New Lease of Life (15 page)

One last noisy smack on the lips—for the voyeur’s benefit, presumably—then Colby straightened, tucking his shirt in at the same time.

“Mrs. Pritchard,” Colby said with a smile as he turned around. “How are you today?”

Did Colby know all his customers by name? Probably.

“Very well, thank you, Colby. Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

“Mrs. Pritchard, this is Pip. Pipsqueak, may I introduce Mrs. Pritchard.” Colby made a flourishing hand gesture between the two of them and bowed low.

“Pip, short for Phillip, I suppose. I’m Phylis, Phil to my friends, so I suppose we have that in common. I adore this young man.” Mrs. Pritchard indicated Colby, as if she could possibly be talking about anybody else. “I
hope
we have that in common too.”

“I—”

“Oh, I can see where the pet name came from,” Mrs. Pritchard said, directing her comment to Colby. “It’s delightful. Do I hear wedding bells on the horizon?”

“No!” It was Colby’s turn to make an undignified noise. “Really, no. It’s early days. Are you trying to scare him off?”

At least Colby had managed to speak. Pip couldn’t even force out another squeak.

Mrs. Pritchard sighed, the long-suffering sound of someone used to disappointment. “Shame. I so wanted to go to a gay wedding before I joined Mr. P in the afterlife. My Duncan doesn’t look like he’ll be settling down any time soon.”

She turned to Pip. “My grandson. He’s a”—she lowered her voice and sounded out each syllable—“ho-mo-sexual, like yourselves. But he’s too busy playing on the pitch to find himself a good man.” She glanced at Colby as she said this.

“It’s playing the field, Mrs. P, and to be fair to Duncan, he’s not even twenty-one. Let him have some fun at university before you try to marry him off. He’ll be a doctor when he’s finished, and I doubt he’ll be lacking prospects.”

“Even though he’s ginger?”

“Yeah, no prejudice in the rainbow community.”

Pip knew that wasn’t true, but he didn’t want the elderly lady to worry more about her grandson than she obviously already did.

“And he scrubs up extremely smart when he needs to.” Mrs. Pritchard threw another glance in Pip’s direction. “You could have made more of an effort. It doesn’t reflect well on the shop for you to be so scruffy.”

Biting the inside of his cheek to stop the angry retort that threatened to burst from his lips, Pip didn’t get the chance to formulate a more diplomatic response before Colby answered.

“Pip’s had an accident, and he’s more comfortable in what he’s wearing for now.”

Condescending son of a bitch. What gave him the right to tell his secrets to any random stranger?

Pip glared at Colby, channeling his rising anger into the look until the customer left the shop and it could explode out of him in a torrent of abuse.

As if he could sense Pip’s antagonized stare, Colby turned toward him, his expression fond, pale eyes full of warmth and affection. Although maybe Colby’s eyes really were icy blue, because they quenched the heat of Pip’s temper, and the words that accompanied that look were like a cooling balm to his ire.

“Anyway it doesn’t matter what clothes he wears, it’s the man inside that’s important, and I like him just the way he is.”

“True.” Mrs. P agreed, as if it hadn’t been her utterance that had stoked Pip’s anger in the first place. “Mr. P would have lived in his old gardening clothes if I’d let him.”

“And missed out on all those glorious jumpers you made him? I doubt that.” Colby rubbed his hands together. “Now, we don’t want you to be late for the WI. What have you got for me today?”

“Four items. Do you have any new patterns?”

Colby ducked down under the counter and pulled out a file. “The latest patterns are at the front. I’ve had one request for the sleeveless pullover—” Colby checked a book by the till. “—number 314, in pale green and burnt gold. I’ve already bought the wool. But apart from that, you’ve got free rein.”

“Knitting patterns?” Pip asked before he could stop himself.

Colby glanced over at him with a teasing smile. “We don’t all have vintage knitwear in our collections. Most people have to make do with reproductions.”

A pile of flat boxes had appeared on the countertop since Mrs. Pritchard’s arrival. Colby took one from the top of the stack and eased the lid open. The rustle of tissue paper had Pip craning his neck to see the contents.

Shaking out the garment, Colby held it up by the shoulders. A Fair Isle style sweater that Pip would have sworn was 1930s vintage from this distance.

“Beautiful work as always, Mrs. P.”

