Читать книгу The Chic Boutique On Baker Street - Rachel Dove - Страница 8

Amanda stared up at the dark wood beam, pondering whether a strip of pale yellow taffeta ribbon would be robust enough as a makeshift noose.

She shook her head, banishing the futile thoughts, and started to clear off the workspace of her new venture when she heard the shutter from next door’s shop go up. The metallic clang reminded her that next door had left their advertising board out the night before. She picked it up on her way to the shop front. New Lease of Life had only been open for a week or so, and her next-door neighbour, ‘Shampooched’, had not been the ideal business colleague. The twenty-something pink-haired rock enthusiast who worked there was not the friendliest person Amanda had ever encountered, but Amanda didn’t want to make waves, being new to town and living above the shop and all. She took a deep breath and walked backwards into the shop, clasping the heavy A-board, a blackboard detailing their opening times.

‘Hey, Tracy, you seem to have left this out … er again … so …’

Amanda was blocked from walking any further by a wall. Squeaking in surprise, she promptly dropped the A-board onto her own feet, this morning clad in soft green ballet pumps, of all things.

‘Owww, son of a b—’

She was tumbling towards the concrete tiled floor, and a bruised bum to boot, when the wall moved and caught her in its grasp. Her words caught in her throat as she gazed up into a pair of steely grey eyes. She found herself smiling despite her embarrassment.

‘I am so sorry, are you OK?’

The man was staring at her with a mixture of concern and amusement. Amanda’s eyes flitted from his chiselled jaw to his full bow lips, and travelled down to his tanned, muscular neck, and his chest, which was encased in a simple black T-shirt. She loved watching the lips move. The movements stopped and Amanda frowned, disappointed. It was then she realised that the lips were attached to an actual person, a person who was waiting for an answer to whatever question these lips had formed.

What is wrong with you?

A voice, soft and cracking with what Amanda thought might be suppressed laughter, broke through the awkward silence.

‘I said, did you hit your head?’ he asked.

Amanda shook her head. ‘Er … no, no, just banged it a little. Sorry!’

Looking down at her right shoe, she saw crimson staining the mint green canvas of her pump. He followed her gaze, frowning.

‘I’m Ben. Just stay sat there a sec, I’ll get a chair and the first aid kit.’

Amanda nodded mutely, feeling a little cheated that the moment had passed, and more than a little embarrassed of her own behaviour. Seriously, woman, you used to command the attention of courtrooms, a bloke in a shop trips you up, and you lose it!

Ben returned, bringing with him a black fold-up chair and large green first aid kit. Amanda kept her eyes on the floor, but could just make out his long lithe legs in his smart black jeans and brown Docker boots. He settled her onto the chair, offering himself as a prop to support her as she got up off the floor. Her cheeks flushed as she felt his arm muscles flex under his T-shirt, and her nostrils twitched with the scent of his heavenly cologne. She literally had to stop herself from burying her head into his neck there and then.

‘So,’ Ben started, as he kneeled before her, opening his kit. ‘You just opened next door, right?’

Amanda nodded, grateful for the small talk.

‘Er yes, that’s right, Amanda Perry. Do you work with Tracy?’

The mention of Tracy reminded Amanda that the goth girl was nowhere to be seen, and Amanda was acutely grateful for her absence. She figured this man couldn’t be a customer, as he had no dog in tow, and he seemed to know his way around.

Please don’t be her boyfriend, she thought to herself. Wait, what? You don’t care anyway, Amanda, new life, remember? Celibate new life. Men are out of bounds.

Ben was concentrating intently on Amanda’s injury, seemingly unaware of her question. Yep, definitely her boyfriend then. Before she knew it, the wound had been cleaned and bandaged up. Amanda was suddenly glad her last pedicure had not been too long ago, and thanked her lucky stars that she had bothered to shave her legs last night. Had this occurred a day earlier, Ben would have been patching up a limb resembling that of a Himalayan yeti.

‘All done,’ he said cheerily, flashing a smile up at her. He stood and, grasping her hands, pulled her to her feet. The sudden movement startled her and she swayed slightly. He tightened his grip, steadying her.

‘Whoa! Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked, concern clouding his features.

Amanda stiffened in his grasp and extricated herself from him as gracefully as she could.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Thanks for doing that. I just wanted to bring your board back. I … er … had better get back next door, I left it unlocked and we open soon.’

Ben smiled, and Amanda was once again drawn to his full lips. She mentally gave herself a telling-off, and pursed her lips in a businesslike fashion.

‘Well, nice to meet you, Amanda, and if you need anything else, we are just next door.’

Amanda noticed the ‘we’ in the sentence, and winced.

‘Yes, thanks,’ she muttered.

‘What is it you are doing next door, anyway? Antiques and such? Be nice to have one again, good for the tourists. Since Old Bill died, we have been sadly lacking for the antique market in Westfield.’

‘No, nothing like that. Actually it’s a boutique. We sell handmade crafts, doorstoppers, shabby chic decorations, upcycled furniture, craft kits, tea cosies, fairy doors. I make a lot of the items myself and run the upcycling service and I am planning to stock some kitchen table businesses’ designs too, once my website is up and running. Plus, in the front, I have plans for a small coffee area, so people can shop and get a nice coffee, swap ideas. I am going to expand and sell items online too—handmade goods produced in Westfield. My research showed that people love Yorkshire crafts.’

When she paused to draw breath, exerted from talking excitedly about her new venture, she noticed that Ben was now scowling, and looking quite put out. ‘Really? And the town council agreed to all this, did they? Tell them all this, did you?’

Amanda bristled at his abrupt line of questioning. Folding her arms, she suddenly missed her city heels. She drew herself up to her full height, which in flats still meant that she was looking at the bottom of his now upturned and set jaw.

‘Yes, I did tell them, and it was approved. Of course, why I need a town council’s permission to set up a shop that I own myself is a little strange, but—’

Ben huffed. ‘Strange!’ he practically shouted. ‘I don’t think you quite understand, Amanda. Westfield is a historical Yorkshire village, we have a way of life here, I know you mean well but I just can’t see any good coming from any of this.’

Amanda was absolutely dumbstruck. She was about to start apologising and explaining herself when she realised that this was exactly the reason she had left London in the first place.

‘Well,’ she retorted, poking Ben in his chest with an index finger. Well, not his chest, more like his stomach, from her angle. ‘The day I take orders from another man is the day I pack up and quit life, so why don’t you just do me a favour, Ben—stay out of my business and keep your bloody board out of my way!’ With that, she spun on her heel, not easy in flats, and flounced out of the shop, making sure to bang the door on the way out. As she was busy storming out, she heard him mutter, ‘Bloody Londoners.’

She resisted the urge to go back and slap him, and instead spent the next half-hour pummelling stuffing into her new cushion range, imagining she was inserting things into her stuck-up country boy neighbour.

Next door, Ben was doing much the same, only he took out his frustrations on an unamused Border collie, who was shampooed and brushed vigorously to within an inch of its doggy life.