Page 6 of The Best Book Boyfriend
“Part of me still thinks he will come back to me.”
“If he comes back here, I will key his car.” My heart hurts because I know that she, a woman made of solid gold, would genuinely commit such a crime for me.
“I’ll kick him in the neck,” says Hattie. After years of kickboxing, she actually could.
“I’ll barricade myself across the door.”
“I’ll shit on his dick!”
I choke on my wine. “Woah! Too far.”
“How would that even work?” Megan taps her lips and ponders, “Would you capture him and tie him up and torture him? Or would you pretend to seduce him and get him naked and then do it?”
“Megan, stop, please,” I beg. “Nobody is shitting on anyone’s dick.”
“Yeah, because he’s not coming back.” Hattie spits, sending me back to the floor in a slump. “We’re sorry, Kara, but he’s not, and even if he did, you can’t take him back. We’d never allow it. What he did to you was awful. He doesn’t deserve you.” She crawls around the table and lies down beside me, her petite frame curling around me, the big spoon to my little one.
“But you deserve good things, darling. You really do. And right now, you deserve that last spring roll.”
Chapter 3
Luke
“SoImetagirl today.”
“Oh, Jesus, now Luke, you’ll be giving me a heart attack with news like that.” My wee Granny Annie is pushing eighty, but you’d never know it. I’m pleased to say she’s fighting fit.
Every Friday night we have a video chat where she tells me what antics she and her friends have been up to and asks‘Are ye eating, sleeping, and greetin’?’
Greeting is the Scots word for crying, and the norm where she grew up in Perthshire. Although she’s been living here in Hertfordshire since the 50s, she’s never lost her accent or bothered to adopt the more local or understandable words for things.
She’s always encouraged a big cry now and then, and I’ve done more than my fair share of it these past few years. Our calls are the highlight of my week. A therapy of sorts. They are the one place I get to offload how I’m really feeling about things, and I can’t pretend I haven’t been looking forward to telling her about today.
“Who’s this girl then?”
“Well, not a girl, a woman. She came into the cafe.”
“A customer?Ach, you’ll be getting a reputation if you’re away putting it about with customers now. What’s her name?“ I smile at the suggestion that talking to a customer is a scandal, though in her circles it would be front page news.
“Um, I don’t actually know. I forgot to ask.”
“You forgot to ask? Oh, your grandfather would roll in his grave. We raised you better than that.”
Mum worked a lot when I was growing up. Though she was, and still is, a brilliant mother, my Granny Annie and Grandad Derek definitely did the lion’s share of raising me, and I’m a better man for it.
“I know, I’m sorry. I gave her my number, but I was a wee bit smitten.”
“I can tell by the look on your face, you big softie.” I rub my cheeks, which are sore from grinning now she mentions it. Our conversation took a few turns, but I can’t actually believe I gave her my number. And she didn’t rip it up, which I hope is a good sign.
I feel like a kid on Christmas Eve. I’ve been checking my phone all afternoon, but I don’t know what the rules are. Are you supposed to wait a minimum number of days before texting someone? Should I have asked for hers instead? Have I cocked this up? I’ve never given someone my phone number before. I’m pretty sure Heather and I didn’t even have mobile phones when we first got together.
Writing that note felt good, but the nerves kicked in after she’d left. Now I’m wondering if I came across too keen, or like a sleaze. God, I really wish I’d asked for her name.
“So what does this lassie look like?”
Someone else had served her, so when I came out from the back storeroom and clocked her sitting at the window table, my first thought was‘Oh, there you are’. It blindsided me. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and spent far too long hovering behind the counter, trying to pluck up the courage to say something. Talking to customers is an essential part of the job, but I felt stupidly nervous about approaching her, which is probably why I forgot to give her my name, or ask for hers.
“She’s very pretty. She’s got long reddish-brown hair, kind eyes, a gorgeous smile. She does that thing where she talks with her hands a lot.”
