Page 1 of Just a Little Crush
1
Bec
Whydoeshehaveto look like that?
I spot him through the shop window when he pauses to help Mrs Fairbanks cross the street safely. She’s such a scam artist, but it seems the women of our little town are not short of ways to get their hands on Alistair Rendall. I can’t say I blame them.
There he goes, in dark grey cargo trousers, the sleeves of his white t-shirt straining around his enormous arms, black hoodie slung casually over his shoulder. Even when he’s not in uniform, he’s got his own personal one.
His dark hair is pushed back from his face, the way he always styles it when he showers quickly after his shift. It’s getting a little long, he must be due to have it cut this week or next. He could be a model with that strong jaw and those piercing eyes and that neck.
My god.
The things I would do to that neck.
He stoops to give Mrs Fairbanks a peck on the cheek, flashing a bright smile as he sends her on her way and stalks a path towards my door. Those full lips. Those perfect teeth. He runs a hand through his hair and everything inside me clenches.Goddammit, is he moving in slow-motion?
Thankfully, it’s brighter outside than in here so I know he can’t see me ogling him for the bajillionth time. He won’t have a clue that I’m tracking my eyes over his biceps and wondering what they would feel like to grip onto from underneath him. He won’t see me counting the abs that his tight t-shirt does nothing to hide, or dreaming about what that unmissable bulge in his trousers conceals. And he won’t see me rolling my eyes when one of the tennis mums intercepts him to flip her hair and laugh and flirt.
I don’t know why they bother. Alistair Rendall doesn’t date. Haven’t they figured it out by now? He’s a wife guy, and someday soon the perfect woman will walk into his life. She’ll be a saint, a schoolteacher or something, and for years people will say she was the most beautiful bride this town has ever seen. She’ll make him a perfect home and give gentle birth to three blond cherubs. She’ll bake cakes for the station fundraiser, host a book club where they’ll describe the books as feminist masterpieces, and she’ll have a cold beer and a hot dinner ready for him when he gets home from work. Hell, she’ll probably even get asked to turn on the town lights at Christmas.
Alas, this woman on the street is not the wife he’s after, and I watch him politely decline whatever it is she’s trying to pitch to him.
He’s always been just Rennie to me. It’s a nickname from school that stuck around, along with his good guy reputation. Rennie is, in fact, the most gentlemanly gentleman you’ll ever meet, except in my dirty mind where he’squitethe opposite. It’s a damn shame. A cruel trick. A waste of a hot, ripped body to put such a decent man inside it.
I’ve spent years wondering what he would be like if he wasn’t so bloody nice. Would he barge in here, round the counter, push me into the back of the shop and ravage me up against the refrigerator unit? I wish he would.
The shop bell rings when he pushes the door open. I snap out of my fantasy and try to act as if I’m surprised by his arrival. Though I will secretly admit that seeing Rennie is the best part of my week, because it means I get to concoct a fresh new sexy scenario.
“Morning, Bec,” he says. Ugh, there’s that smile again. His smile makes you feel like the only person in the room. He always smells so good, a faint mix of smoke and something clean and herbal. I can smell it even over the stinkiest cheeses I have on sale. “What have you got for me today?”
“Oh, hey, Rennie.”Act casual, act casual.I wipe my sweaty palms on my apron. “It’s goat’s cheese, honey, and rocket today.”
“With the rosemary walnut bread?” he asks.
“That’s the one.”
The sound that comes out of his mouth is so sexual it sends my insides into a spin. “You know those are my favourite. I’ll take two.”
I try not to think about how much I want him to make that noise between my legs and immediately fail.
“You say that about every sandwich I make,” I let out a laugh like a besotted teenager, and stop it instantly. “You want me to warm them up for you?”
“Yes, please.” He opens the drinks fridge near the door, pausing to cool down in front of it for a few seconds, just like always. It’s one of my favourite things to witness because I know it means he’s hot, and the idea that he would be scorching to touch excites me like nothing else. I transfer his lunch to the sandwich press and ring up his order.
Serving specialty cheese toasties was Rennie’s idea in the first place, and it’s been great for business. Every morning my friend Sarah brings fresh loaves from her bakery, The Floury Godmother, and I get to work making sandwiches before the lunch rush.
I inherited my cheesemonger business from my Grandpa five years ago. I’ve been working here since I was sixteen though, unofficially, Gramps put me to work as soon as I could hand customers their cheese without demanding they give it back. I know that kind of thing might have a lot of people feeling stuck, but this shop is my life. When Gramps died, I knew I’d never go anywhere else. He’d had a good run at it, still working into his late 80s. By the time he left us, my dad was retired and ready to spend his days hauling my mum around Europe in their new campervan. It was my turn to step up, and I was proud to do it.
Though business was doing OK back then, I knew it could do even better. I’d already convinced Gramps to launch a wedding catering service, which I was running single-handedly. Now I have an assistant manager, Alyssa, who helps me with that side of things so I can stay on top of the rest.
I’ve given the store a bit of a makeover too. Though the main counter has been replaced with a more modern refrigeration unit, I’ve kept the walls the original dark green they’ve always been. It matches our staff aprons and reminds me of him. We still have our original cash register, though on the counter behind it you’ll also find an iPad and card reader, since the majority of our customers don’t use much cash these days.
Along one side of the shop Rennie helped me build shelving out of old wooden crates and I stocked them with more crackers, chutneys, pickles, and sauces than one person could eat in a lifetime. At the back of the store we have a selection of English wines and craft beers, and I host intimate cheese and wine nights that always sell out.
At Christmas I have to hire a team of ten, mostly kids back home from university for the holidays. It’s chaos, but the shop becomes a non-stop party, and everyone loves it. We play carols, keep a vat of mulled wine topped up, and last year I even got a write up in The Sunday Times as one of the top ten cheesemongers in the UK. So yes, business is good, I love it here, and I don’t think I could make my Gramps more proud.
Rennie brings his drink and a bag of salt and vinegar crisps to the counter, and takes out his wallet. He’s had the same one for years, the brown leather all soft and worn but reliable as ever.
