Читать книгу The Cosy Coffee Shop of Promises - Kellie Hailes - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

The scrape of metal on wooden floor filled the café as Tony pushed the chair away from the table and sprang up. ‘Woah, hold on there, Mel. You’re moving a little fast for me. Learning a few tips and tricks in the kitchen in exchange for getting married? I usually like to have a couple of dates first, be given flowers, chocolates, maybe even a diamond ring…’ he joked, hoping to see her demeanour lighten up.

He waited for Mel’s shoulders to sink. They didn’t.

Looked for her serious eyes to lighten. They remained serious.

‘Mel, this is the bit where you lightly elbow me in the stomach and tell me you’re joking.’

Mel stood up and folded her arms over her chest. ‘But I’m not joking. You need to be my fiancé if you want me to teach you how to cook. It’s this deal or no deal.’

Tony levelled his gaze at Mel What was she playing at? ‘You’re dreaming, Mel. Literally. I don’t do girlfriends. And I don’t do fiancées. Ever. There’s not a girl in this world who could make me settle down.’

Mel clapped a hand to her forehead and groaned. ‘Oh my God, not a real fiancé, you crazy man. There’s no way I’d put my heart in your hands, I’ve heard what people say about you, you know.’

Tony shrugged, unabashed. He knew what people said about him. It was the truth. He didn’t stick around, and he didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep. His father had shown him what heartbreak looked like, and he didn’t want to be in the position to repeat it. That meant love was off the table.

‘I don’t understand. Why do you need a fake fiancé? What for? To get back at the vet? The one who’s on a whole other continent, probably with his arm up a rhino’s butt right now?’

Mel closed her eyes as if trying to centre herself. ‘God, she’s not even here and I’m being sucked into her maelstrom,’ she mumbled under her breath.

‘Her? Who’s her?’ He took a step away from Mel. Then another. The café’s door was only a few metres away; maybe he could make his escape and forget any of this had ever happened. He’d find another way to save The Bullion, to keep it out of some grabby, money-hungry estate agents’ hands. Maybe he’d just have to return the coffee machine? Get the money back. Pay the rates. But then what? There’d only be more rates to come, and no money to pay them. No. He had to think bigger. He had to do everything in his power to attract back the locals, and to maybe even attract those from nearby villages.

Mel bit down on her lip. ‘Her is my mother. I need a fake fiancé for when my mother arrives.’ She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Didn’t even flinch when he gave her his best ‘are you for real?’ look.

‘So let me get this straight. In exchange for teaching me to cook proper pub food and for letting me serve coffee after 3 pm, I have to be your fake fiancé for the duration of your mother’s stay? I just don’t think it’s worth it. I’m getting the pointier end of the stick.’

‘Well, it’s not like we’d have to live together. And she’d only be here a few days. Mum never stays anywhere very long. And, well, I hate to say this, Tony, but you need me. I’ve heard the rumours. Mrs Harper was in here today saying The Bullion isn’t paying its bills, and that it’s also behind in taxes. That you’re only months away from being bankrupt and losing everything. Let me help you change that. And I promise that, once my mother has gone, I’ll release you from fiancé duties and continue to help you build a menu.’

Tony pinched the bridge of his nose. Damn. He’d hoped people hadn’t realised the dire straits he was in. But with his dad’s refusal to admit they were in trouble, then the cost of his funeral, and on top of that the modernisations and innovations of pubs in the closest villages, which had seen Rabbits Leap’s locals leaving The Bullion for more interesting pastures, money had been tight. Tighter than tight. Verging on non-existent. He was screwed. And Mel knew it.

‘So, Tony McArthur, will you marry me?’

Tony’s breath caught in his throat, like a noose round his neck, or a ring on his finger. ‘It seems I have no choice.’

‘Good.’ Mel nodded. ‘Well, it’s time for me to shut up shop, so we may as well make a start. Have you ever made lasagne?’

***

Mel picked up one of Tony’s knives and ran her finger over the blade. It was as blunt as she’d been back at the café. Her stomach had knotted up when she’d brought up his financial situation, but he’d left her no choice. She needed him as much as he needed her, and she didn’t have the time to deal with his resistance, not with her mother due to arrive on her doorstep.

‘When’s the last time these were sharpened?’ She turned to Tony who was propping open the door that separated the pub and kitchen, keeping an eye on the handful of punters who were nursing a beer.

He shrugged. ‘Not since Dad passed. And even then, he wasn’t one for the cooking. That had been Mum’s domain.’ He flicked his eyes away from her and focused them on the customers.

