Tucking his hands in his pockets, Owen affected an air of utter relaxation as he strolled along in the angry wake of the tiny pixie—Libby. He couldn’t quite get his head around her having such a sweet name. With all her spiky edges, and not just the rainbow-coloured ones radiating from her head, she should have been called something bolder. Libby was for a soft, sweet girl who knitted blankets for stray kittens, or some such nonsense. Maybe she did, it wasn’t like he knew the first damn thing about her—other than the fact she clearly couldn’t stand to be within five feet of him, and he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Oh, and the fact he’d agreed to buy her father’s business.
He’d assumed Mick Stone’s cloak and dagger act over selling the chip shop to Owen—insisting on meeting him miles away from the bay and then extracting his promise to wait until New Year’s Eve to assume final possession of the chip shop—was a bit over the top, but maybe not. If Libby had any idea her dad was selling up, she’d made no indication of it. He’d snooped a time or two during her conversations with her friends, and all talk had been around long-term plans. It was never too early for women to start talking about Christmas, apparently.
Not the kind of thing someone who was preparing to leave the bay and strike out on her own would be talking about, though her dad had talked more about the freedom the sale of his business would give his daughter than his own plans for retirement. He needed to dig into it, find out what he was getting himself caught up in. ‘So, selling fish and chips is your ideal career then?’
Libby stopped so suddenly, like she’d slammed into an invisible wall, that he almost trod on her heels. As a result, when she spun to face him, they were almost nose-to-chest. Christ, she really is tiny. A gentleman would stand back so she didn’t have to crane her neck to meet his eye. Owen might be a lot of things, but a gentleman had never been one of them, so he stood his ground and waited for the tirade. It didn’t take long.
‘What the hell is that supposed to mean? Running a chippy might not live up to your lofty standards, but it’s good honest work. We help the community and provide a decent meal at a reasonable price. Why is that something to sneer at?’
Well, that didn’t sound like someone ready to move on, did it? He was starting to get a really bad feeling about this. Holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender, he sought to smooth her ruffled feathers. ‘Sorry. I have a habit of shoving my foot in my mouth every time I talk to you. I just wondered if you were satisfied with what you’re doing.’
She fixed a suspicious squint on him, before the tightness in her frame eased. ‘I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat, you just…’ She paused long enough he thought she didn’t mean to continue the thought, then muttered, ‘you rub me up the wrong way.’
The idea of rubbing her in any kind of way destroyed several brain cells and most of his self-restraint. With effort, Owen forced himself to move until a reasonable amount of space opened up between them. ‘We did start off rather badly.’
To his surprise, Libby threw back her head and roared with unrestrained laughter. ‘That might be the understatement of the century.’
Her laughter was infectious, and he found himself joining in. ‘At least I know I’m safe as long as I stick to the pedestrian promenade.’ At her quizzical look, he made a shoving motion. ‘No passing buses for me to fall under.’
‘Oh, that.’ The faintest hint of a blush coloured her cheeks, before she straightened her shoulders. ‘I seem to remember something about webbed fingers and arsenic, so don’t be playing the hard-done-by card with me.’ She crossed her arms, drawing his attention to the slimness of her frame as it drew her baggy top taut. ‘You started it.’
Scowling at her faulty memory, Owen mirrored her pose. ‘You started it. You called me a colossal arse.’
‘That’s because you were being a colossal arse. Look, I get that you’re some kind of sex god throwing off pheromones left, right and centre, and I’m just the weird-looking local you wouldn’t look twice at, but you didn’t have to stomp me down quite so harshly just for approaching you.’ The colour drained from her face, leaving her skin a waxy shade. Holding her hands out as though to ward him off, she backed up a few steps. ‘Oh, God! Get away from me. I can’t control my mouth when I’m around you.’ She turned on her DM-booted heels and started running.
Well now, that was all very illuminating. It would appear he wasn’t the only one feeling a spark of attraction beneath those layers of animosity. And, unlike him, Libby seemed very unhappy about it. A gentleman would turn on his heel and give her time to gather her equilibrium, but as had already been established, Owen was no gentleman. He was a sex god, apparently. Time to throw off a few more pheromones and see what happened next. With a grin he had no doubt most would call smug playing about his lips, he hurried after Libby.
