Authors: JoAnne Kenrick
For once, the sun was shining, the sky a brilliant blue. Floral scents spiraled into her senses as she sucked in the fresh air. The pathways were narrow, and the concrete slabs uneven. She and Betty hooked elbows, as they often did to aid each other in the difficult walk. It wasn’t uncommon for one of them to trip over a protruding corner of a concrete slab.
“I’m going to take a yoga session in nature later. You’re welcome to join me.”
“
Na
, I’ve done my physical activity for the day.”
Zoe tried to cover her relief. Her country walks were something she’d grown to enjoy doing alone to give her time to think and plot the next scene in her book.
Her favorite spot on the hill overlooked the village and, if she turned, offered a view of the snowcapped peaks of Snowdonia.
The longer she stayed in Wales, the more her spirit lifted and her self-judgments eased. It was nice to just “be.”
As the popular meeting place of the village, the tearoom was bustling as per usual. Groups of women frequented the place, enjoying the day while their kids were schooled or their husbands worked.
Betty ushered them to a window table at the front of the café, and it wasn’t long before their order had been taken and their treats delivered; a layout of scones and cream cakes that would make the infamous southern chef Paula Dean swoon. Zoe began her interrogation before Betty could rag on about David being a great guy.
“So, dish! Did you go to bingo at the church yesterday like you planned?”
“
Ia
.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“Don’t you ‘and what’ me. Did you see him?”
Betty flicked her short curls and rolled her eyes. “I honestly dunno what you mean.”
“Did you see Thomas?”
“
Ia
.” Her cheeks turned a bright shade of rose. “And you were right, he snapped at my offer to help at next week’s fete.”
“And so he should.”
“I’ll be helping on refreshments, and I volunteered your help, too. I hope that was okay?”
Help out at a community event? Her? Zoe clenched her hands and sucked in a breath. She couldn’t let her new friend down, but darn it. “Do I even have a choice, Betty?”
Betty laughed. “
Na
.”
She chomped at a chocolate éclair, the sweet chantilly cream melting as it hit her tongue. “I’ll help, but only if I get to meet Thomas.”
“Well….” Betty grabbed a scone from their plate of fancies. The scent of warm vanilla and sugar filled the café. “I’m sure he’ll wanna meet you, too. He was wondering why you’d not been to a Sunday service yet.”
“I don’t like intruding,” she said, rather than spilling the truth that she hadn’t been to church in six months, not since her last almost-wedding.
“It’s a church, silly, all are welcome,” chimed Betty.
“Maybe then. We’ll see.”
Betty patted her hand and offered a slight smile. “Good.”
The rest of the yoga clan wandered in and claimed tables nearby, all a-chatter about David’s muscular thighs and perfect hair. The way they went on, Zoe wouldn’t have guessed they were talking about the same David she’d met. More like Jax from
Sons of Anarchy
. Now that was a guy she could get on board with. She’d hop on his bike and ride off into the California sunset any day of the week. The actor who played Jax was an Aries, fun to catch but fiery and impulsive. Oh, yes.
The sugar overload made her fantasize about Charlie Hunnam, the actor who played Jax, as another tasty treat to enjoy by the pound. Or dollar. Holy moly.
Dylan kinda reminded her of Charlie Hunnam.
They ate and drank rich treats until they slumped into a sugary coma.
Zoe leaned her elbows on the table and sighed. “What exactly happens at a fete? Is it like corndogs and fairground rides?”
The woman shook her head. “Corndogs, indeed.”
“So what does happen?”
“Come, and you’ll see. Actually, I’m glad you’ve agreed to help. You’d be perfect for one particular event that happens after the fete.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask.”
“Oh, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Zoe occupied her mouth with a sticky bun, even though her stomach was about to burst because it was so full. Seemed to her she should think about how to respond, or she could find herself in a very awkward spot.
“Don’t look so scared, love.” Betty winked. “I need your voice for karaoke is all. Sometimes folks are scared to have a go. It’s good to have backup singers to get the audience hyped and eager to play.”
She gulped down the last crumb. “I guess so.”
