‘No, but I might prime the wall tomorrow.’
For Pete’s sake, did she mean to work herself into the ground? ‘I thought you’d be back at Gwen’s by now.’
‘Hmm, no.’
Something in her tone made his eyes narrow. ‘Why not?’ Jaz and Gwen had been great pals.
She didn’t look at him. She cocked her head and continued to survey the wall.
He resisted the urge to shake her. ‘Jaz?’
‘I think the less Gwen has to see of me, the happier she will be.’
He’d considered Richard’s suggestion that Jaz stay at Gwen’s an excellent one at the time. He’d thought it’d give Jaz a friend, an ally. He’d obviously got that wrong…and he should’ve known better. ‘Sorry.’ The apology dropped stiff from his lips. ‘My fault.’
She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I hardly think so.’
‘I should’ve thought it through. Gwen…she was pretty cut up when you left. She wouldn’t speak to me for months. She kept expecting to hear from you.’
Jaz stiffened, then she swung around, closed the gap between them and gripped his forearms. ‘What did you just say?’
Her scent assaulted him and for a moment he found it impossible to speak. Her face had paled, lines of strain fanned out from her eyes. He couldn’t remember a time when she’d looked more beautiful. The pressure of her hands on his arms increased, her grip would leave marks, but he welcomed the bite of her nails on his skin.
‘She thought you were friends, Jaz. She cared about you.’ After him and Faye, Gwen and Richard had been Jaz’s closest friends. ‘Then you left and she never heard from you again. You can guess how she took that.’
Air hissed out between her teeth. She dropped his arms and stepped back, her eyes wide, stricken—an animal caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck; something wild and injured trying to flee. Without a thought, he reached for her. But she pulled herself up and away, drew in a breath, and he watched, amazed, as she settled a mask of cool composure over her features. As if her distress had never been there at all.
Hell! That couldn’t be healthy. He dragged a hand back through his hair, surprised to find that it shook. His heart hammered against his ribcage and he cursed himself for being a hundred different kinds of fool where this woman was concerned.
‘Well—’ she smiled brightly ‘—that’s me done for the day.’ The knuckles on her hands, folded innocuously at her waist, gleamed white. ‘So, if you’ll excuse me…’
‘No!’ He cleared his throat, tried to moderate his tone. ‘I mean…’ Ice prickled across his scalp and the back of his neck. Was it something like this that had tipped Frieda over the edge? ‘I mean, where are you going?’
Her eyes had gone wide again. This time with surprise rather than… He didn’t know what name to give the expression he’d just witnessed—shock, pain, grief?
‘Why, to Gwen’s, of course. I have an apology to make.’ Sorrow stretched through the navy blue of her eyes. ‘I can’t believe how shabbily I’ve treated her. It—’
She waved a hand in front of her face, as if to dispel some image that disturbed her, and he suddenly realised what it was he’d seen in her eyes—self-loathing. She’d never considered herself worthy of his love, or of Faye, Gwen and Richard’s friendship, had she?
Why was he only seeing that now?
She glanced at her watch. ‘Where’s the best place to buy a bottle of wine at this time of night? And chocolate. I’ll need chocolate.’
‘The tavern’s bottle shop will still be open.’
‘Thank you.’
She smiled at him and he could see that concern for herself, for the bookshop, had been ousted by her concern for Gwen. He didn’t know why that should touch him so deeply. ‘Can I give you a lift?’
She snorted. ‘Connor, it’s a two-minute walk. Thanks all the same, but I’ll be fine.’
She stared up at him. He stared back. The silence grew and she moistened her lips. ‘I’ll see you later then.’
He nodded, dragged in a breath of her scent as she edged past him, then watched as she let herself out of the shop and disappeared into the evening.
He turned to stare at the wall she meant to paint.
With a muffled oath, he strode into the storeroom, disconnected the computer and tucked it under his arm.
He told himself he’d do the same for anyone.
AT LUNCHTIME on Wednesday a group of teenagers sauntered through the bookshop’s door and it immediately transported Jaz back in time ten years.
Oh, dear Lord. Had she ever looked that…confrontational? She bit back a grin. All of them, boys included, wore tip-to-toe black, the girls in stark white make-up and dark matt lipstick. Between the five of them they had more body piercing than the latest art-house installation on display at the Power House Museum. Their Doc Marten boots clomped heavily against the bare floorboards.
Jaz stopped trying to hold back her grin. She shouldn’t smile. They were probably skiving off from afternoon sport at Clara Falls High. But then…Jaz had skived off Wednesday afternoon sport whenever she could get away with it too.
‘If there’s anything I can help you with, just let me know,’ she called out.
‘Cool,’ said one of the girls.
‘Sweet,’ said one of the boys.
Jaz went back to studying the book she’d found in the business section half an hour ago— Everything You Need To Know About Managing a Bookshop. So far she’d found out that she needed a new computer and an Internet connection.
One of the girls—the one who’d already spoken—seized a book and came up to the counter. ‘Every week, I come in here to drool over this book. I can’t afford it.’
It was a coffee table art book—Urban Art. Exactly the same kind of book Jaz herself had pored over at that age.
‘Look, we know the people who used to work here quit.’ The girl ran her hands over the cover, longing stretched across her face. ‘If I worked here, how many hours would it take me to earn this book?’
Jaz told her.
‘Will you hire me? My name is Carmen, by the way. And I’m still at school so I could only work weekends, but… I’ll work hard.’
Jaz wanted to reach out and hug her. ‘I’m Jaz,’ she said instead. They probably knew that already but it seemed churlish not to introduce herself too. ‘And yes, I am looking for staff—permanent, part-time and casual.’ At the moment she’d take what she could get. ‘How old are you, Carmen?’
‘Sixteen.’
‘I would love to hire you, but before I could do that I would need either your mum or dad’s permission.’ No way was she going to cause that kind of trouble.
Five sets of shoulders slumped. Jaz’s grew heavy in sympathy.
‘I hate this town,’ one of them muttered.
‘There’s never anything to do!’
‘If you look the least bit different you’re labelled a troublemaker.’
Jaz remembered resenting this town at their age too for pretty much the same reasons. ‘You’re always welcome to come and browse in here.’ She