The Cosy Coffee Shop of Promises

Tony glanced down at his shoes and grunted. Followed by another shoulder shrug.

So it had been hard. Mel figured as much. She knew a thing or two about not having parents around, and she didn’t know what was worse. Having one gone for ever, or having one who came and went whenever it suited them…

She set the steel down and grabbed an onion. ‘Right, so you know how to chop an onion, don’t you?’

‘Of course I do. Pass the knife.’

Mel sighed, relieved. Since she’d followed him to the pub he’d been all monosyllabic answers and grunts. That, combined with furtive glances and plenty of space between the two of them, had made for an uncomfortable half hour. How they were going to fake a relationship in front of her mother she had no idea, but maybe the cooking would bring them together.

‘Stop!’ she cried out, registering the butchering going on in front of her. ‘What are you doing to that poor vegetable? What did it ever do to you?’

‘What do you mean, what am I doing? I’m chopping it up like you said.’

‘You’re killing it deader than dead. Who even thought to teach you how to chop a vegetable like that?’

‘Well, as we just talked about, my mother has been busy being deceased for the last couple of decades and my father’s idea of cooking involved a deep fryer and whatever came out of the bulk bags of bar food he had shipped in. So what little I know is what I’ve taught myself.’

Mel’s face flashed crimson-hot with embarrassment. ‘I’m sorry. Stupid choice of words.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’ The deep lines running between Tony’s eyes softened. ‘So, are you going to show me how to cut an onion or are you going to just stand there looking at me with that cute little face of yours all red as those tinned tomatoes?’

‘First rule of the kitchen – don’t irritate the chef by calling her cute. Now give me that knife.’

Mel took the knife off Tony, grabbed a fresh onion, chopped the top off it, halved it, then began running the knife down the length of it, making lines half a centimetre apart. When she reached the other end of the onion she spun it round and efficiently sliced it width-wise, watching with satisfaction as little cubes of onion crumbled onto the board.

‘It’s like magic.’

The wonder in Tony’s voice made her grin. It had seemed a little like magic to her the first time she’d watched a chef do it, too, but after peeling and chopping her thousandth onion in a matter of weeks it had well and truly stopped feeling magical and simply felt like second nature.

She ran her finger down the blade of the knife to clean off the last few bits of onion, then flipped the handle in Tony’s direction.

‘Your turn.’

Tony glanced sceptically at the knife, then turned the look on her.

‘It won’t bite,’ she said.

‘But you might.’

‘Not if you don’t want me to…’ Her words came out low, sweet… and there was no missing the seductive tone. Mel mentally kicked herself in the shins. What was going on with her? She was acting like… someone she never wanted to act like.

Tony’s lips quirked as his eyebrow raised in amusement. ‘Geez, Mel. Is it getting hot in here, or is it just me?’

The sparkle was back, sending the warmth that had bloomed over Mel’s face skyrocketing. ‘Yeah, it’s hot. It’s just the oven. Another rule – if a recipe says preheat the oven, preheat the oven.’ She fanned her face furiously. ‘That’s a mighty good oven you’ve got over there. Works fast.’ Stop burbling, she ordered herself. ‘Now stop gawking at me, pick up the knife and chop that onion like I showed you.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’ Tony saluted and took the knife from her.

He held it gently, as if it might bite. The complete opposite to the confident manner with which he’d grabbed it before hacking at the onion a few minutes ago.

‘Chop off the top,’ Mel instructed, keeping her voice soft, calm, so as not to freak him out any more.

His fingers took hold of the fresh onion and held it to the board. His knuckles turned more and more white with tension the closer the knife got to its victim. His shoulders bunched up once more.

‘You don’t have to be nervous. You’ve got this. You can do it. It’s just chopping an onion. I mean, you did it before, badly, but you did it.’

The knife clattered loudly onto the stainless-steel bench as Tony took an abrupt step back.

‘What’s wrong? You’ll be fine.’

She reached out to touch his arm but he jerked it away so it was just out of reach.

‘I don’t know. I don’t know if I can do this. What if I bugger it up? What if it all goes wrong?’ His blue eyes were panicked as the words rushed out.

Mel knew he wasn’t talking about the onion. He had the look of a person who could see their future falling apart. His voice held the same fear she’d felt to her very core when her business in Leeds had started to fall over. His eyes had the same wild look she’d seen reflected back at herself every time she’d been packed up, pulled out of school and taken somewhere to start a new life.

His life was spinning out of control and he didn’t believe he could do a single thing to slow it down. But she could.

‘Here. I’ll help.’ She picked up the knife. ‘We’ll do it together.’

Mel faced the bench and indicated for him to get behind her. Tony nodded in understanding and encircled her with his arms. One hand fell atop of her onion-holding hand, the other her knife-holding hand.

‘Relax.’ She wriggled her knife-holding hand, the hand he was currently squeezing every last drop of blood out of.

‘Sorry,’ he grunted, loosening his grip.

Mel focused on the onion and tried to ignore the tension she could feel radiating off him. Tension, and heat, and the slightest aroma of salt mixed with a hoppy earthiness. He smelt like a man should. Raw. Pure. Her body swayed backwards a little, closer to him. A mind of its own, it wanted to feel him against her, to see if they were a good fit.

Snap out of it. She wasn’t here to have a fling with the town playboy, she was here to work, to show him how to make a simple lasagne, and that was it.

‘So we chop the head off the onion.’

She pressed down on the knife, feeling him press along with her, his hand hot upon hers.

‘Then we cut it in half.’

They swivelled the onion round and sliced through it, the two halves separated, releasing its potent aroma.

‘Now you peel the layers off,’ she instructed, momentarily feeling bereft when his hands left hers.

‘Now we slice down the length.’

His hands were on hers again. She couldn’t ignore the way his touch sent tingles racing up her arms, through her body, upsetting a flutter of butterflies that had been hibernating in her stomach. Was she really this desperate for a man? Did she need one so much that the tiniest hint of touch, the smallest flash of interest, sent her into a swooning mess?

‘Have you forgotten how to cut an onion?’

His breath was hot on her ear. The butterflies danced again.

‘Of course not. I was just taking it slowly…’ She fished around for an excuse. ‘Um, so, you know, you don’t forget how to cut an onion.’