Love and Shenanigans (Ballybeg, Book 1) (The Ballybeg Series) (15 page)

“Are your thoughts sufficiently gathered for you to do me a favor? After the Drew Draper screwup, I figure you owe me.”

“I owe a lot of people at the moment, Fiona,” he said with a low laugh. “Yeah, okay. I’m in the middle of writing job applications, but I was about to take a break. What do you need?”

“A coffeemaker for the Book Mark’s café. A machine, a French press, a stovetop espresso maker. Frankly, anything that makes real coffee will do.”

“Bridie’s instant powder not doing it for you?”

“Heartless sod,” she said. “How can you laugh at my predicament? We caffeine addicts need our fix.”

“Tell you what. As long as you’ll let me come by for my morning coffee, I’ll loan you my machine until you get a new one.”

The church bells were chiming eleven o’clock when Gavin Maguire strode into the Book Mark, larger than life and sexier than sin.

In the time since she’d last seen him, he’d smartened up. Which was to say he was no longer sporting a two-day beard, bed head, and rumpled clothing. He was clean-shaven and wore formfitting jeans and a red-checked shirt. He looked good. More than good.

He caught her staring, and his amused half smile made her cheeks burn. “Morning, ladies.”

Gavin maneuvered his way past Fiona, his hip brushing her side for a millisecond. Her tummy did a funny flip, and her cheeks grew hotter.

Sharon, seemingly oblivious to Fiona’s discomfiture, went into full flirt mode. “How are ya, Gavin? Surviving life as a single man?” She sashayed across the bookshop and posed her canary yellow bosom directly under Gavin’s nose.

“I’m grand, Sharon.” He retreated from her sequined glory. “And yourself?”

He deposited the large box he was carrying on the counter and took out a modern coffee machine and an assortment of colored capsules.

Sharon fluttered her eyelashes. “I’ve a raging hangover but the sight of you and real coffee is making me feel much better.”

Fiona crossed her arms. The flaming cheek of the girl. She’d had no complaint about the caffeine situation before Gavin the Coffee Hero rode to the rescue.

The bell above the shop door jangled, indicating the arrival of another customer. An elderly man in tweeds came into the shop, and nodded at them.

Gavin flashed Fiona a knowing smile, adding fuel to her rapidly rising temper. “Looks like both you ladies could do with a coffee. Why don’t I show Fiona how to work the machine while you serve Mr. Delaney?”

Sharon shrugged in the nonchalant manner of a woman confident that if this specimen of manhood didn’t succumb to her sex appeal, the next one would. “Right-o,” she said and strutted off to wow the hapless Mr. Delaney with her charms.

Gavin filled the machine’s water tank and inserted the plug. For a large man, he had surprisingly slender fingers. Long, supple, graceful. Concert pianist fingers, as Fiona’s mother used to say.

He toyed with the colored capsules, each touch like a caress. His azure blue gaze pinned her in place. “How do you like yours, Fiona?”

She blinked, gave herself a mental shake. What the feck was she doing fantasizing about Gavin Maguire? If it wasn’t for his fuckwittery, she’d be lounging by a pool in Singapore.

“Hard,” she said hoarsely. “No, I mean strong.”
Get a grip, Fiona!

He arched a dark blond eyebrow, an amused curve to his sensual lips. “A ristretto?”

“Yeah,” she muttered, ignoring the throb in her unmentionables. “That’s what I meant.”

The curve of his lips grew wider. He was enjoying this, the prick. Enjoying seeing her blush and stammer like the green schoolgirl she’d once been. Well, feck him. She left that girl behind years ago.

“I can make my own coffee.” Her fingers closed over his. The two of them were close now. Close enough for her to smell the spicy scent of his cologne and the minty tang of his sharply exhaled breath.

They stood there a moment, fingers frozen in an unwitting caress.

A shiver of awareness made her tremble. She released his hand and stood back. “Ristretto’s fine.”

“WHAT’S THE RUSH?” Olivia asked as Fiona dragged her into the lift of Debenham’s department store and hit the button for the second floor. “I thought you borrowed a coffee machine from Gavin.”

“I did. That’s the problem. The deal included him dropping by the Book Mark for his morning coffee.”

