Page 62 of A Box of Wishes
“It’s not hurting anyone. And for me, this is bliss. The only bliss I’m going to get all day, I imagine.”
“Busy day?”
“Yep. Preparing for revenge attacks, suicide attempts, and rafts of stolen flowers. Never my favourite.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“No, really. Anything that gets people emotional requires extra policing effort. Reality TV, Cup finals, village shows…. Valentine’s Day more than most.”
Disbelief was clear on Ryan’s face. He wasn’t sure whether Ben was pulling his leg. Ben didn’t offer anything else. He didn’t want to revisit memories of the previous year’s Valentine’s Day, which had been an unmitigated disaster, both at a professional and personal level. It was time to make new, better memories—preferably with the man sitting opposite him.
Ryan drank his tea as he did every morning, but the longer Ben watched him, the more he felt something was wrong. Ryan’s eyes were heavy-lidded as if he’d not slept well. And while the colour of his slate-blue shirt suited him, the fabric hadn’t seen an ironing board after its last wash. It wasn’t at all Ryan’s style.
“Are you okay?” Ben asked.
“Sure.”
“No more threats? Messages? Men hanging around where they shouldn’t?”
“None of that. I would have told you.” Ryan set his cup down. “Maybe they had the wrong guy after all.”
“Maybe.” Ben didn’t think it likely. And he could tell when Ryan was being economical with the truth. “Youwouldtell me if you were in trouble, right?”
Ryan pretended he hadn’t heard the question. He turned the conversation to rugby, and Ben took the hint. Even though he didn’t like it one little bit.
Ben had taken Morris home. Ryan had turned off the lights and closed the door between the kitchen and the main room of the coffeehouse. He’d been about to unroll his sleeping bag and grant himself an early night when Alastair had knocked on the door.
Now Ryan’s cousin sat on the counter beside the kitchen door and stared disconsolately at the mug of coffee in his hand. “I can’t believe that you don’t have a drop of whisky in this place.”
Ryan wasn’t as out of booze as he’d let on, but Alastair was better off not knowing that. “There’s no need to add to that pickle jar you call a liver.”
“Ha ha. Look who thinks he’s funny.”
“Telling nothing but the truth.” Ryan swallowed the rest of what he’d meant to say and focused on the croissant dough he was rolling and folding. He loved the quiet afternoons and evenings spent in his kitchen, and had never regretted that his love life had taken a nosedive when he’d opened his coffeehouse. He had ample compensation right here.
It wasn’t unusual for his parents or one of his cousins to drop by of an evening, either. In the last four years, Ryan had listened to many a sob story or rant, whenever there’d been disagreements, or an affair had gone sour. He dispensed tea, sympathy, and cake, with the occasional slug from a bottle of Redbreast.
Not today, though. Alastair didn’t need any more alcohol in his life. Especially since he had yet to explain what was driving him to drink in the first place. Instead of offering whisky, Ryan had brewed coffee and then started early on the next day’s tasks while Alastair worked his way to the bottom of his mug.
The familiar setting soothed Alastair as much as the work soothed Ryan, and they’d talked companionably about the cafe, food, and Alastair’s work… until Alastair finally came to the point of his visit.
“I’m flying out again after Valentine’s Day.”
“Anywhere interesting?”
“The Caribbean. Jamaica first, then Nevis, then St. Vincent. Trade show in Brazil after that.”
“You’ll be gone for weeks!”
“Quite.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Have you found a new flat yet?”
“I’ve got queries running with all the local letting agents and even a few over in Northampton. Not a lot happening so far.”
“Tell me why you’re being such an arse about it.”
“How do you mean?”
“You have a large family in the area. None of whom would like to see you sleep on a sofa in your break room for weeks on end.”
