Page 7 of The F*ck-It List

“Uh, yeah,” Bea giggles, an irritatingly musical sound sending weird pulling sensations to my gut.

“Oh my god,” Joanie moans in a way no brother should hear his sister moan. “You have just found yourself a new best friend.”

Bea laughs again, her eyes darting to me quickly before snapping away just as fast. “Well, that’s good news.”

“Food too?” Eli asks.

Bea nods enthusiastically with a cute smile I’m loathed to enjoy. “Homemade cakes, sandwiches, and maybe a hot option each day.”

“That’s awesome,” Eli beams. So, apparently awesome is back and we’re just using it willy nilly.

“Hopefully,” Bea says, crossing her fingers.

“You going to be open every day?” Joanie asks, and I imagine she’s already planning a new morning routine to incorporate the ‘proper’ coffee she seems so excited for.

“Uh, well, I was thinking of giving myself a day off to start with, so maybe not Mondays,” Bea answers with a frown.

“Wednesdays,” Eli says. When she looks at him questioningly, he continues, “The village is a little tourist trap and we get a lot of long-weekenders, which means they can arrive as early as Thursday and leave as late as Tuesday. Wednesday tends to be the quietest day around here. You’d do better to close on Wednesdays as that’s when most of the businesses shut down.”

The smile she gives him in response to the helpful advice is fucking gorgeous and I’m almost jealous he’s on the receiving end of it until I remember I don’t like this woman. She stole my fucking shop.

Darcy yips at my side and Bea’s gaze snaps down to him, gasping in delight as she drops to her haunches to immediately start ruffling his fur. The traitorous mutt leans right into it, nestling between her crouched legs and planting his snout in that inviting cleavage. I feel the need to look away, but Bea just giggles and gives him more love. “And who are you?” she asks.

“Darcy,” I grumble before Eli can answer for me.

“Darcy,” she coos at my dog who fucking laps up the attention, nuzzling her cheek. “Another great name, where did you come up with it?”

“My aunt named him,” I mumble, annoyed I’m choosing to converse. “Something about Colin Firth in a wet shirt.”

Bea smirks like she understands even though I never got what Aunt Jemma used to go on about when she mentioned her favourite actor and fan her face. “Ah, I see. My cat is called Heathcliff, more because of the book but Tom Hardy certainly did him justice.”

I look to my friends and back to Bea, my face crumpling. “What?”

Bea points at me. “Not a big reader?” I just scowl at her, and she quickly retracts her accusing finger. “Okay then.” She laughs nervously.

“Don’t mind him,” Eli reassures her, just to be dick, then he goes about keeping up a conversation with the new neighbour and her colourful friend. Even my sister joins in, being far more friendly to the woman who promises caffeine and baked goods than she is with people usually. The two of them are dead to me.

My attention gets caught by a door opening a little way up the road and the sight of Carl Parsons walking out of the butcher’s. Without a word of goodbye to Bea or my friends, I start stomping in his direction, Darcy’s hurried footsteps scratching at the road behind me. Carl sees me coming and turns as if to duck back into the shop but bumps into the next customer trying to leave, a grumbled curse tumbling from him when he realises he can’t escape.

“What the hell, Carl?” I snap as I catch up to him.

He turns to face me, plastering a surprised smile on his face as though he hadn’t been trying to run away from me a moment ago. He’s a little thing, only a few inches over five foot, a little plump around the middle, and he limps from a hip replacement; he was never going to outrun me. “Gus, my boy, how are you?”

I hate the name Gus, which combined with his blatant evasion makes my jaw clench. Darcy, the stupid thing, yaps happily at seeing Carl, jumping to land his front paws on his thighs, tongue lolling from the side of this mouth. Carl strokes his shaggy grey fur absently while trying to keep his smile from looking pained. “Want to tell me why some stranger is moving into the shop right now?”

Carl’s shoulders seem to fall from where he’d been hitching them up to his ears, a withered sigh leaving his mouth as he rubs on the back of his neck. The movement disturbs the tweed flat cap he’s wearing so his thinning grey hair escapes a little.

“Listen, August, I tried to hold off for you, I swear I did. But I had to get the ball rolling, and I was contacted by some fancy Property Finder in London who said they had a client looking for a premise just like mine.” He looks up at me, guilt contorting his features into awince. “She was a cash buyer with no chain, Gus, what was I supposed to do?”

Cash buyer? Fuck my life, I would never have been able to compete with that. Doesn’t mean I’m not pissed. “You could have kept your word, Carl,” I snap. “You promised me I could buy the shop whenever you were ready to sell.”

“And I gave you the opportunity!” he argues, more defensive now. “But you didn’t have the credit to get the mortgage you needed.”

I shuffle uncomfortably, glancing round to see if anyone nearby heard that personal detail but find no one looking at us. Eli, Joanie, and Bea are still engaged in what looks like joyous banter, not paying me any attention and too far away to hear, anyway. “I said I just needed time,” I grit out.

“I know,” Carl says, sadly. “And I waited as long as I could, Gus, I really did. But I couldn’t turn down the full asking price in cash with the promise of a quick sale. I get you’re angry with me, and I truly am sorry, lad. But I found a place in Weston-super-Mare close to my daughter, and I had to act quickly.”

Some of my anger reluctantly melts away. Carl has been talking about moving to Weston to be close to his daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter for years. It was probably unfair of me to ask him to postpone any more. He pats my arm, giving it a weak squeeze.