Читать книгу Christmas on the Little Cornish Isles: The Driftwood Inn - Phillipa Ashley, Phillipa Ashley - Страница 9

With most people she’d met before, Maisie might have called out a ‘hello’ or waved a greeting. The problem was she didn’t know this man’s name nor did she want to draw attention to herself – she was still flustered and shocked at his appearance in her pub.

She might not know the exotic guy’s name but she could never forget how amazing his lips had felt on hers when they’d shared a passionate kiss outside the Galleon Inn on St Mary’s the previous week. She’d nicknamed him ‘The Blond’ in her mind and tried to forget about him, knowing she’d been tipsy and that she’d never see him again.

Her hands fumbled with the change she’d just taken off the previous customer, but she shut the till drawer and tried to concentrate on serving the person in the queue in front of him.

Who had she been kidding? She hadn’t forgotten about him. How could she? They’d bumped into each other at a food festival being held at the pub. She’d gone along on her own, really to check out how the event was going with a view to running one at the Driftwood. She’d meant to stay for a couple of drinks, make mental notes and then leave, but the Blond had struck up a conversation with her.

Or maybe she’d spoken to him? Her memory of how it had all started was fuzzy, especially as a couple of drinks had turned into more. Somehow, they’d ended up walking away from the pub up the beach. She didn’t remembering exchanging names – bloody hell, she must have been tiddly – but she did know that names hadn’t seemed to matter as they’d wandered away from the pub towards the headland at Porthmellon.

Apart from a brief word about him travelling around the UK on holiday and her working in a bar, neither of them had seemed to care about pasts or futures. They’d sat for a while on the rocks by the headland, watching the sun sinking and making the odd comment about the festival before the conversation had trailed off.

He’d taken her hand and it had happened. She didn’t know who’d instigated the kiss. She only knew that their lips had come together and that it had been amazing.

Too amazing. The feelings it had aroused had scared her. She’d backed away, laughing and mumbling about having had too much to drink. Without a goodbye, she’d almost run back up the beach and joined the tourists in the streets of Hugh Town.

She’d bought a black coffee from the deli-café and found a quiet corner in which to drink it, dreading he’d walk in and find her. She’d sobered up fast. If she’d been herself – watchful and on guard – she’d never have kissed a stranger whose name she didn’t even know … and never have let herself respond so rashly, holding on to his waist, pressing against him, drinking in that kiss.

‘Thanks.’

Smile fixed in place, Maisie watched the customer turn away, pint in hand, and the Blond approach the bar. He shrugged off his backpack, and dug out his phone. Perhaps he hadn’t recognised her. He was next in line after a kayaker who ordered several pints of beer.

Maisie tried to focus on pulling the pints. There was too much head on the last one and the foamy beer overflowed onto the drip tray.

She gave an apologetic grimace at the kayaker. ‘Sorry.’

He sipped the excess froth. ‘No problem.’

She gave him his change and he joined his mates outside.

The Blond was next.

Maisie flashed her customer smile. ‘Good afternoon, sir. What can I get you?’

He smiled back. ‘Coke, please.’

‘Pint or half. Diet or full-fat?’

‘I don’t do diet anything and a pint will do nicely. I’m dry as a drover’s dog.’

That accent. It struck her again, as it had the day at the food festival. He was every bit as sexy as she remembered: and she’d tried very hard to forget him over the past few days.

‘Ice?’ she asked.

‘What do you think?’ His blue eyes, not far off the colour of the deepest part of the Petroc channel, sparkled with amusement and mischief. Maisie could have done with some ice herself to cool her down.

Maisie scooped the cubes into a pint glass. ‘Where’s the accent from? Sydney?’ she teased.

He pulled a face. ‘You have to be joking. Wouldn’t be seen dead within a hundred miles of the place.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Try again.’

‘Adelaide?’ said Maisie, testing him to see how much of their conversation he remembered. She’d joked that her knowledge of Aussie cities was confined to having to listen to endless hours of Test Match Special droning out from her dad’s radio.

He winced. ‘Too hot for me and I’m not impressed by the wine. I’m from Melbourne. Sunshine, penguins and tennis.’

‘And Fosters,’ Maisie shot back.

‘Hey, there has to be a downside to every dream location.’