Darn it.
“Dylan’s my male backup singer.”
“Really?” Zoe slapped her cheeks and gasped. “Dylan sings? In public? This I must see for myself or I won’t believe it.”
“Always has. Loves to be the center of the party, does Dylan. I figured it’s something about needing to be appreciated. You know, with his mum and dad walking out on the family the way they did.”
Zoe nodded. Post yet another failed relationship, adoration from an audience had been her drug until the breakup blues had dissipated. Plus, he was a Leo after all. It made perfect sense. He worked too hard at making a living and at playing the macho man yet needed to be told how awesome he was from time to time.
My goodness. Zoe, step away from the Leo
.
“He’s brilliant, he is. Only ever been two things he’s great at. Sweet-talking the girls and singing into a microphone.” She smirked. “Okay, so he’s lost the sweet talk, but he’s still got the voice.”
“What songs are in his repertoire? No, don’t tell me. Let me guess. A spot of Bon Jovi with giving love a bad name?”
“He’ll have a go at anything, love.” She beamed. “But he does do a great Tom Jones.”
“Who?”
“You dunno who Tom Jones is? He’s only the biggest, best thing to have come out of North Wales. I bet you know his songs, he’s not ‘that’ old. Besides he grew up not far from here.”
Zoe shrugged. “Never heard of him.”
Betty gasped then grabbed a spoon. She stood then sang the lyrics to “Kiss” and threw out three kisses into the air and ended her display. “Kiss.”
The women from yoga clapped. Even the lass behind the counter jabbed her pen behind her ear so she could join in the cheering.
“You’re cuckoo, woman.”
“What?” Betty gyrated and sang another verse. “You should be feeling the urge to throw your knickers at me right now. Tom has that effect on me, anyway.”
They giggled.
“Sure thing, but my supportive waist-high sports panties might drown you.”
“I sense a sing-a-long,” the baker behind the counter announced and flicked through the radio. “A-ha. A
Grease
medley.” And she sang her heart out to the songs from the old hit musical. It wasn’t long before the whole tearoom was singing.
After a few verses, Zoe stood and joined in, grabbing a fork-turned-pretend-microphone.
Everyone hushed and gawked at the door, leaving Zoe bellowing out the lyrics and gyrating alone.
The familiar bark of Sammy the dog boomed from behind her.
She hunched and swiveled to see what had caused the sudden silence.
Dylan.
Of course it was Dylan. With his muddy boots, those tight jeans he wore so well, and a well-worn wool sweater with runs in the knit around the cuffs. He dragged a bean hat from his head, and his thick hair stood on end. Passing a grin her way, he threw an arm up and hollered at the server, “Tea for the road.”
Sammy blustered in after him before the door slammed shut.
“Get that mutt outta here,” the baker yelled.
Dylan glanced to his dog and cocked his head. “You heard the woman. Go wait outside.”
Sammy barked and bounced to the door. He pushed down on the handle with a paw then let himself out and sat by the window.
Zoe sat and sank into her chair. “I didn’t hear him come in.”
Betty patted her on the shoulder. “I guessed not, though I dunno how you missed it. He’s not the quietest man in the village.”
Cup in one hand, hat in the other, he strutted to their table.
“
Bore da
, ladies,” he grated in that sexy voice of his. “Enjoying the sunshine?”
Zoe nodded then stuck her face into her cup to avoid eye contact with the man; his presence made the hairs on the back of her neck electric.
“Good morning to you, too, Dylan. Joining us for a morning cuppa?” Betty blew him a kiss and pulled out a chair for him.
“I haven’t got extra time to waste.”
That phrase, extra time, sounded familiar. Oh, yeah. “Kiss” by Tom Jones.
Zoe’s mind drifted, like it always did when a Leo was concerned. But not to this Tom fella, whoever he was; Mr. Jones was before her time. She guessed the local women had a fixation on him because he was Welsh and grew up nearby. Was this man as sexy as the Welshman she had her eye on?
Her mind went to
her
farmer.
