AllFreeNovel
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In the light of the truck’s headlights, I can see the delivery guy is barely twenty-years-old. “I’m so sorry,” he says again.
“It’s fine,” Max placates, “but how do we get our shopping now?”
“If you ring customer services and explain, they’ll hopefully send another van out tonight. There’s still time.”
Max watches me as I stand by the open boot, his friend murmuring, “Hopefully? What likelihood is there of a delivery by nine? I’m about to chew my arms off,” he jokes.
I swallow a smile and wonder how long I can stay out here listening to their conversation. How long before it’s too rude?
“Personally, I’m worried for my dog,” Max teases the delivery guy. “We really need to get some food soon.”
A nervous laugh. “I understand. The, er, details for customer service are on the email receipt. Again, I’m really sorry.”
“Don’t worry. Where’s the nearest takeaway around here?”
Some options are given, but none of them deliver. We’re miles away from the nearest village and further still to the nearest town. After a quick goodbye, the supermarket truck backs up and heads off, Laurence heading indoors to share the bad news if the muffledWhat? No way!is anything to go by.
Meanwhile, Max looks across at me with a resigned expression, scuffing his feet on the gravel as he edges closer. I watch him near, feeling comfortable—and pleased—at his approach. “You can bring Logan round to ours. I promise we won’t eat him.”
He laughs at that. “Thanks, that’s a potentially life-saving offer.”
“Who will you have to start eating first?”
He blows out a considered breath. “Well, we have a good supply of salt and pepper so I’m gonna suggest Ben.”
“The one with sad eyes?” I ask and then immediately regret it. “Sorry, that was rude.”
“Actually, it was fair. This weekend is about trying to cheer him up. So . . .” He shrugs.
I eye the vat of food and swallow down my offer, saying instead, “You handled the non-delivery really well.”
His eyebrows hike up. “Oh, thanks. We’ve all screwed up at work at some stage. And the lad only looked about fourteen. Must have been his first week so I thought I’d cut him some slack.”
I smile, liking his empathy, and then admit, “I kind of had to quit my job because I became so bad at it.”
Max studies me, wondering perhaps if that can be true. Can you become bad at something you were good at? “Well, I sympathise. I’m told on a weekly basis that I’m being unproductive.”
My eyes flicker over his face, wondering ifhisstatement is true. It’s said with such brutal honesty that it’s hard to doubt his words. “Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah. Lost my fire,” he says softly, stuffing his hands in his jeans pockets as he draws ever closer.
The open car boot shows I have a big pan of something hidden in here. Guiltily, my eyes fall on it, and then Max’s eyes do too.
“Um, I have loads of chilli in here, and we have rice—although perhaps not enough for eight, but we also have some bake-in-the-oven rolls we can use . . .” I trail off, struck by how excited his eyes are, lit up and bright when I start to offer some food. “And Jose made brownies. I should check, but we can share? We’ve got some alcohol—far too much to get through on our own this weekend.”
“Ava, that’s really kind. We’re all starving, and it would save us a journey we shouldn’t be making. We’ve had a couple of beers that we brought with us, and we’ve pretty much eaten the entire welcome pack.”
Stupidly, I ignore the comment about them having had some beer. Max appears sober, his words enunciated, his eyes fast and expressive. That must be why I joke, “Wicker baskets taste good, do they?”
“We blew through the jam and posh crisps so quickly it was the only option left to us before bringing out the salt and pepper shakers.” He gives me that deliciously powerful smile, one that’s intensely kind and genuine. “Thank you. Shall we come over in about ten minutes? We’ll help; I don’t expect you to do it all.”
I don’t have the heart to say that eating with us wasn’t part of the bargain. That all I was offering was the opportunity to share our dinner, not our table. And the regret I have at my offer only intensifies because of a secondary thought, one that assumes that Ben might not be great company. And not because he’s sad, but because he made me feel out of sorts.
“Sorry to ask, but can you . . . vouch for your friends?”
My cheeks flame as the question hangs in the cold air between us. Christ, what a rude question, but it only takes a second for Max to understand what I’m asking.
“Absolutely,” he says immediately, his face sobering. “We’ll be perfect guests, I swear it. And when you want us to go, just say the word.”
