiting for something to happen, something to come in and change the way I am and make me better. I’mtrying.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I’ve spent the last six months sitting fully clothed in my bathtub crying over how the man I love doesn’t love me back. Some of my time was spent that way, but I have been out there trying to get over him. Actively, if you know what I mean. Seriously, sexing it up all over Edinburgh (and getting tested regularly). I’ve met a lot of great people, some of whom I’ve really liked, but I am notthereyet, despite my desperate craving to be.
Even Linny. Linny, the woman with hair the color of a bourbon sugar glaze drizzled over an orange pound cake. Beautiful, gorgeous, inquisitive, mysterious Linny is not enough to get me off this ledge of pining.
Not that she’s even offering. Sorry, being a man here, aren’t I? Beautiful woman is nice to you, must mean she fancies you, right? Wrong. I know that’s wrong. My mind is all over the place—more than it was before. I feel like a shell of who I used to be, but also someone completely different. New. How is that possible?
I enter my empty flat, the ringing silence all-consuming. I should get a pet. A dog is too much work, but maybe a cat? I mean, I can manage to feed and love the thing, but I don’t think I can manage to take it outside to have a wee on a regular schedule. Cats wee indoors, right? Though it would be fun to have one of those cats who will walk on a lead outdoors.
I need a drink. Or a cup of tea.
Actually, yeah. A cup of tea sounds nice.
I flip on the kettle, leaning full-bodied against the counter asI wait for it to heat. I pull out my phone as I do so, scrolling through social media. It instantly overwhelms me, so I toss my phone away, letting it slide to the end of the counter.
The kettle whistles, and I prep my tea. My mobile vibrates from afar, signaling an incoming call, but I don’t answer. Likely Isla phoning to have a go at me. I’ll deal with her tomorrow. I mean, I have to, right? I have to get to the café bright and early to start baking, and she’ll be there when it’s time to open.
Tomorrow will be busy, which I’m looking forward to. Tomorrow will be fine. Tomorrow,Iwill be fine.
…
I am not fine. I amnotfine. Why the hell is it so busy? I figured it would be busy, but notthisbusy. We’ve hired two additional employees beyond Isla and myself, but today it’s just the two of us.
“Where did all these people come from?” I ask Isla through the side of my mouth.
She shrugs, smiling at the woman whose order she just took. “I’ve told everyone I know about our opening day, and I know a lot of people.” A man steps up from the queue. “Hiya, you alright?”
With a grumble, I head back to the kitchen. It’s been non-stop customers since we opened. It’s only noon. We’ll be open until three in the afternoon, but we’ve run out of the cranberry scones I allocated for today, so I’m already working on another batch. They should be ready any moment.
As if on cue, the oven dings. I pull on an oven mitt, yanking open the door and pulling out the tray. I place it on the cooling rack and rotate immediately back to the croissant dough I’m prepping for tomorrow. Once the scones are cool enough to handle, I transfer them to a tray and bring them out to slide into the glass counter where the rest of the goods are kept.
I expect people to cheer upon my and my scones arrival, but they do not. Oh well. I’m used to my expectations being stomped on with spike-bottom wellies.
The day-long rush ends at 2:30 p.m., only a half hour before we are set to close. The café empties out, leaving Isla and me alone.
She grins widely, tucking loose strands of her black, curly hair behind a silver-hoop-lined ear. “Successful first day, huh?”
