“No? Then why are your eyes sad?”
Were they? I pursed my lips as I let the ‘sad eyes’ drift around the tea room. I wish I could say it was all forged on my own hard work, but it wasn’t. Not really.
“I was just thinking about Mom.”
“Oh, honey,” Jenny said sadly, and she carefully placed all the dishes on the counter, so she could round it and curve her arm around my waist. “It was only seven months ago. Of course, you were thinking of her.”
“I just—” I blew out a breath. “I don’t know if I’m doing what she’d want.”
“You can’t live for her choices, sweetness. You have to do what you think is right for you.”
I gnawed at my bottom lip again. “I-I know, but she was always there for me. A guiding light. With Fiona gone and her, too? I don’t really know what I’m doing with myself.”
This business wasn’t something that made me want to get up on a morning. It was my mom’s dream, her goal. Every decision I made, I tried to remember how she’d longed for a place like this, but it wasn’t my passion. It was hers, and I was trying to keep that dream alive while fretting over the fact my heart wasn’t in it.
“I think you’re doing a damn fine job. You have a very successful teashop. Your cakes are raved about. Have you visited our TripAdvisor page recently? Or our Yelp?” She squeaked. “I swear, you’re making this place a tourist hotspot. I don’t think Fiona or Michelle could be more proud of you if they tried.”
The baking shit, yeah, that was all on me, but the other stuff? The finances?
I’d caved in.
I’d caved where my mom had always refused in the past.
With the accident had come a lot of medical bills that I just hadn’t been able to afford. Without her help, I’d had to take on extra staff, and out of nowhere, my expenses had added up.
Mom had been so proud of this place, so ferociously gleeful that we’d done it by ourselves, and yet, here I was, financially free for the first time in my life, and I still felt like I was drowning because my freedom went entirely against her wishes.
“Is this to do with Acuig? I know they’re still pestering you.”
Jenny’s statement had me wincing. Acuig were the bottom feeders who wanted to snap up this building, demolish it, and then replace it with a skyscraper. Don’t get me wrong, the building was foul, but a lot of people lived here, and the minute it morphed into some exclusive condo, no one from around here would be able to afford to live in it.
It would become yuppy central.
I’d rejected all their offers to buy my tea room even though I didn’t want the damn thing, not really. Mostly I wanted to keep mom’s goals alive and kicking, but also, it pissed me off the way Acuig were changing Hell’s Kitchen. Ratcheting up prices, making it unaffordable for the everyday man and woman—the people I’d grown up with—and bringing a shit-ton of banker-wankers and 1%ers to the area.
So, maybe I’d watched Erin Brockovich a time or two as a kid and had a social conscience . . . Wasn’t the worst thing to possess, right?
“Aoife?” Jenny stated, making me look over at her. “Is Acuig pressuring you?”
I winced, realizing I hadn’t answered—Jenny was my friend, but she also worked here and relied on the paycheck. It wasn’t fair of me to keep her hanging like that. “They upped the sales price. I guess that isn’t helping,” I admitted, frowning down at my hands.
Unlike Jenny who had her nails manicured, mine were cut neatly and plain. I had no rings on my fingers, and wore no watch or bracelets because my wrists were usually deep in flour or sugar bags.
I spent most of my life right where I wanted it—behind the shopfront. That had slowly morphed where I was doing double the work to compensate for Mom’s loss.
Was it any wonder I was feeling a little out of my league?
I was coping without Fiona, grieving Mom, working without her, too, and then practically living in the kitchens here. I didn’t exactly have that much of a life. I had nothing cheerful on the horizon, either.
Well, nothing except for next Tuesday, and that wasn’t enough to turn my frown upside down.
The money was a temptation. I didn’t need to sell up and start working on my own goals, but that just loaded me down with more guilt and made me feel like a really shitty daughter.
Jenny squeezed me in a gentle hug. But as I turned to speak to her, the bell above the door rang as it opened. We both jerked in surprise—each of us apparently thinking the other had locked up when neither of us had—and turned to face the entrance.
On the brink of telling the client we were closed for the day, my mouth opened then shut.
Standing there, amid the frilly, lacy curtains, was the most masculine man I’d ever seen in my life.
And I meant that.
It was like a thousand aftershave models had morphed into one handsome creature that had just walked through my door.
At my side, I could feel Jenny’s ‘hot guy radar’ flare to life, and for once, I couldn’t damn well blame her.
This guy was . . . well, he was enough to make me choke on my words and splutter to a halt.
The tea room was all girly femininity. It was sophisticated enough to appeal to businesswomen with its mauve, taupe, and cream-toned hues, and the ethereal watercolors that decorated the walls. But the tablecloths were lacy, and the china dishes and cake stands we used were the height of Edwardian elegance.
Moms brought their little girls here for their birthday, and high-powered executives spilled dirt on their lovers with their girlfriends over scones and clotted cream—breaking their diets as they discussed the boyfriends who had broken their hearts.
The man, whoever the hell he was, was dressed to impress in a navy suit with the finest pinstripe. It was close to a silver fleck, and I could see, even from this distance, that it was hand tailored. I’d seen custom tailoring before, and only a trained eye could get a suit cut so perfectly to this man’s form.
With wide shoulders that looked like they could take the weight of the world, a long, lean frame that was enhanced by strong muscles evident through the close fit of his pants and jacket, then the silkiness of his shirt which revealed delineated abs when his bright gold and scarlet tie flapped as he moved, the guy was hot.
With a capital H.
“How can we help, sir?” Jenny purred, and despite my own awe, I had to dip my chin to hide my smile.
Even if I wanted to throw my hat into this particular man’s game, there was no way he’d choose me over Jenny. Fuck, I’d screw her, and I wasn’t even a lesbian. Not even a teensy bit bi. I’d gone shopping with her enough to have seen her ass, and I promise you, it’s biteable.
So, nope. I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell of this Adonis seeing me when Jenny was in the room.
Yet. . . .
When I’d controlled my smile, I looked over at the man, and his focus was on me.
My breath stuttered to a halt.
Why wasn’t his gaze glued to Jenny?
Why weren’t those ice-white blue eyes fixated on my best friend’s tits, which Jenny helpfully plumped up as she preened at my side?
For a second, I was so close to breaking out into a coughing fit, it was humiliating. Then, more humiliation struck in a quieter manner, but it was nevertheless rotten—I turned pink.