The men drifted into a discussion over some football competition Jack’s nephew was involved in and Libby let the conversation wash over her as she checked the time on her phone. She’d have to make a move in a minute—though her dad had said he’d be fine on his own, Libby wanted to be back in the shop to lend him a hand with the late-evening influx of customers. Five more minutes and then she really needed to be off. Glancing up, she caught the intent look on Owen’s face and started to pay more attention. From the way he was talking it sounded like he intended to help Jack out at the football. ‘But if it’s next weekend, you won’t be here!’
All her worst fears were realised when Owen aimed a broad grin at her. ‘Now that Sam and I are going into business together, you’re going to be seeing a whole lot more of me about the bay.’
Oh. God.
‘You’re serious?’ Sam asked Owen, and for one desperate second Libby’s hopes rose because maybe Owen had just been trying to wind her up.
‘Absolutely. We can hammer out the details over the next few days. I’ll need to go back to London on Sunday night, but most of my current projects are well in hand so I can be here next weekend. See if you can make an appointment with the bank manager for the Monday or Tuesday afterwards. We should have things sorted between us by then I reckon.’
Monday or Tuesday afterwards? He was talking like he intended to become a permanent resident. And if he was working with Sam and playing football with Jack, then there would be no avoiding him. After her dad, Beth and Eliza meant everything to Libby so she would either have to spend less time with their group or find a way to get over this nonsense with Owen. Hanging around with two couples, how long would it be before the suggestions and teasing about them getting together started? Her stomach churned at the thought. He’d already made it clear he had zero interest in her. How humiliating would it be to have her nose rubbed in it again?
Unable to bear the thought, she stood abruptly. ‘I need to get back and give Dad a hand with the late-evening rush. I’ll see you later, B.’ There was time enough yet, but if she sat there a moment longer, she’d give the game away.
To her absolute horror, Owen stood up. ‘I’ll walk back with you. Sam was telling me earlier how you make the best fish and chips in the county. I missed dinner, so I’m starving.’
Well, what on earth was she supposed to do now? ‘Fine.’ Turning on her heel, Libby marched towards the door.
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