The Chic Boutique On Baker Street. Rachel Dove
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.
Amanda dragged the silver metal shutter down with tired shoulders. The metal clanged into place, and she cursed as she dropped the key twice in her attempts to lock the deadbolts. Sighing, she secured the last bolt and straightened up. She winced as her back popped and clicked back into place. She had always thought that being sat ramrod-straight in court all day, followed by long nights hunched over her desk, would have been detrimental to her health, but after a long day in her shop, she now realised that the city girl in her had actually had it pretty easy compared to her new country bumpkin self.
The one thing she didn’t miss was the long commute home. She shuddered as she thought of all those early mornings and late nights crammed on the Tube with sweaty, cranky people and drunks, all trying to get somewhere, anywhere else but the tin can they were entombed in most probably. She remembered the stench, the awkward face thrust into an armpit journeys, the glazed eyes all framed within the condensation of the windows of the trains. To say Amanda had a new-found respect for sardines after all those years would be an understatement. Those fish were the