Plumbing. I’ve come to fix your boiler.’
She ignored his outstretched hand. She wasn’t in the mood for pleasantries. ‘You’re late.’
‘I’m really sorry. I was delayed by a damsel in distress.’ He grinned, no doubt trying to win her over. ‘What can I say, I’m a man who likes to help women.’
Evie didn’t doubt it. He probably spent a good proportion of his life ‘helping’ women. She knew the type – she’d been involved with one. All smiles and flattery to begin with, until his victim succumbed, and then it was nothing but trouble. ‘Well, you can help this woman by fixing the boiler. The pilot light keeps going out.’ She walked towards the back of the shop, showing him where the water tank was.
He lifted the cover away from the boiler. ‘I’d love a coffee. I left without breakfast this morning.’ He subjected her to another of his smiles, no doubt meant to charm. She guessed it worked on most women. She wasn’t most women.
He picked up a screwdriver. ‘White, no sugar, please.’
Biting down the urge to shove his screwdriver somewhere painful, she headed into the kitchen and grabbed the dirtiest mug she could find. Shoving a tablespoon of coffee granules in it, she mixed it with three-day old milk, added sugar just to be spiteful and took it back out to him. ‘There.’ She slammed the mug down. ‘As per your order.’
He stared at the stone-cold concoction, no hint of boiling water.
She waited for his eyes to lift to hers. ‘If you’d wanted a coffee you should’ve brought one with you. I’m paying you to fix my boiler, not stand around drinking my profits.’
One of his dark eyebrows twitched. Was he trying not to laugh? ‘My apologies. I’ll get on with the repair.’
‘You do that.’ She left him to it. He was a distraction she didn’t need.
It was gone ten by the time Saffy arrived, having worked a late shift at the pub the night before. Dressed in head-to-toe black, wearing huge sunglasses and a beanie pulled down low over her head, pushing her blunt fringe into her eyes, she slumped into the shop, her bag dragging on the floor behind her. ‘I need caffeine,’ she said, heading into the kitchen.
The plumber looked up hopefully, but Saffy had already disappeared.
Evie was grateful for Saffy’s late start. It had allowed her time to recover from the shock of Kyle contacting her. Surely he wasn’t hoping they’d get back together? No one could be that deluded. At least, she hoped not. She would not allow Kyle contacting her to derail her from her goal of moving on with her life. She would ignore the message, delete it from her mind and pretend it never happened. Good plan.
But her rationale took a hit when Saffy jolted her from her thoughts by placing a hand on her shoulder. ‘Jesus! Don’t do that.’
‘Sorry, boss.’ Saffy’s lip curled, Elvis-style. ‘Who’s the eye candy?’
‘The what?’ Evie’s gaze followed Saffy to where the plumber was working on the boiler. ‘Oh, him. Scott something, and I thought you were off men?’
Saffy shrugged, her face now free of sunglasses. ‘I am. Doesn’t mean I’m blind. And besides, I wasn’t thinking of me. He’s way too old. He’d do okay for you, though.’
Evie’s hands went to her hips. ‘Gee, thanks.’
Saffy tied her apron around her middle. ‘You’re welcome. I’ll go see if Scottie the Hottie needs an assistant.’
Scottie the … Evie watched Saffy saunter off. At least the plumber had one fan. He might be too old for Saffy, but he couldn’t be more than late twenties, and that was most definitely not old. Not by a long shot. Cheek of it.
Within five minutes Saffy was perched on the countertop next to Scott, handing him tools and chatting away like a smitten schoolgirl instead of the sullen teenager she was. Far from showing disinterest, the plumber was indulging Saffy in her tirade about her woeful parents, including her latest dealings with Barry the Banker.
‘He wears too much aftershave,’ Saffy said, pulling a face. ‘And he uses words like todger and goolies. I mean, what kind of pervert is he?’
The sound of Scott’s laugh did something strange to Evie’s insides, causing a shiver to run up her spine. The cold was getting to her, clearly. She needed to keep busy.
As Evie started to make up a funeral wreath, Saffy switched topics, easing from dysfunctional family matters to career aspirations and her plans to become a nurse. Scott nodded encouragingly. ‘I’m sure if you work hard enough you’ll achieve your goal.’ He sounded like a responsible parent rather than an unreliable tradesman.
Pleased with his answer, Saffy swung down off the counter. ‘For that you get a brew.’ She picked up the mug containing the results of Evie’s earlier strop. ‘Er, what happened here?’
Scott grinned. ‘I pissed off your boss.’
Saffy faked a gasp. ‘Oh, shit. You didn’t ask her for a drink, did you?’
He nodded.
Saffy shook her head. ‘Schoolboy error. Tradesmen never get drinks. They get above their station.’
Scott laughed. ‘My mistake.’
Evie ignored their collective laughter. Saffy might be fooled by his charming persona, but she wasn’t. She was older – as Saffy had kindly pointed out – and wiser. She’d been duped by a smooth-talking Lothario before and she wasn’t dumb enough to fall for it a second time.
Unfortunately, Scott chose that moment to look up, catching Evie staring at the muscles in his forearms. She turned away, unsure of why she’d been ogling.
The front door chimed and Martin Harper burst into the shop, accompanied by a chilly gust of wind. He looked harassed and a lot older than his thirty-something years. He didn’t even glance at the flowers, just strode over to Evie, briefcase swinging by his side. ‘I need a bouquet. Can you deliver today?’
Ignoring his brusque manner, Evie wiped her hands on her apron. ‘Hello, Martin. How are you?’
‘What? Oh, fine. Sorry, I’m in a rush. I need flowers for Laura’s birthday.’
Evie raised an eyebrow. Leaving it a bit late, wasn’t he? Evie couldn’t imagine it would help their marital difficulties if he had forgotten her friend’s birthday. ‘Certainly. What did you have in mind?’
He pulled out his wallet from the inside pocket of his pristine blue suit. Evie glimpsed a Savile Row label. ‘I don’t care. I just need them delivered today, whatever it costs.’
She opened the order book. ‘Would you prefer a basket or a hand-tied bouquet?’
‘Whatever. Just charge the flowers.’ He handed her an Amex card.
‘The bouquets come at different prices.’ She took his credit card. ‘Twenty-five pounds, thirty, forty—’
‘Forty.’
‘How about a lovely
