Every Bookshop Needs a Cat (Fleckney Fields Series, Book 2)

Flying Kites

"Do you think you can do something about it?" he asked and turned back to the mirror. He pulled at the lapels and then lifted his arms as if impersonating an aeroplane. "You said you were good at mending clothes."

"Mend– You're standing!" she exclaimed, hopped shaking off her boots, and clumsily half-toppled, half-walked into the room. "You're moving freely!"

"Ah that," he said and then picked up the waist of his trousers and pulled. "Did I have a round stomach? Why is this loose too?" He caught her reflection in the mirror and snorted. "I'm breaking in the meds," he explained with a chuckle. "My Uncle stopped by this morning, and I was told, in no uncertain terms, to show up at the Fleckney Winter Ball, to dance with old ladies, and to charm débutantes. The old man moves fast. I didn't expect him to tighten the noose right away. So?"

Anya swallowed a knot in her throat, still quite lost for words.

"Mrs. Ferguson, do you need a few more seconds to recover?" he drew out cheekily. "I require your expertise at making something out of nothing. Do you think–"

"It's Rosenfeld," she said slowly. "My name is Anya Rosenfeld. Just call me Anya, please."

He looked at her sideways, and one corner of his lips curled up.

"I don't think I will." He roguishly fixed his tie. "Anna, perhaps. For lack of a better option... for now," he added, his voice dropping into a low purr. He pushed his hand into his hair, and the bright copper strands ran between his fingers. "Can you cut my hair too? You said you knew how."

Anya impersonated a fish in a tank for a few seconds and then huffed a frustrated exhale.

"Why– But why–"

She was still struggling to express herself, and then he suddenly leaned towards her. His mesmerising amber eyes were right in front of her, and she shrank away.

"I just took a jolly cocktail of Zanaflex and Atasol-30, älskling," he murmured, seemingly studying her nose. "Well, I say 'just,' but it was an hour and a half ago. I miscalculated, I expected you'd come later, and the first buzz would wear off by then. Basically, I'm high as a kite right now. The pain is gone for the first time in years; the world seems beautiful; and your freckles form the most fascinating pattern. Has anyone ever told you?"

He straightened up and examined himself again.

"The dance is on Sunday. I thought I'd give my body time to adjust to the meds." He hummed thoughtfully and half-turned to the mirror. "I think if you take in the waist, it'll be tolerable. It's awfully outdated, but it's a village knee-up, not a party at Elton John's."

"But–" A hundred and a dozen questions buzzed and swarmed in her head, but somehow the first inquiry she managed to verbalise was 'Shouldn't you be drowsy?'

"Ah, familiar with the happy pills, are we?" he asked with another chortle. "You see, älskling, I have my ginger genes to thank for this. The curse of a redhead." He ruffled his curls, freshly washed and dried, as Anya could see. "Or in this case a blessing," he joked. "I'm honestly torn between cleaning the cottage so you don't have to, eating a pint of ice cream, vomiting, and going for a walk. Or maybe we should practice some moves." He gave her a wink. "There will be dancing, and it's been an age for me."

"Dancing?" Anya repeated helplessly.

"Yes, dancing," he laughed. "You know dancing, right? Two people, bodies partially touching, moving, finding their rhythm..." With each word he seemed to tilt his torso closer and closer to her - and then he rocked back and shook his head. "Better not. This side-effect didn't seem to kick in either."