With the difference in their strides, he was only a few paces behind her as Libby rushed through the front door of the chip shop. The clatter of her boots on the tiled floor turned all eyes towards them, including those of the man behind the counter. Mick Stone took one look at Owen and blurted out, ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Thankfully, Libby assumed the question was aimed at her. ‘I’ve come to help you with the late shift, what do you think I’m doing here?’ she asked as she edged past the queue to slip around the edge of the counter. ‘Give me two seconds to get my coat on.’ She placed a quick kiss on her father’s cheek and disappeared out the back.
Joining the back of the queue, Owen made a show of studying the large menu on the wall above Mick’s head. ‘I heard in the pub this is the place for the best fish and chips for miles around and I had to check it out for myself. Anyone have recommendations?’ As he’d hoped, the people ahead of him were all happy to offer an opinion and a friendly, if heated, discussion started of the merits of cod over haddock.
Libby returned, still buttoning up a white coat with her wild hair tamed beneath the ugliest hair net he’d ever seen. She took one look at him, bristled, then fixed a brilliant smile on the woman at the front of the line. ‘Evening, Rose, what’ll it be for you tonight?’
Fascinated, Owen watched as Libby and her dad paid particular attention to each and every customer. Conversations rose and fell like the tide washing on the beach as others waiting joined in with their own observations and chatter. Ten minutes later and he still hadn’t made it to the front of the queue, and to his shock it didn’t bother Owen one bit.
Had he been in London, he’d have complained long before now, would likely have already walked out in disgust at being kept waiting, but the likelihood of the scene before him unfolding in any of his local takeaways was about on a par with a unicorn charging down Kensington High Street. He’d used the Chinese at the end of his street pretty much every week for the past three years and still didn’t have a clue what the couple who ran it were called. Thanks to the ordering app on his phone, he didn’t even need to speak to them beyond giving a number and saying thank you when they handed over his usual crispy beef, chicken and pineapple with a side of special fried rice in a white carrier bag. Not that they went out of their way to be chatty, either.
There was definitely a different pace to life down here, and he would have to make some readjustments now he’d be spending more time in the bay. The deal with Sam over his restaurant had come out of nowhere. Owen had been on the hunt for an early morning coffee and come across the plans spread over the kitchen table in the pub.
A day spent poring over the plans for Subterranean had left him genuinely excited by the project. Sam had a fantastic vision, and plenty of top chefs had proven success with regional restaurants. It would be a gamble, but if they could position a couple of features in the right newspapers, the punters would flock to the coast for the chance to say they’d been the first to discover a hot new talent.
As for the chip shop, it occupied an absolute prime piece of real estate right in the centre of the promenade. Like many of the buildings along the seafront, it sprawled over three storeys, with living accommodation occupying the top two floors. He hadn’t yet decided whether he’d retain the retail space below, but with a bit of rejigging—and the requisite planning permission—the upper floors could be transformed into a couple of luxury duplexes complete with roof terraces. With some discreet planting, no one would be any the wiser about the terraces and he’d be able to provide a secluded spot for the discerning sunbather without altering the façade of the building.
His eyes strayed to Libby, red-faced from the heat as she lifted a basket of piping-hot chips from the fryer and wondered if he should tell her she’d directly influenced his plans. Her comments about ugly modern apartments changing the appearance of the promenade had stuck with him. It would be important to get the locals on side as any protests from them might put a spanner in the works. Only he couldn’t tell her anything about it, thanks to the ludicrous deal he’d struck with Mick about keeping quiet until after Christmas.
The back of his neck itched. When Mick’s ‘girl’ had been some amorphous, unknown individual, Owen hadn’t given two hoots about what she did or didn’t know about the deal. He’d never referred to her by name during their discussions and it was only during a chat with Sam that morning that Owen had put two and two together. Mick had assured him he was the sole title holder to the property since the passing of his wife, so whatever family drama selling up might cause would be his problem. He’d asked Owen to hold off so he could have one last Christmas with ‘his girl’, and as the timing had suited him, Owen had no objections.
