Page 7 of The Breakup Bookshop

I’ve been trying to feel proud, but his diminishing stare is making that very difficult. What would this man, with his big beefy arms and general manly man-ness, know about heartache?

‘Well,’ I cough, trying to keep my voice steady, ‘you’re hardly living up to the village cliché, are you? You know, where everyone isfriendlyto newcomers and doesn’t act like a completedickhead. You haven’t even introduced yourself.’ I do my best Agnes Campbell impression, tutting loudly and folding my arms in front of me.

He carries on, as though speaking to himself, ‘Wonder how long you’ll last before you get bored around here. Pretty sure you’ll lose interest. Most people do. I’d bet on three months. Maybe you could open an overpriced crepe shop in Edinburgh next?’

My mouth falls open. Who the hell does he think he is? I may have just moved here, but IknowUllapool. My granny’s village and the hometown of my summers. It’s not like I just closed my eyes, pointed at a random place on the map and decided to move here. Admittedly, buying at auction without seeing the place was out of character for me, but this isn’t just some whim.

‘How much?’ I ask, raising an eyebrow.

He frowns. ‘How much what?’

‘You said you were willing to bet on whether or not I’ll stay here,’ I say. ‘What are you offering up, if I make it past the three-month mark?’

‘A bottle of whisky? I like Talisker Skye, if you’re wanting to order it in.’

‘I was thinking more about a DIY job, once I start working on my flat. If I’m still here, you can remove the green tiles from the bathroom, if I manage to stop myself ripping them off the wall.’

‘And here’s me thinking you said you didn’tneedany help.’ He smirks as I roll my eyes.

‘Do you accept the terms?’

‘Fine. If you are still here with your green tiles in three months, I’ll remove them. It’ll be the equivalent of eating my hat.’

‘Good.’

‘Anything else?’

‘Nope,’ I reply. ‘That’s it. Unless you sell cleaning stuff?’

He reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a basket of disinfectant spray, a cloth and some bleach. He pushes it towards me.

‘Here – you can use this. On the house. Bring it back when you’re done,’ he says, before adding, more quietly, ‘And it’s Rory, by the way. Rory MacGregor.’

He stares across the counter at me, a question in his eyes. What is it with the long, brooding gaze? Am I supposed to be happy that he’s finally shared his name with me, like I’m being let in on some deep, dark village secret?

‘Well, Rory MacGregor, thanks for the not-so-warm welcome,’ I say, grabbing the basket. It’s lighter than I’d anticipated and it almost flies out of my hands. ‘I’ll bring it back when I’m finished.’

He remains still, leaning over the counter, like there should be something else. What is he waiting for?

Finally, he shakes his head. ‘You do that.’

I stop for a moment in the doorway before turning back around to face Rory.

‘I am so glad to hear everyone around here supports local business,’ I say with my sweetest smile. ‘I can’t wait to welcome you to my bookshop when it opens.’

He looks me dead in the eyes. ‘That’s another thing about you city folk.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Always trying to get the last word.’

With great difficulty, I restrain myself from retaliating as I exhale sharply and turn on my heel to leave.

3

It turns out Rory MacGregor can hold a grudge.

In the days that follow our first encounter, he pops a series of leaflets, handyman posters and junk mail through the front door of the shop. I never see him doing it, but Pete says he never posts junk mail, so it must be Rory. Who else would want to clog up my front door with useless tat? Pete says that Rory is likely trying to be helpful, but I know better.