‘Er, thanks.’
‘Wouldn’t mind knowing where you got permission for those Cheshire Cats you’ve attached to trees around here, though. If every shop who wanted free advertising were to attach advertising materials to trees, there’d be no trees left. It could be termed littering. Fly-tipping at worst. You could be in big trouble.’
‘Fly-tipping? For tying a few wooden cat faces and tails into nearby bushes? Are you seri—’
‘They’re cable-tied on.’ Bram steps up beside me. ‘Doing no harm, easily removed. I gave Cleo permission to put them there.’
What? He wasn’t even on the radar when I put them there. What is going on here? Why would Bram need to give me permission to do anything and why would he pretend he had when he hadn’t? A look passes between them and I suddenly get the feeling there really is something going on here.
Mr Hastings looks him up and down with a scornful look. ‘And you? This job suits you, does it?’ His disapproving eyes flick to a child who has just squealed in delight after putting a hedgehog ball through the playing card archway with a plastic flamingo club.
‘Best job I’ve ever had.’ Bram is in Mad Hatter mode. He’s got a deck of cards and he’s shuffling it with one hand, his fingers in constant motion, a nervous habit that’s not quite hidden by his false grin.
‘Not flaming difficult,’ Mr Hastings mutters and then turns to me. ‘And you, Miss Jordan? Are you doing good business? Getting good reviews?’
Reviews? I gulp. I know they mentioned reviews at the interview, but I haven’t thought about it since. The idea of people reviewing me is terrifying.
‘The reviews are cracking,’ Bram answers for me. ‘Look at this place. Anyone who isn’t completely devoid of childhood wonder and imagination loves it.’
He knows about the reviews? Are there good reviews or is he making it up to impress the boss?
Mr Hastings looks between the two of us with a sneer on his face and his eyes come to rest on me. ‘And I see you’re putting up with my son?’
‘Your…’ I feel like someone’s pinged me in the chest with a taut elastic band. Of bloody course. My mind replays everything in supersonic speed, from the direct line to Mr Hastings on the day he arrived to everything he’s said about his father. Someone important around here. Someone with influence. Someone who makes new businesses glide right through any pesky red tape. Someone who disapproves of him and everything he does.
I look over at Bram. No amount of black eyeliner can disguise the panic in his eyes. No wonder he looked so uneasy just now. No wonder he looked like he wanted to run away. He knew what I was about to find out and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
I could shout. I could yell at Bram and make a scene, demand to know why he didn’t tell me, but Mr Hastings is standing there with his sneer still firmly in place, waiting with gleeful anticipation for me to say something derogatory about this man, who so far, has done nothing but stand up for me.
The last thing I want to do is show a split between us. Mr Hastings will take the greatest pleasure in discovering I didn’t even know he’s Bram’s father. And I might’ve just heard the ‘my son’ bit of that sentence, but I also heard yet another iteration of ‘putting up with’, and it makes me wonder how many people have made Bram believe that his presence is something people have got to endure.
I swallow hard and paste on another false smile. ‘Of course. He’s a pleasure to work with. We get on like a house on fire.’
Bram pushes out a held breath. He breaks into his Mad Hatter grin, takes a step closer, and clamps an arm around my shoulders. ‘Lots of screaming, shouting, running about. Alarms blaring. Frequent use of a fire extinguisher. You know what they say – familiarity breeds uninhibited joy.’
I can hear how hard he’s trying to come across as upbeat and carefree, but his voice is missing the usual ease. His fingers are pressing into my upper arm in a tight grip, and I get the feeling it’s a silent way of asking me to keep up the pretence and not give his father any further ammunition.
He’s still got the deck of cards in his other hand, spinning them on the counter, fanning them out, spreading them into a circle that he can wind out and wind back into a neat stack again with a quick flick of his fingers, like he’s nervous and keeping his hands occupied.
Mr Hastings watches what he’s doing for a moment, and then almost like he can’t bear to watch any longer, he pushes himself off the counter and stalks away to examine the rest of the shop, muttering about the chess pieces being a hazard if they’re not screwed down. God forbid there be anything he doesn’t criticise.