Olivia tossed her glossy red hair over her shoulder. “Okay, let me get this straight. Gavin brought the machine round yesterday. You lasted
one morning
of him stopping by the shop?”

“Having him about is… unsettling.”
What an understatement.
She’d been hyper aware of his presence the entire ten minutes and forty-five seconds he’d spent in the café, conscious of his every move and every breath. If she had to live in Ballybeg for the next few months, the last thing she needed was Gavin Maguire underfoot and under her skin.

“Do you see a lot of each other now you’re living next door?” asked Olivia in a coy tone.

Fiona rolled her eyes. “Stop with the matchmaking, Liv. Never gonna happen.”

“Never gonna happen
again
, you mean?”

“You’re loving this, aren’t you?”

Olivia choked back a laugh. “Not loving your predicament, but I’ll admit your aunt Deirdre’s face was a sight to behold.”

The lift shuddered to a halt, and the doors slid open to reveal the kitchen electronics department.

“Come on,” Fiona said, stepping out of the lift. “Let’s find a kickass coffee machine. Preferably one loud enough to drown out Sharon’s constant chatter.”

“You must be finding Gavin’s presence very
unsettling
if you left Sharon in charge when you made a dash for Cork City.” Olivia sent her a quizzical look. “That smacks of desperation.”

Fiona exhaled through her teeth. The thought of the mayhem her hapless assistant could cause in a few short hours was giving her hives, but the idea of a daily encounter with Gavin galvanized her into action.

“Put it this way. The shop’s heavily in the red and likely to sink further into debt the longer I’m forced to serve stale buns in the café. Sharon’s antics can’t alienate customers we don’t have.”

Olivia’s deep blue eyes twinkled. “The terms ‘Sharon MacCarthy’ and ‘customer service’ don’t belong in the same sentence.”

“She’s cheekier than my students. Why hasn’t Bridie fired her? She’s a nice girl, and she’s a decent worker when given clear instructions, but she positively delights in winding people up.”

“Ah, you know Bridie,” Olivia said. “She’s always had a soft spot for wounded birds.”

Fiona eyebrows shot north. “Sharon wounded? The girl’s as tough as fiberglass.”

“If she’s driving you mad, why don’t
you
fire her?”

Fiona shoved a stray curl behind her ear. “Because Bridie specifically forbade me to. I’m allowed to change whatever else I want in the shop, but Sharon stays.”

“Her family’s dodgy as feck. Ruairí is the first MacCarthy to do something with his life that didn’t result in a mug shot.”

“Provided Sharon doesn’t do anything illegal in the shop, she can plaster her bedroom walls with mug shots as far as I’m concerned.” Fiona stopped at the kitchen electronics aisle and eyed the multitude of coffee machines on display. “Right. I need a robust machine capable of making decent espressos, cappuccinos, and regular coffees.”

“Do you want a frother?” Olivia asked. “If so, don’t go for a machine with one of those nozzle yokes. They’re a bitch to clean. You’ll save time and stress if you spend a bit more and get a proper frother.”

“Okay.” She scanned the shelves packed with machines—small, large, and every size between. “There are so many to choose from. Any recs?”

“This is the model we have at home.” Olivia pointed to a large machine with an array of buttons and a digital display. “It was pricey, but I love it.”

Fiona glanced at the price tag and recoiled. “Is it hard to use?”

“Nah.” Olivia tossed her glossy red ponytail over her shoulder. “Dead easy. If you get this one I can run you through it.”

“Speaking of running me through things… I’ve a proposition for you.”

“Oh?”

“Remember how you planned to open a café?”

“Yeah. Those were the days.” Olivia’s laugh rang hollow. “Instead, I’m a secretary and general dogsbody in my husband’s legal practice. Not quite where I pictured myself ten years ago.”

“Long story short, I’m not happy with Gillespie’s baked goods. Today’s delivery was stale. I’m having no luck finding an alternative supplier at short notice, and I’m reaching the point of despair.”

“How can I help?”

“You can bake,” she said bluntly. “I’m offering you a bit of extra cash in return for some of your delicious muffins and scones.”

