Kellie Hailes - The Cosy Coffee Shop of Promises

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.