Bram’s eyes stay on his father, but his arm squeezes my shoulders without letting go. He turns his head to the side and whispers, ‘I’m sorry.’
I want to be angry. I should shove his arm off and push him away. He’s always seemed so trustworthy, and I know he’s opened up to me over our nights in his kitchen… and all the while, he’s been hiding this secret. But I also think about everything he said the other night when I didn’t ask who his father is. Would he have told me if I had? I think he probably would. The ‘I might need to hold you to that one day’ when I said I didn’t care who his father is. Today is that day.
I reach across and slide my hand over his, stilling the cards he’s shuffling. My thumb brushes the back of his hand and his fingers fold around mine and hold them tightly, and he takes a few breaths to centre himself and then he lifts my hand to his mouth and presses his lips to the back of it.
His dark stubble scratching my skin wasn’t meant to be hot, but the hand kiss is such a sweet, simple gesture, and it sends an unexpected tingle through me. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed how gorgeous Bram is. He’s undeniably sexy while playing Hatter, from the dark eyeliner surrounding cheeky brown eyes to the megawatt grin and constant sense of mischief, but there’s something more about him in his kitchen in the evenings. When he lets me see the quieter version of himself, the one who’s tired after putting on a show all day, the cheeky eyes and playful grin are still the same, but there’s something extra sexy about someone who isn’t trying to be something they’re not.
I can feel heat rising up my neck, centring in my cheeks, when Mrs Willetts appears, carrying a tray with a teapot and two teacups on it, and Bram drops his arm and takes a giant step away. Tabby gives us a curious look as she swishes out behind Mrs Willetts.
Mr Hastings has got a wooden mushroom under one arm and is scratching at the spots I’ve painted on it, presumably so he can claim it’s poisonous should a child try to eat it. ‘It’s non-toxic paint,’ I call over to ease his many, many fears about how much harm my tearoom could do to the population of Ever After Street. There are a few customers in and his constant nit-picking is doing nothing to reassure them they won’t come to any harm in here either.
‘Would you like something with your tea?’ I ask as Tabby goes to offer Mr Hastings a tour of the back room and Mrs Willetts insists he sit down at the table she’s put her tray on.
‘None of the rose cupcakes from the interview?’ Mrs Willetts peers into the display case.
‘All sold out. Could I tempt you with the Battenberg instead?’ Bram steps in smoothly while I attempt to stamp on his foot to stop him. For the love of white rabbits, don’t get them to eat something I made. Mr Hastings could find fault with anything and this morning has been enough of a disaster as it is.
She reaches over to pat his hand and I get the feeling she’s trying to make up for his father’s rudeness. ‘Oh, Bram, you know full well that you could tempt me with anything. Go on then. We’ll have a slice of that each.’
Mr Hastings goes to protest and she shuts him up quickly. ‘Well, I’ll have two slices then; pay no mind to the miserable old sourpuss.’
Bram opens the display case, picks up the tongs and slides two slices of the Battenberg onto two plates. ‘Take a seat, I’ll bring it over.’
‘Bram!’ I hiss as she goes to persuade Mr Hastings to leave the bunting he’s examining for loose threads alone and sit down.
‘What?’ He grins at me. ‘They want to try something you made. They came at the right moment.’
‘No, don’t—’
‘He never does listen,’ Tabby comments, making me jump because I hadn’t realised how near she was standing. How much of that did she hear? What could she deduce from what she did hear? ‘The more you tell him to do something, the less likely he is to do it.’
‘A man with a mind of his own. How unappealing.’ I don’t intend to snap at her, but my heart is hammering from how much she made me jump, combined with the fear of what she overheard and the already frayed nerves from Mr Hastings’ unexpected intrusion. ‘You could have warned me they were coming.’
She gives me an incredulous look. ‘Why would I tell you about an unplanned inspection? That would defeat the object, duh.’
‘A planned unplanned inspection defeats the object,’ I hiss back at her. ‘If you’re going to continue working here, you could be on our side.’
