Page 25 of The F*ck-It List

“You have to talk about it some time,” he says witheringly.

“And you have to shut up,” I retort with all the maturity of my thirty-three years.

“Listen,” he says, leaning on the counter again to level me with histhis-is-a-serious-conversationface. “All I’m saying is you deserve a bit of happiness and a bit of fun, Bea seems to embody both those things. If you like her—”

“I don’t—” I’m interrupted by the door swinging open, Eli’s eyes light up as he watches over my shoulder. “Speak of the devil,” he says loudly for the newcomer to hear.

I twist in my seat and internally groan at the sight of Bea walking into the almost desolate pub. She looks around almost nervously and when she spots me, she dips her head to stare at the ground. And I feel like a fucking arsehole. I turn back to the bar and blow out a long breath hoping to get rid of some of the guilt with it, but it doesn’t work.

“Hi,” Bea says almost shyly as she approaches the bar. “It’s uh, it’s quiet in here?” She poses it more like a question than a statement.

“It’s early.” Eli shrugs while wiping a glass he’s just taken from the glass washer. “People tend to come in later on a Saturday.”

“Oh,” Bea says, nodding absently. “Uh, may I sit?” She points to the bar stool about six feet away from me but she’s asking Eli not me. He, of course, beams brightly and tells her to take a seat. I keep looking at my half empty glass, studying the pattern of the froth like it might suddenly give me answers to all of life’s difficult questions. It doesn’t.

“What can I get you?” Eli asks.

“Do you have a Malbec? Red?” Bea asks, hands folded elegantly on the bar in front of her, one legging clad leg crossed over the other. She looks good, the black fabric clinging to the shape of her legs like asecond skin with an oversized shirt on top, buttoned all the way to her neck. It’s a deep pink colour that contrasts with the bubble gum shade of her hair, which is loose for the first time I’ve seen. Long enough to pass her shoulders and wavy like this mermaid toy Joanie used to have when we were kids. I keep stealing glances of her profile, the high, rounded cheeks and the long sweep of eyelashes, a button nose and full, pillowy lips I am pretty certain would feel like heaven wherever she decided to put them.

That’s it, I’m cutting myself off after half a cider. I have absolutely no right to be thinking about Bea’s lips anywhere near my person. Because I don’t date and I don’t fool around with women in the village. And because Bea is the reason I don’t have my furniture shop. And because I was a complete dick to her yesterday.

“I do,” Eli says, slowly. “But it’s bottle only. I only do the house red by the glass and it’s a Cabernet.”

Bea scrunches that cute little nose up a little and pouts her lips in thought, my fingers curl into fists where they rest either side of my glass on the bar. “I’ll take the bottle, please,” she says. “I can always take the rest of it home, right?”

Eli smiles at her. “Of course.”

Eli has always been good with people, always able to smile even when I know it’s hard. It’s what makes him such a good landlord, makes him a village favourite and why he infuriates me to no end. He pulls a wine glass down from the rack and takes a bottle from the shelf, opening it up and placing it front of Bea with the cap so she can close it up again when she’s had enough.

“Thank you,” she says, pouring herself a liberal glass. When she raises it up, she offers a small smile to my best friend. “Cheers.”

Bea’s over halfway through her bottle of Malbec and, despite me telling myself I was done after my first drink, I’m still fucking here. I should leave. Bea and I have been avoiding eye contact for about an hour and aside from Eli chatting to us individually, neither of us have said anything to the other. It’s awkward and I’m hot and uncomfortable, but I can’t leave, just can’t bring myself to get off this stool, drag Darcy—who is snoring obnoxiously loud on the stone floor—and just walk out the door. Because despite not wanting anything to do with the woman sat so close yet so far away, I can’t stop watching her when I think she’s not paying attention. The way she twiddles the stem of her glass between her thumb and forefinger. The way she stretches her neck from side to side like she’s trying to relieve tension building there. Her hair falling over her shoulder only for her to flick it back behind her. The steady rise and fall of her chest with every calculated breath, like she’s trying hard to keep breathing a certain way.

“So, when are you opening?” Eli asks, and I blink up at him realising I’d been staring at Bea. He’s looking at her too, with a pleasant smile on his handsome face and I suddenly hate that he’s so good looking.

“Oh, um…” Bea traces a patten on the bar with a finger and chews on the inside of her lip. “I’m not sure at the moment, my espresso machine broke.”

“Oh,” Eli’s face scrunches sympathetically. “That’s sucks.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, bobbing her head. “And my bookshelves are completely destroyed, I’ll need to get some more and build them, but I’m not very good at that.”

“Oh,” Eli says brightly, and I know what he’s going to say before the words come out of his mouth. My eyes screw shut, and I clench my jaw tight as he offers, “August can help you with that!”

Peeling my eyes open, I glare at my best friend but quickly snap my head to the side when an audible sob comes from Bea’s stool. To my absolute horror, she’s shaking her head with wet eyes and a trembling chin. “No,” she says with a thick voice. “No, he can’t.”

Eli frowns, looking between Bea and I with confusion. “He’s a carpenter, I’m sure he can handle some bookshelves.”

“But he hates me,” Bea wails, her head thunking on the bar top so loudly I flinch. That had to hurt.

“What?” Eli laughs awkwardly. “No, he doesn’t,” he says on my behalf, and I just want to sink into the ground and disappear.

“Yeah, he does,” Bea continues, crying so loudly now everyone else in the pub—considerably more people than had been here an hour ago—is now looking over at us. “He told me so.”

“He what?” Eli snaps, looking at me like he might hit me. He probably should.

I clear my throat. “I didn’t actually say I hate you,” I mumble, not looking at the crying woman.

“No, you’re right,” she says defeatedly. “I said you hated me, and you said, ‘You think?’”