The conversation devolved into the merits of one pattern over another, the colors and blend of wool that would work best in each situation. Soon Pip stopped paying attention to what was being said, letting the wash of words tumble over him in Colby’s soothing, deep melodic tones. Instead he focused on the forming of the words, the movement of Colby’s mouth, and the memory of their lips meeting. The way Colby had surrounded him, towering over him, palm pressed to his cheek, knees caging Pip’s thighs, and yet, careful enough to hold the bulk of his body away from crushing Pip or causing bodily harm with his weight and height advantage.

Colby glanced Pip’s way once or twice but didn’t address him directly, so Pip allowed himself to continue floating between his thoughts and Colby-watching. Another sweater emerged from a box, a tactile cable knit that Colby had his hands all over, tracing the raised pattern with searching fingers, dipping into the furrows, caressing the density of the wool and the tight-packed stitches.

As with all items that came through the shop, Colby had a careful and reverent touch and yet, as he proved earlier, he had latent power in his hands. With the swipe of two fingers or the kneading massage of his thumb, Colby had the ability to relax muscle and ease Pip’s pain. And what was the secret of the Bubbling Spring? He really wanted to find out.

“Pip, you okay?”

“Huh?”

Colby towered over him again, just like before, except this time Mrs. Pritchard’s kindly face was clearly visible to his left.

“Are you all right? You zoned out there for a while. Which is fine, wool blends and era sympathetic colors aren’t everyone’s cup of tea, although I would have appreciated your input. What with your vintage knowledge and everything.”

So that had been why Colby kept glancing over at him.

“But then you moaned.”

“I did?” Pip willed away the sudden flush of heat that he could feel all the way up to his newly trimmed follicles.

“And I was concerned you’d hurt yourself.” A small smile played at the edges of Colby’s lips, toying with Pip’s sanity, and Pip knew Colby had guessed the reason for his embarrassment. He’d been busted. But he had to say something to allay Mrs. Pritchard’s worried expression.

“No, no. I’m remarkably pain-free at the moment. Thanks to your healing hands.” Pip glared at Colby, whose amused expression had morphed into a full-blown smirk, and then turned a reassuring smile on Mrs. Pritchard. “I’m fine, honestly.”

“My dear, I understand completely. I could moan myself sometimes when Colby’s got his hands on my feet. The relief from my sciatica is priceless.”

“You won’t take any other payment for the gorgeous knitwear,” Colby said, his embarrassment apparent even under his suntanned skin and the hint of five o’clock shadow. “A weekly reflexology session is the least I can do.”

“You’re a Charity Shop, Colby,” Mrs. Pritchard said, the capital letters audible. “I don’t expect the vicar to pay me for my work on the church flowers. And that man wouldn’t entertain the thought of going anywhere near my feet.”

The image of some elderly man in a dog collar massaging Mrs. Pritchard’s feet set Pip off giggling. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Colby said, even though Pip had been looking at Mrs. Pritchard when he spoke. “It’s good to hear you laugh. To
see
you laugh. Your nose wrinkles.”

“Absolutely. Most endearing. I’ll see you next week, Colby, for your magic fingers.” Mrs. Pritchard carefully folded the plastic bags and added them to her large tote with the wool Colby had set aside for her and several knitting patterns. “Now I must get on. Nice to meet you, Pip. I’ll leave you boys to get back to your kissing.”

Colby glanced over at Pip and then rushed around the counter to the front of the shop. He held the door open for Mrs. Pritchard, leaning down to say something that Pip couldn’t hear. Mrs. P patted his cheek as she replied, and then they both glanced in Pip’s direction.

The bell above the door chimed as Colby closed it behind the elderly lady.

“Aww,” Pip said, the irritation of being discussed out of earshot giving his words an edge. “So cute.”

“Shut up.” Colby responded with zero heat as he weaved back through the rails, straightening the occasional garment as he went. “She sees me as a surrogate grandson.”

“She’d like you to
marry
her grandson,” Pip retorted, unable to hide his irritation at the thought.

“She knows that’s never going to happen.” Colby paused at a four-armed clothes rail near the counter, shifted several hangers around, and placed a waistcoat at the front so it was more clearly on display. When he appeared satisfied, he glanced over at Pip. “Jealous? You’ve no need to be. Duncan’s too young. Anyway, he was already as tall as me last time she brought him in here, and from the last photo I saw he’s filled into his shoulders. Rowing, apparently. Not my type. Yours, maybe.”