Was it her imagination or had Tony’s eyes misted up?

‘How old were you when your mum passed?’

‘Five.’

‘That must have been hard, not having her around.’ Mel rifled through a drawer and found a butcher’s steel and got to work sharpening the knife in preparation for her first cooking lesson.

Tony glanced down at his shoes and grunted. Followed by another shoulder shrug.

So it had been hard. Mel figured as much. She knew a thing or two about not having parents around, and she didn’t know what was worse. Having one gone for ever, or having one who came and went whenever it suited them…

She set the steel down and grabbed an onion. ‘Right, so you know how to chop an onion, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. Pass the knife.’

Mel sighed, relieved. Since she’d followed him to the pub he’d been all monosyllabic answers and grunts. That, combined with furtive glances and plenty of space between the two of them, had made for an uncomfortable half hour. How they were going to fake a relationship in front of her mother she had no idea, but maybe the cooking would bring them together.

‘Stop!’ she cried out, registering the butchering going on in front of her. ‘What are you doing to that poor vegetable? What did it ever do to you?’

‘What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m chopping it up like you said.’

‘You’re killing it deader than dead. Who even thought to teach you how to chop a vegetable like that?’

‘Well, as we just talked about, my mother has been busy being deceased for the last couple of decades and my father’s idea of cooking involved a deep fryer and whatever came out of the bulk bags of bar food he had shipped in. So what little I know is what I’ve taught myself.’

Mel’s face flashed crimson-hot with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. Stupid choice of words.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ The deep lines running between Tony’s eyes softened. ‘So, are you going to show me how to cut an onion or are you going to just stand there looking at me with that cute little face of yours all red as those tinned tomatoes?’

‘First rule of the kitchen – don’t irritate the chef by calling her cute. Now give me that knife.’

Mel took the knife off Tony, grabbed a fresh onion, chopped the top off it, halved it, then began running the knife down the length of it, making lines half a centimetre apart. When she reached the other end of the onion she spun it round and efficiently sliced it width-wise, watching with satisfaction as little cubes of onion crumbled onto the board.

‘It’s like magic.’

The wonder in Tony’s voice made her grin. It had seemed a little like magic to her the first time she’d watched a chef do it, too, but after peeling and chopping her thousandth onion in a matter of weeks it had well and truly stopped feeling magical and simply felt like second nature.

She ran her finger down the blade of the knife to clean off the last few bits of onion, then flipped the handle in Tony’s direction.

‘Your turn.’

Tony glanced sceptically at the knife, then turned the look on her.

‘It won’t bite,’ she said.

‘But you might.’

‘Not if you don’t want me to…’ Her words came out low, sweet… and there was no missing the seductive tone. Mel mentally kicked herself in the shins. What was going on with her? She was acting like… someone she never wanted to act like.

Tony’s lips quirked as his eyebrow raised in amusement. ‘Geez, Mel. Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?’

The sparkle was back, sending the warmth that had bloomed over Mel’s face skyrocketing. ‘Yeah, it’s hot. It’s just the oven. Another rule – if a recipe says preheat the oven, preheat the oven.’ She fanned her face furiously. ‘That’s a mighty good oven you’ve got over there. Works fast.’ Stop burbling, she ordered herself. ‘Now stop gawking at me, pick up the knife and chop that onion like I showed you.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Tony saluted and took the knife from her.

He held it gently, as if it might bite. The complete opposite to the confident manner with which he’d grabbed it before hacking at the onion a few minutes ago.

‘Chop off the top,’ Mel instructed, keeping her voice soft, calm, so as not to freak him out any more.

His fingers took hold of the fresh onion and held it to the board. His knuckles turned more and more white with tension the closer the knife got to its victim. His shoulders bunched up once more.

‘You don’t have to be nervous. You’ve got this. You can do it. It’s just chopping an onion. I mean, you did it before, badly, but you did it.’

The knife clattered loudly onto the stainless-steel bench as Tony took an abrupt step back.

‘What’s wrong? You’ll be fine.’

She reached out to touch his arm but he jerked it away so it was just out of reach.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I can do this. What if I bugger it up? What if it all goes wrong?’ His blue eyes were panicked as the words rushed out.

Mel knew he wasn’t talking about the onion. He had the look of a person who could see their future falling apart. His voice held the same fear she’d felt to her very core when her business in Leeds had started to fall over. His eyes had the same wild look she’d seen reflected back at herself every time she’d been packed up, pulled out of school and taken somewhere to start a new life.