Olivia beamed. “Yeah, all right, but I can only manage a couple of hours a few evenings a week. Why don’t I show you how to prepare a few basic recipes yourself, and I’ll do the rest? Bridie has a decent oven at the cottage, if I recall correctly.”

Fiona nodded. “Yeah. It’s one of the rare modern appliances she owns.”

“Excellent,” Olivia said. “We’ll have a few batches of fairy cakes and sticky buns baked within a couple of hours. We’ll stop off and buy the ingredients on our way back to Ballybeg. I’ll show you how to soak the ingredients to make tea brack and fruit cake, then we’ll make them tomorrow evening.”

“You make it sound simple.”

“It is. Don’t worry, Fee. We’ll have you serving excellent coffee and yummy baked goods in no time.”

“That would be fantastic. Seriously, I have to do something to lure more customers into the shop, and the café seems to be my best bet.”

“Are things that bad at the Book Mark?”

“Unfortunately, yes. I don’t want to do the bare minimum to keep the shop afloat. If I’m to work at the Book Mark for the next few months, I want to make it profitable.”

“Do you have any ideas?” Olivia asked. “Apart from firing Gillespie’s?”

“I’ve jotted down a few, yeah.” Fiona rummaged through her bag and extracted a small notebook. “A monthly book club. A children’s story hour. An official stand at the Ballybeg Christmas Bazaar.”

“Wow. Sounds like a lot of work.”

“Better to be busy than bored.” Fiona shoved the notebook back into her bag. “I’d best pay for this machine before we get chucked out by store security for loitering.”

The fading autumn sunlight bathed Gavin’s home office in a warm orange. He yawned and stretched, pushed the chair back from his desk, and contemplated having another cup of coffee.

It had been a productive day. He’d arranged appointments with a couple of potential buyers for Clonmore Lodge, bought a new computer (essential in his line of work), and applied for a few architecture jobs. In the two and a half weeks since his unengagement and unemployment, he’d applied for every suitable position he could find advertised. At the moment, he was concentrating on the area around Cork City, but he’d likely need to cast his net wider once the rejections started rolling in.

Bernard Byrne’s influence in the building trade in Cork was considerable but waned the farther away from Cork one got. Staying in Cork was his goal, but he might not have a choice. Whatever happened, he only had a couple more weeks to decide whether or not to sign Bernard’s agreement. He was screwed whatever he did. If he refused to sign, he’d never work in the Irish building trade as long as Bernard held sway. If he signed, he’d have to keep Bernard sweet until the day he retired.

“Woof!” Wiggly Poo sat by his side, panting.

“You can’t possibly want more food.” Gavin gave him a vigorous scratch.

The dog wagged his tail in delight.

Ah, he was screwed. He hadn’t wanted a dog in his life—still didn’t—but the little fella was growing on him. He knew what it felt like to be unwanted. It was a raw ache that faded with time but never disappeared. He couldn’t inflict that on another creature, not even a dog.

Given that he hadn’t so much as sneezed in Wiggly Poo’s presence, it was safe to assume his allergies did not extend to labradoodles. “Come on, mate. Let’s see what we can find in the kitchen.”

Gavin padded into his cozy kitchen, opened a tin of dog food for Wiggly Poo, and fixed himself a coffee. Wiggly Poo devoured his meal faster than the time it took Gavin to down his ristretto.

He leaned against the kitchen counter and regarded his small home with affection. The converted fisherman’s cottage was a snug, four-room affair. He’d loved it from the moment he’d first walked through the low front door fifteen years ago. His mother had inherited the cottage from a relative, but it had been too small to accommodate her growing family with her new husband.

As far as Gavin was concerned, it was perfect. When his mother and stepfather had moved to Wexford, Gavin had stayed on in the cottage. The instant he’d had the cash, he’d bought them out of their share of the house and done the place up.

He’d taken up the worn carpets to reveal the solid stone floors underneath and polished them to the nth degree before decorating them with patterned rugs. He’d replaced the peeling wallpaper with brightly colored paint. The walls in each room were a different color, offset by a white ceiling. He’d been obliged to follow the Ballybeg tradition of painting the outside of the cottage a vivid hue but had bent the rules somewhat by opting for black and white stripes.