Helena raised her phone.
“Put it down!” Kirsty mouthed.
Helena did as she was told, busying herself behind the counter.
“Yep, the Beachcomber. Are you sure? I can pick it up.”
Kirsty shook her head. “I have a few other deliveries to do, so I’ll add you to the list.” She pulled out her phone. “Give me your number and I’ll message first to check you’re in.”
Saffron walked over, took Kirsty’s phone, and keyed in her digits.
She smelled insanely good. Movie star-good. And now, Kirsty had Saffron Oliver’s number. She was going to try not to fixate on that.
“There you go.” Saffron flashed her million-dollar smile. “No selling my number to the tabloids. I haven’t seen any paparazzi yet, which is a minor miracle.”
“We’re going to keep it that way, aren’t we, Helena?” Kirsty narrowed her eyes in Helena’s direction.
Her business partner nodded, her tone resigned. “I never even met you,” she told Saffron.
Chapter 6
Saffron paced in front of the windows looking out over the water, the selling point of the house and the original reason why she’d jumped at the chance to rent it.
She’d pictured herself sitting in a cosy chair, book in hand, sipping a glass of wine, allowing her mind and body to recoup from the business of being Saffron Oliver, Hollywood star. Fame and celebrity weren’t what they were cracked up to be, but the problem was, no one learned the brutal truth until it was too late to switch course, saving one’s sanity.
Since her teenage years, Saffron couldn’t trust most people she came into contact with, aside from her sister and Michelle, her assistant. She had to pay the latter an obscene amount of money to keep Michelle loyal, but there was the niggling fear that everyone had their price. Even one of her exes had betrayed her, although the woman hadn’t had the integrity to own up to her treachery.
Why then, was Saffron pacing, with her eyes glued to the promenade, not the peaceful waves lapping the pebbled beach, in hopes of spying Kirsty, who’d texted saying she’d be by within the hour? What good would come from fostering a friendship with a total stranger? One who had no clue what it meant to be associated with a celebrity, even on a basic level. The paparazzi hadn’t converged on Sandy Cove yet, but it was only a matter of time. Her photo had appeared on people’s social media accounts, logging her location in Sandy Cove. Pearl had taken a screenshot, with the message:Never knew oyster town was magical.It wasn’t clever, but it did drive home the real message: Pearl had found Saffron.
Once the locusts descended, would Kirsty be able to handle the deluge? Having cameras stuck in her face? Invasive questions? The temptation of financial payments to spill the tiniest details, like what wine did Saffron pair with seafood?
Contemplating getting to know Kirsty was sheer madness. Saffron’s head understood that.
The knock on the front door portended trouble for Saffron, because her pulse quickened and her stomach did a swoop like a flock of seagulls descending on the fresh catch of the day.
This was bad. So very bad.
After one final look in the mirror to ensure she looked better than okay, Saffron swung the door open to see Kirsty astride an old-fashioned three-wheeled bike.
“Oh my God, that’s amazing.” Saffron walked down her steps to the promenade and craned around Kirsty to see the antique wooden storage box, bold white block letters spelling Wine Time and the shop’s number, secured between the back two wheels. “Where did you find this masterpiece?”
Kirsty’s cheeks turned an adorable pink. “It used to sit outside a chocolate shop on the High Street, so when they closed, I bought it and restored it just enough to make it ridable but kept its old-world charm.”
“Do you need help getting it inside?” Saffron shoved up her sleeves, ready to be put to work.
“Nope. Yours is the last delivery.” Kirsty lifted the lid, the hinges protesting, and hefted a large box onto one of her shoulders, the sleeve of her T-shirt rolling back to reveal a toned bicep. “Where do you want me? Er… I mean the wine?”
“Let me help.” Saffron tried to take the box, knowing it contained twelve bottles and wasn’t light by any stretch of the imagination, but Kirsty twirled away evading help, the bottles inside clinking.
“When I say delivery, I mean full-service. Point me to the kitchen.”
Saffron did. “Are you sure about the cart? No one will take it?”
“It has my shop’s name and number on the sides and back. Where would anyone go without every local knowing they’d nicked it from me?”
Saffron looked up and down the beach before climbing her wooden steps and clicking the door shut with trepidation. “It’s hard for me to wrap my head around leaving something outside in plain view, trusting no one will steal it. Don’t you have a bike lock or something?” She followed Kirsty to the kitchen.
“This isn’t London. You need to start accepting we do things differently here.” Kirsty bent her knees and placed the box on the granite counter-top.