His life was spinning out of control and he didn’t believe he could do a single thing to slow it down. But she could.

‘Here. I’ll help.’ She picked up the knife. ‘We’ll do it together.’

Mel faced the bench and indicated for him to get behind her. Tony nodded in understanding and encircled her with his arms. One hand fell atop of her onion-holding hand, the other her knife-holding hand.

‘Relax.’ She wriggled her knife-holding hand, the hand he was currently squeezing every last drop of blood out of.

‘Sorry,’ he grunted, loosening his grip.

Mel focused on the onion and tried to ignore the tension she could feel radiating off him. Tension, and heat, and the slightest aroma of salt mixed with a hoppy earthiness. He smelt like a man should. Raw. Pure. Her body swayed backwards a little, closer to him. A mind of its own, it wanted to feel him against her, to see if they were a good fit.

Snap out of it. She wasn’t here to have a fling with the town playboy, she was here to work, to show him how to make a simple lasagne, and that was it.

‘So we chop the head off the onion.’

She pressed down on the knife, feeling him press along with her, his hand hot upon hers.

‘Then we cut it in half.’

They swivelled the onion round and sliced through it, the two halves separated, releasing its potent aroma.

‘Now you peel the layers off,’ she instructed, momentarily feeling bereft when his hands left hers.

‘Now we slice down the length.’

His hands were on hers again. She couldn’t ignore the way his touch sent tingles racing up her arms, through her body, upsetting a flutter of butterflies that had been hibernating in her stomach. Was she really this desperate for a man? Did she need one so much that the tiniest hint of touch, the smallest flash of interest, sent her into a swooning mess?

‘Have you forgotten how to cut an onion?’

His breath was hot on her ear. The butterflies danced again.

‘Of course not. I was just taking it slowly…’ She fished around for an excuse. ‘Um, so, you know, you don’t forget how to cut an onion.’

‘So shouldn’t we be cutting down the width of it now?’

His fingers interlaced with hers and turned the onion around, before lifting the knife and cutting through the vegetable, sending little squares tumbling. Tumbling like her willpower. All she had to do was turn around, one hundred and eighty small, tight degrees, and she would be face to face, body to body, heart to heart, with a man she was damn sure could make her forget about her earlier phone call, about what was to come.

She let out a shaky breath.

‘Are you okay down there?’ Tony’s words were smooth, gentle. They mirrored the way she’d spoken to him earlier, when she’d had to bring him down from whatever fears he faced.

‘Fine. I just…’ She trailed off, unsure whether she could trust Tony, whether he would understand how one person could turn your world upside down, could shake things up, could leave you scrambling to put together the pieces for years after. Perhaps even a lifetime.

The slam of The Bullion’s heavy, oak front door hitting the wall followed by the dull rumble of feet on threadbare carpet snapped Mel out of her reverie. ‘Oh my God, it sounds like a whole rugby team just barged in…’

‘Oh, shit. Bollocks.’ Tony pushed her arm, still wrapped round him, away and crossed the kitchen to the bar in two long strides. ‘It’s not the sound of rugby players. It’s actual rugby players.’

Mel moved to where he was standing and watched as a wave of short, tall, slightly overweight middle-aged men rushed to the bar. ‘What kind of rugby team are they?’

‘The kind that come every second year for the annual grudge match. It’s this weekend. The Randy Rabbits vs The Bad Boys of Babbler. And the opposition are meant to be staying at The Bullion.’

‘And you forgot this?’ Mel looked up at Tony and registered the shock on his face, emphasised by the slight shade of green his skin was giving off.

‘How the hell did I forget? I can’t send them away, I need their cash,’ Tony said to no one in particular. ‘The beds aren’t made. I didn’t order extra food. I don’t even have anyone who can help me out at the bar. Jody’s busy with the boys…’

Tony glanced down at Mel. ‘But you. You’re here. You could help me. You’re my fiancée, after all.’

Mel shook her head and backed away from the madman in front of her. ‘That’s not part of the deal. That’s not what I signed up for. And besides, I have to be in bed soon. I’ve got a business to run, too, remember? And I have to be up early to bake.’

‘You promised, Mel. You promised you’d help me save The Bullion. And look, there’s a whole team of hungry men out there. And we’re making a lasagne. We’ve got the ingredients. You just have to do that… and then maybe sort out the bedrooms for me. Come on, Mel. You’re my fiancée. You have to.’ Tony reached for her hands and held them in his to his heart, which she could feel thumping through his navy jumper. ‘Don’t make me beg. It’s just… there’s no one else.’

There’s no one else.