“Why mine?” Pip tried to sneer, but probably failed because, when Colby gestured wordlessly down the length of his body, Pip couldn’t stop himself from tracking the length and breadth of him. “Okay. Point taken.”

“I wasn’t trying to prove anything.”

A stab of disappointment speared Pip’s gut as Colby bypassed the corner of the shop where he was sitting to return to stand behind the counter, and he responded in a manner that had become his default setting in recent months.

“Already regretting kissing the angry cr—”

“Don’t you dare call yourself that!” Colby’s anger flared bright and strong and then disappeared just as quick. “No, actually, I’m busting for a piss.”

“Good.” Pip sighed, his own irrational response evaporating in the face of Colby’s rejection of his self-deprecating attitude. “Not good that you’re—” Pip gestured, a nondescript wave of his hand that could have meant anything and nothing. “—jiggling about like a marionette. Good that you’re not regretting anything because I wouldn’t be adverse us trying that again sometime. Although, maybe not in the middle of your shop.”

Colby shifted from foot to foot. “I allow kissing in my shop. In the main, my customers are very enlightened.”

“I wasn’t necessarily talking about the kiss. Although I would like to do that again as well. I was thinking of my feet and the bursting geyser.”

“Bubbling Spring,” Colby corrected with a laugh.

Pip smiled, buoyed by Colby’s amusement. “Regardless of what it’s called, you’ve piqued my curiosity, and I’d like to try it.” He lowered his voice as though about to impart some important secret. “With my sock off.”

“Yeah?” The heated look Colby bestowed on Pip implied that it wasn’t just his foot Colby wanted to see naked. “Me too. Look, can you cover the shop for a second? I really need to visit the little boys’ room.”

“Me? What if a customer comes in?”

“That’s kind of the point.” Colby paused, his hand resting on the door leading to the back of the shop. “You know more about this stuff than anyone, including me. Everything is priced. You’ll be fine. And I won’t be long.”

The bloody puppy dog eyes did it.

“Go on.”

The door closed on Colby’s retreating back before Pip had barely finished the short sentence. Not wanting to get caught in a position where he had to struggle to his feet in front of a stranger, Pip eased himself up from the chair, stretched, and then looked around.

He’d been so focused on Colby when he arrived at the shop earlier that he’d not really bothered to take in much of his surroundings. An old-fashioned till, which could have doubled for Arkwright’s death trap in
Open All Hours
, graced one end of the wooden counter. At the other, there were a variety of jars filled with buttons, studs, zips, and miscellanea. The center of the counter held a glass cabinet, locked from Colby’s side and filled with watches, tie pins, albert chains, and even a few pens.

In one corner a wooden hatstand reached toward the ceiling, sprouting hats like acorns from an oak tree. Bowlers, trilbies, several cloches in jeweled tones with contrasting ribbons, and a feathered affair that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a burlesque show. One soaring feather swayed, caught in a draught from the nearby window, dipping over at the tip and tapping the top of a cylindrical box, which, from the height, Pip guessed would contain a top hat.

Several shop dummies were decked out perfectly in a variety of items. A flapper dress in all its sequined, fringed glory sparkled in a space toward the back of the shop, away from the dangerous sunlight that would fade the material. Another dummy had been dressed in a mismatch of tweeds similar to how Pip used to put things together. In fact he’d done a tutorial on his website on that very subject.

Ignoring the urge to get his phone out to check, Pip wandered over to the rails of clothes where Colby had been fiddling around earlier. He flicked through the hangers, pausing occasionally to contemplate the value of a particular piece—Colby had some stuff priced far too low—until he finally reached the item Colby had pulled to the front. A 1930s waistcoat, almost certainly original, bronze background with golden yin and yang symbols and the back in bronze silk. Held up to the light, the whole garment shone like spun gold.

“That color would suit you.” Colby’s voice from behind him startled Pip, and he lowered his arm, ready to deny that he’d been caught wanting. “Try it on.”

“What’s the point?” Pip returned the hanger to the rail, toward the back of the display. “I’ve nothing to wear it with.”

“Huh,” Colby muttered on an exhale.

Turning his back on the waistcoat, Pip faced Colby and almost wished he hadn’t. Head cocked on one side, Colby seemed to see right through Pip’s bullshit with his intense gaze.