Maisie rested his glass on the drip mat but he didn’t pick it up. Their eyes met over the top of the bar. The look was at his instigation so she felt duty bound, as the hostess, to return it, even if gazing into those roguish blue eyes had the same effect on her as it had the first time. ‘I bet no one gets the better of you, Maisie Samson,’ he said so quietly that even she could barely hear.

She snapped out of her momentary trance. ‘How do you know my name? Has the Gull Island grapevine been at it again?’ she said, wondering if he’d made enquiries about her after she’d hurried away from him. She knew now why she’d run away. Having him here in the flesh in front of her brought all those emotions flooding back: desire, lust, longing. Those feelings had overwhelmed her. It was too soon to feel so strongly attracted to a man again … Too soon after losing Keegan. Too soon after losing everything.

The Blond was cool as a cucumber. He grinned and flipped his thumb over his shoulder. ‘No grapevine. It’s over the door.’

‘That could have been my mum’s name.’ In fact, her father’s name had hung there until she’d taken over the new licence earlier in the year.

‘What’s your mum’s name?’

‘Hazel.’

‘Nah. You’re no Hazel.’

‘What do you mean, “I’m no Hazel”?’ said Maisie, fascinated despite the fact that a couple of the regulars had started to pay attention to her conversation with the Blond.

Almost as if he sensed they were being watched, he lowered his voice but still made no move to pick up his drink. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Hazel. Sure it’s a very nice name and your mother is a lovely woman, but Maisie … hints at mischief. Trouble.’

Maisie rolled her eyes while her heart thumped. ‘Trouble for you if you keep on with the cheesy lines.’

‘Cheesy?’ He laughed out loud. ‘I’m the customer here. Aren’t I always right?’

‘You’re forgetting the other sign.’

‘And what sign would that be?’

She pointed to a small plaque hanging off a nail on the brickwork next to her. ‘The landlady’s never wrong.’

The smile made his eyes crinkle at the corners. Close up, she could see a few more lines on his face, around the eyes and on his forehead. She reckoned he was about her own age, or a couple of years younger.

Maisie heard the nerves in her laugh, and inwardly cursed herself. What the hell had got into her, flirting with him again and reacting like a schoolgirl? He’d probably be gone in five minutes, five seconds, in fact, when he took the Coke outside onto the terrace. She didn’t dare assume he’d sought her out and she didn’t want him to have come looking for her. She wasn’t interested in a man and definitely not one charming enough to tempt her into a passionate kiss on half an hour’s acquaintance. She felt suddenly embarrassed for appearing to fall for his blarney, so she told him the price of the drink and nodded at the door. ‘I expect you’ll want to take it outside, sir, and enjoy the last of the sunshine while you can.’

She glanced over his shoulder as if she’d seen more customers enter, signalling politely but firmly she wasn’t interested in anything beyond the cash for his Coke – saving herself from rejection, even of the smallest kind, because she’d had it up to here with types like the Blond. She’d met plenty of men like him before, and that included her ex, Keegan.

She didn’t even want to know this one’s name.

The Blond handed over some coins and took his drink. ‘Keep the change,’ he said cheerfully, obviously fine at being passed over for an imaginary customer.

‘Thanks. Enjoy your day, sir.’

Maisie popped the coins in the RNLI tin in full view of him and turned her back to polish some glasses that didn’t need it. The buzz of chatter rose as more customers walked through the front door. She turned back ready to greet them, joking about the late ‘heat wave’ that had hit Scilly.

When she finally made it out onto the terrace again to take a break, the Blond had gone.

The disappointment was like being plunged into cold water on a sweltering day but Maisie told herself to get a grip. She should be relieved he’d walked away this time and that she wouldn’t have to see him again. She wasn’t sure she would be so strong the next time he came across her path.

Fortunately she was kept busy as the pre-ferry rush started. Maisie’s parents and her seasonal barman joined her behind the bar and they served up a constant stream of cold drinks, coffees and teas. Restaurant customers from the bistro ordered after-lunch liqueurs and took them onto the terrace. Maisie was pinned behind the bar, the flood of people never letting up until finally she heard the warning toot of the ferry as it moored at the jetty.

Five minutes later, the Driftwood was as deserted as the Mary Celeste.