Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 90006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90006 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 450(@200wpm)___ 360(@250wpm)___ 300(@300wpm)
He drags him to the exit, opens the door, then throws the man bodily into the street. When he turns back to the shop, people literally clap. I grin at him.
“Bloody brilliant,” I say with a grin.
But he’s frowning and shaking his head. “Bloody bully is what he was. He’s lucky I didn’t kick his scrawny arse.”
I blink, surprised to realize I’d have liked to see that.
What’s wrong with me?
“Tell you what,” he says. “Forget those damn energy balls.” He lowers his voice and mutters, “Trust me, they’re fucking awful anyway. Let’s get a proper dessert at the coffee shop before you have to get back to work? My treat. I have to balance off that healthy meal with something delicious and laden with refined carbs.”
I glance at the clock and bite my lip.
“I’d love to, but I really don’t have time.”
He nods. “Ah, right. You’ve got work to do. So tell me how you take your coffee, then, and I’ll bring it by.”
He’s a stranger, though. Should I let him?
His eyes twinkle at me, and I decide what the hell.
“Medium, with a shot of vanilla, dash of milk, no sugar.”
I reach for my wallet to get some cash, but he rolls his eyes, giving me a withering look. “Really?”
I smile. “You let me buy my salad.”
He reaches over and tucks a stray strand of hair behind my ear. “That was before we were friends, darlin’.”
Oh God, he’s playing me like a fiddle, and my body is singing.
“Then in that case, I’ll take the coffee, a brownie, and two slices of the Rich Man’s Shortbread, please.”
It’ll be a late night at the shop. It’s dinner.
He winks at me. “Atta girl.” My heart somersaults again. “On it. See you soon.”
I go my way and he goes his, but I know he’s heading back to me soon, and I find it hard to focus. I pace the shop, twiddle my hair, chew my nails, and finally fire up my computer and pull up the next design I’m working on. I’m completely procrastinating about the one I’m on a deadline to finish, but I feel odd picking that one up knowing Mac is due in at any moment. I don’t know why it feels so secret.
I stare at the screen. I’m past the planning stage, and this is when I always get a little nervous and excited. It's time for me to take out the fabric, my scissors, and my trusty old needle and thread. I use a sewing machine, of course, but I love to begin projects by hand. I feel like it gives me a good connection with the piece that I'm working on. Fruity, maybe, but I don't much care.
I lose myself to the work. I feel the silky fabric beneath my fingers, and it ceases to be only a textile. Now it holds a world of possibility.
Warmed up, inspired, I pick up the custom piece I’m finishing by hand. I imagine the lovely bride taking her vows. I imagine her looking at her bridesmaids with pride and wonder, as they walk down the aisle with fresh flowers in hand. I imagine a gentle breeze, and the groom waiting at the altar. This event’s a beautiful day in summer, one of the most gorgeous times of year in Inverness.
I'm so lost in my work I’ve forgotten all about Mac coming. I jump when the door opens. I had gotten so wrapped up in my work it takes me a moment to get my bearings. He's got a tray of coffee, and a white bag that looks pretty jammed.
“Looks like I startled you,” he says with a grin. “Y’alright?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I say, getting to my feet. “I was just starting a new piece and trying to finish another I’m a bit nervous about. I sometimes get my head up in the clouds. Something my mum’s always scolding me about.”
He nods and hands me a steaming cup of coffee.
“Oh, this smells good,” I say, gesturing for him to take the only other seat in the entire little shop. I love a cup of tea, but this coffee’s one of the best. He sits in the tiny folding chair opposite me, and it seems as if the entire shop is half-filled with his large frame.
“Here, this ought to keep you going,” he says, handing me the white paper bag. I open it, relishing the sweet scent of vanilla and chocolate. Rich Man’s Shortbread is my favorite treat, thick slabs of golden shortbread dipped in dark chocolate. My mouth waters.
“Did you buy the whole tray?” I tease. The bag’s jammed.
He grins. “Mum loves the stuff. I always bring her some when I come into town. She makes shortbread but won’t let herself indulge in the chocolate-dipped variety unless there’s a wee bit of an arm twist. In other words, ready-made and gifted in a paper bag.” He winks.