Now he knew Libby was involved, it didn’t sit so well with him, especially when his new business partner was so closely connected to her two friends. It was clear the three women were very close, and if she objected to the sale of her childhood home and place of work, it could make things very awkward for everyone. He’d have to dig a little deeper, try and get to know Libby without giving the game away. Getting a bit closer to her wouldn’t be a hardship in the least.
It was finally his turn to be served. With a polite nod to Mick, Owen fixed a big grin on Libby who was doing her best to pretend he wasn’t there. ‘Evening, Libby.’
The glare she flicked his way all but scorched the skin off his face, but she was saved from responding by Mick. ‘You two know each other then?’
Resting one elbow on the counter, Owen turned partly towards him, but made sure to keep Libby in his eyeline. ‘Yup. We’ve met a couple of times in the pub. Just spent the evening together, haven’t we?’
Mick’s eyebrows climbed high enough to disappear beneath the brim of his white trilby as Libby made a strangled noise in her throat. She coughed, then muttered, ‘This is Owen. He’s investing in Sam’s new restaurant, they were talking about their plans while I was hanging out with Beth and Eliza.’
‘The restaurant? I didn’t know Sam was looking for a partner.’ The concern in Mick’s voice was palpable and it suddenly occurred to Owen he might think it would put their own deal in jeopardy.
‘He wasn’t. I’m staying at the pub while I follow up on another investment opportunity and I kind of stumbled across the plans. I’ve got room in my portfolio for both, and Sam’s vision for Subterranean is very exciting.’ He made sure to hold Mick’s gaze as he emphasised ‘another’ hoping he would understand he was referring to his purchase of the chip shop. Bloody hell, talking about something whilst not being obvious he was talking about it was too much like hard work. Surely Mick couldn’t mean to keep this up until after Christmas?
Mick visibly relaxed, much to Owen’s relief. ‘He’s a grand cook, is Sam. I’m sure he’ll make a roaring success of the place.’
‘And he was singing your praises, too. Told me you serve the best fish and chips in the county, so I’m sure you’ll have something here to satisfy my appetite.’ Owen aimed his last remark squarely at Libby and was rewarded with a hot blush, and another of those fantastically filthy glares for his trouble. She had spirit in spades, and he wanted all that fire inside her focused on him. ‘What does the lady recommend?’
Narrowing her eyes, Libby reached for a vicious-looking two-pronged fork and used it to spear a battered sausage with enough force to make Owen glad there was a solid counter between them. Oblivious to the tension between them, Mick shook his head. ‘We can do a bit better than that. How does a large cod and chips sound, Owen?’
Not wishing to be rude, Owen turned his attention to Mick. ‘Sounds great, thanks very much.’ He watched as Libby returned the poor abused sausage to the warming container before dishing up a huge portion of chips upon which she laid a long cod fillet wrapped in a pale golden batter. His stomach gave an appreciative rumble as the scent of the hot food hit him.
‘Salt and vinegar?’
He waited to reply until she lifted her eyes to meet his. ‘Lovely.’ Her lips twitched in spite of herself and Owen wanted to pump his fist at winning even that tiny reaction from her. ‘And I’ll take a Diet Coke as well, please.’
Mick rang up the cost and Owen retrieved his debit card to pay. ‘Well, thank you both for this. I’m sure I’ll enjoy every bite.’ With a quick wink at Libby, Owen retreated to the door, clutching his drink and the large paper parcel. He didn’t go far, though. A lamppost hung above the railing running along the promenade directly opposite the shop window. Owen perched on the top rail beneath the bright light, unwrapped his meal and set it on his lap, and waited.
The chips were hot, crispy on the outside, and fluffy on the inside. In other words, perfect. Picking his way through the mountain of food, he watched Libby puttering around behind the counter, serving the next few customers. All smiles, there wasn’t a hint of the animosity she showed him, not even towards a group of noisy lads who spilled through the door clearly a little worse for wear. As they staggered out, clutching their food and laughing, her gaze followed them as they crossed in front of Owen’s position. Any second now…
Libby froze, jaw gaping and he couldn’t resist giving her a jaunty wave with the chip in his hand. He could almost see steam pouring from her ears as she very deliberately turned her back. Satisfied, he turned his attention to the melt-in-the-mouth fish and didn’t look up again until he’d finished every last morsel. It was enough that she knew he was out there. If he was a betting man, he would’ve taken any odds that she wouldn’t be able to resist watching him, and sure enough he caught a flurry of her white coat turning away the moment he raised his head.
