Page 5 of The Breakup Bookshop

Wait, is that adimplein his left cheek? I fight my eyes not to roll. This guy is mocking me, with his chiselled jawline and dreamy eyes, standing in my way. I don’t have time for nonsense like alarmingly attractive Highland men. I have work to do.

‘You came too close!’ I protest, pushing past him to get to my shop.

‘To offer you help,’ he points out, his tone moving into frustrated territory.

He obviouslyloveshelping a damsel in distress. Well, not this damsel. I have ninety-nine problems and his exceptionally well-fitting jeans are not about to be one of them.

‘I don’t need help!’

He mutters something under his breath as I carry the plank of wood into my new shop, closing the door behind me.

For God’s sake. A handsome stranger offers me some help – which I clearly need – and how do I respond? Not with, ‘Oh, yes, that would be wonderful, thank you. Do you happen to know a good local joiner?’ Instead, I assault him with a plank of wood, tell him to get away from me and screech that I don’t need anything from anyone. Not exactly the best first impression.

I’m wired and shifty and I blame Seb. I used to be able to hold civilized conversations with men. Now, the sight of any man my age apparently sends me into a spiral. Especially that big burly Scotsman. The low, gruff accent paired with mischievous green eyes and dimples is too much. My mouth can’t keep up with my brain and now I’m annoyed.

With any luck, I won’t have to see him again. It’s a small village, but it’s a tourist hotspot too. He could be a tourist. Some Glaswegian who’s capping off a week of Munrobagging by helping woefully unprepared small-business owners.

Hurrying back to the car to get the rest of the boxes from the back seat, I spot the sign of the shop next door.

The Toolbox, the DIY store. Now that’s something that could help me. I need my own tape measure. And a drill. And nails. In fact, I probably need pretty much everything The Toolbox has in stock if I’m going to turn my new space into the amazing bookshop I’ve envisaged.

I let out a determined sigh, straighten my shoulders and puff out my chest. I’ve really messed up my first impressions so far in Ullapool, but I’m determined to do better with the owner of the DIY store. They will be my next-door neighbour and go-to person, especially over the coming weeks.

Getting off on the right foot is crucial.

2

Alittle bell dings above my head as I push open the front door of The Toolbox. How old school. Perhaps I should invest in a bell formyshop. It’s cute. Although, it might be too distracting for readers. They could be right in the middle of a tense scene when DING! they’re brought back to the real world. I wouldn’t want that.

A customer stands behind the counter with her back to me. She looks to be an older lady, with short powder-white hair resting above her cream-coloured raincoat.

As she moves her head to one side, I see the shop attendant standing there, examining a bottle of whisky in his hand as he grins at the old lady with those familiar white dazzlers. Ah shit. It’s the man I just bashed outside with the plank of wood. The one who sent me into a verbal spiral. Now he’s inside, he’s removed his jacket and his broad shoulders are held tightly by a black T-shirt displaying The Toolbox’s logo.

So much for not seeing him again.

‘You didn’t need to do this, Margaret,’ he says, admiring the whisky bottle. ‘I’m always happy to help, you know that. Although I’ll also be very happy to try this too.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t take money from me, as usual, and I do know you like a wee dram on a special occasion.’

‘Aye, special occasions like Tuesdays.’

She bursts into high-pitched laughter. ‘Oh! You have a wicked sense of humour. Right well, I’ll be off now.’

‘It’s very kind of you, Margaret. Thank you.’

‘No, thankyou. I appreciate it, as always. Right, I’ll leave you to it,’ she says, swinging around.

Despite all her gushing towards him, Margaret seems to actively avoid even glancing in my direction on the way past. Head down, she shuffles past with the aid of her stick.

When he looks up, he doesn’t exactly offer a smile of recognition. In fact, a scowl has emerged across his sculpted features, as he narrows his green eyes and scratches his brown hair, still damp, on the back of his head. I clock the small dent on his forehead, courtesy of me and my trusty plank of wood. Yikes. No wonder he isn’t all smiles.

I place my hands on the countertop and glance over his shoulder at the display of tiny boxes behind him, featuring screws of all different shapes and sizes.

It’s time to try to bury the hatchet. Judging by all the handy-looking things he has on display, he has everything I could ever need stocked here, all within touching distance of my shop.

‘Can we start again? My name’s Ava. I’m your new neighbour and I’m screwed.’ I hope he will be unable to resist my friendly charm, but his face remains deadpan. ‘Let’s just say that it’s as well your shop is right next door to mine. The place needs a complete overhaul, from top to bottom.’

His frown deepens as he crosses his arms in front of his broad chest and shakes his head. ‘It’s fine.’