Damn it. Couldn’t he have chosen another line? Mel knew all too well what it was like to have to fend for yourself. There was no way she could turn him down.

‘Fine,’ she sighed. ‘But you’re still cooking the lasagne. I’ll finish off the onions while you get that lot out there sorted for drinks, all right?’

She waved him off and went back to prepping dinner, the chopping and dicing soothing her jangled nerves. Between her new and unexpected attraction to Tony and her mother’s impending arrival she was out of sorts. Gone was her perfectly ordered life of waking up, baking, serving customers, then reading or watching a show and going to bed. Instead, here she was, teaching a man to cook a lasagne, offering to make beds, and trying her best to help out the one person who’d threatened her security in the first place.

But it was all for the greater good. It had to be.

She scraped together the onions and waited for Tony to come back in to finish off his first cooking lesson. And waited. Then waited some more. Impatient to get going, she poked her head through the door to see him pulling pint after pint. His usually artfully mussed hair was standing out at odd angles, and a sheen of perspiration covered his forehead.

Tony glanced over and caught her eye. ‘I’ll be through in a minute.’

‘You don’t look like you’ll get away at the rate they’re drinking.’

‘Can you finish it off?’

‘No. That’s not the deal. You cook. I’ll pour the drinks.’

‘But I’m a barman. You’re a cook.’

‘And you’re meant to be learning to cook. I’ve got the recipe written down. You just need to follow it. I’ll be here if you need me.’

Tony’s eyes narrowed. ‘Do you even know how to pull a beer?’

‘I’ve been dragged to enough pubs that I’m pretty sure I can copy what I’ve seen.’ Mel picked up a glass and poured the perfect beer with just the right amount of head to prove her point.

‘Fine. But soon as I’m done you’re making the beds and I’m back on the bar.’

‘Fine.’ Mel waved him back to the kitchen, and tried to ignore the tingle of pleasure that bloomed and spread through her when he smiled his thanks.

***

Two hours later the last sheet was tucked in, the last comforter brushed smooth, the last pillow plumped, the last decent fingernail she had on her hands was well and truly ripped to shreds, and each and every last muscle in her body ached.

Mel stretched, hearing cricks and creaks throughout her shoulders and neck. That was a mission, and now she needed a drink. Luckily she was in a pub. And from the rousing chorus of the National Anthem going on downstairs, things were still in full flight.

She plodded down the stairs and pushed through the staff door to see Tony hunched over the bar, his head in his hands, half or even mostly asleep.

‘Any chance of an Irish crème and milk?’ she whispered softly in his ear, not wanting to startle him.

‘Any chance of you sorting yourself out?’ he mumbled into his hands.

She thought to remind him that she’d been up since the early hours, that she’d poured loads of beer and then served up the lasagne he’d cooked to a whole rugby team, and then made up twenty beds, but thought better of it. This wasn’t the Tony the ladies of the village liked to gossip about over their lattes. That Tony had an easy smile, a carefree attitude and, once in the sack, had all the energy of a spring bunny. This Tony? He looked shattered. Beaten. More in need of a good sleep than a roll in the hay.

Mel glanced over at the gleaming monstrosity. Although now that he’d promised not to step on her turf, the coffee machine didn’t seem quite so evil. And right now it could come in handy. She walked down to the end of the bar, ignoring the catcalls as some of the team realised there was a woman in their midst. She stood in front of it and ran her hand along the cool, gleaming steel. Switch on, pour milk in jug, and steam. The ritual was as soothing as ever. She frothed the milk so it was just warm, not hot. Then, pouring it into a mug, she took it down to Tony.

‘Here.’ She pressed the cup against the back of his hand.

He jolted in fright.

‘You need this.’

‘Does it have caffeine in it?’ He turned his head and gave her a sleepy half-smile. ‘Because I really need caffeine. A truckload of it.’

‘If you’re going to be dealing with this rabble…’ She nodded towards the players who, for some unknown reason, had decided to build a human pyramid. ‘You’re going to need a good sleep. Take it. It’s just warm milk.’

‘You’re too good to me.’ He took the mug in one hand and cupped her cheek with the other.

‘Well. If that’s not love’s dream right there, I don’t know what is!’

Mel froze. She knew that voice. Brash. Loud. Demanding. That voice wasn’t meant to be here until tomorrow. She jerked her head away from Tony’s hand, mortified to be caught in such a tender, intimate moment …

‘Are you just going to stand there looking like a gormless wonder, or are you going to get your behind over here and give your mother a hug?’

Hurricane Val had hit.