Having crumpled up his empty paper, he drained the last of his can of drink then hopped down from the railing. A bin sat outside the chip shop, so he crossed the promenade to deposit his rubbish. The shop was empty of customers, and there was no sign of Mick, only Libby making a huge performance of spraying and wiping down the front of the counter. Waiting until she glanced over her shoulder, Owen gave her a little wave then strolled back to retake his position on the top railing. A quick check of his watch told him last orders in the pub had come and gone. He scanned the prom in both directions. Apart from a couple walking their dog, it was pretty much deserted. Not much longer to wait.
Resting his elbows on his knees, Owen watched as Libby flipped the closed sign and slid the top bolt home before disappearing out of view. The lights went out, and he waited, eyes straining for any hint of movement inside. After ten fruitless minutes, he slipped down from the railing with a sigh. He’d been so sure she wouldn’t be able to resist coming out to speak to him—even if it was only to tell him to sod off. Ah well, Rome wasn’t built in a day, and spiky, intriguing little pixies weren’t easily tamed which was probably just as well.
Tucking his hands in his pockets, Owen glanced up and down the promenade. Other than security lights mounted high on their walls, the businesses were all dark. He supposed he should return to the pub, but he wasn’t the least bit tired. Maybe a walk would help to ease the restlessness inside him. He’d made it maybe half a dozen paces when a soft snick came from behind him. Not wanting her to catch him smiling, he made sure his face was in the shadows before he turned around. ‘I thought you were going to leave me out here like a stray cat.’
‘It was tempting, but then I was worried you’d start yowling underneath my window or scent marking the steps.’ She’d swapped her white coat for a black cardigan hanging loosely off one shoulder to reveal the spaghetti straps of her vest top. Tempted by the soft material, he hitched it up then smoothed his fingers down her arm to tangle with her own. She flinched back. ‘Hey, keep your hands to yourself!’ She hauled the two sides of her cardigan around her body like a shield. ‘Do you think I’m so desperate I’ll fall into bed with any man, even one who doesn’t fancy me? That you can flash your smile and splash your cash, and the poor little country mouse will swoon at your feet? I might be desperate, but I’m not that desperate.’
Owen felt his temper rise in response to her outrageous accusations. ‘Christ, you’re full of assumptions about me, aren’t you? Shame you’re wrong on every single one of them.’
‘Wrong? Don’t make me laugh. What was that all about in the shop earlier, making sure everyone heard that you’re investing in two different projects in the bay other than you showing off to all us poor locals? And then spending an hour hanging around outside my door pretending to flirt with me. What are you even doing here? Did you figure out I’ve got a stupid crush on you and decide to grit your teeth and make the best of it? It’s all the same in the dark, I suppose.’
Moving before he knew what he was going to do, he grabbed her around the waist and hauled her against him. ‘Can’t you just be quiet for one minute?’ He mashed his lips down upon hers before she could spew forth any more accusations.
Hands braced upon his chest, she shoved hard against his hold for a couple of seconds before her fingers curled up and over his shoulders to pull him closer. The stubborn moue of her lips softened beneath his to release a little gasp. Shifting his grip from her waist to her hips, her raised her higher up against his body until she hooked her legs around him, the weight of her boots thudding against the back of his thighs. His mouth still locked on hers, he took a couple of staggering steps until he had her pinned against the shadowed wall of a nearby shop.
The scent, feel and taste of her swam through his senses until nothing else existed. When he tested the seam of her lips with his tongue and she yielded for him with a hungry little noise, he feared his knees might give out from the desire spearing through him, and he kissed her like his life depended upon it. Her nails pricked his skin through the cotton of his T-shirt for a long moment before she released her grip to press once more against his chest. This time he let her ease him away.
Gasping for breath, they stared at each other through the gloom. ‘But…but you don’t like me,’ Libby said, her tone full of bewilderment.
‘I don’t know what gave you that idea, but you’re wrong.’ He shifted his body where it notched between her thighs to prove just how wrong. ‘I like you plenty, Libby Stone.’