He gyrates on stage, his beard trimmed to a tidy goatee and his abs covered by a bejeweled jumpsuit glorious enough for Elvis. His shirt is slit along the front, and his six-pack is clear to see and adore. Smothered in baby oil and looking all glistened and profiled under the stage lights, he is perfection. And he knows it. Strutting across the stage, he’s all that and more. He pivots and blows a kiss at Zoe, then swings his hips.
“Throw your panties at me, Miss America,” he growls.
She obliges. Slipping her undergarments down, she yanks them away and flings them at him.
They land on the stage beside him, and he nods approvingly.
“Lace. Nice. Now your bra.”
“I’m not taking my bra off.”
“What?” Betty let out a belly laugh.
“Your bra?” Dylan raised both brows, his usual steely glare softening. He ducked his head and grabbed his drink. “Time for me to go.”
He swiped a scone from their table and winked at Betty.
“Hey,” Betty protested.
“Oh, Aunty Betty, you knew full you wouldn’t eat all those and that you’d bring them home for supper. I’m saving you a job.”
“True.” She nodded. “I’m stuffed already.”
“Me, too. Couldn’t fit another thing in my mouth if I tried,” Zoe added.
He raised a brow. “Really?”
She pushed her plate forward. “Ugh, I’m as full as a tick.”
They both stared at her, one brow raised. “Come again?”
“Eaten too much.”
“Ah.”
“Right.” Dylan shook his head. “I’m gonna grab a shower before the big fete meeting starts.” He grabbed yet another scone and turned to Zoe. “No need for you to turn up at the meeting. Since we’re singing together, I can just fill you in on the doings on the night. ’kay?”
Zoe turned to Betty, mouth agape. “We’re singing together? As in duets?”
The woman shrugged. “That’s what I told you, isn’t it?”
“Ha! Not even close, Betty.”
“But you’ll do it, won’t you?” She fluttered her eyelashes and pouted.
“Do I have a choice?”
“You can thank me later.” Betty winked. “The things you’ll see at this fete will be months’ worth of newspaper material. Trust me.”
Famous last words.
One week later
….
Zoe perched on a barstool and leaned an elbow on the pristine marble-topped bar, too tired after helping at the fete to enjoy the country-pub vibe. Complete with a stone hearth, copper mugs hanging from the rafters, and all the usual patrons you’d expect to see, the place was cliché cozy.
She slumped and nursed a beer.
The putrid stench of the pub punched her in the nose. As far as she could make out, it smelled of beer, baking pot pies, and years of cigarette smoke woven into the very fabric of the place. A hint of pine mixed in for good measure, probably from the cleaning fluid they used. The rest she couldn’t make out, but it was fetid. She would have to write about this in her article.
Zoe sighed, ready to call it a night and go to bed. She’d gotten a few photos at the fete with her digital camera: a cake stall, Betty pouring coffee, and several shots of David as he kept photo-bombing her.
“What’s up with you?” Betty sat beside her, chugging her white wine. When she finished her glass, she ordered another.
“It’s been a long day. I’m exhausted.”
“
Ia
, you worked hard flogging our jumble at the fete.”
“I think the hordes of teens who kept coming back to buy more baked goods were just chatting me up for zodiac info on their crushes.”
Betty wrinkled her brow. “Oh, love, I’m sure that’s not true. They were just interested in the newb in town. And my fondant fancies.”
Zoe dismissed her with a wave. “Either way, I’m talked out.”
Betty poked her arm. “Wake up, love. The day’s main event is yet to come. You’ve got some singing to do.”
Zoe straightened and smoothed out her floral cotton shirt that fitted around her bust then flared out. She’d worn blue jeans and a pair of cute heels, simple and comfy, but, for her, dressy.
She smoothed a peach lip-gloss over her lips and put on a smile, telling herself she was wide awake. “Steve, you got any coffee back there?”
“Forget coffee, Steve. Energy drink and vodka, please.” Betty pulled out a ten-pound note from her purse and slammed it on the counter. “Hey, we made four hundred quid, last I heard. They do the official tally up at the end of karaoke.”
“It was quite an experience, and the community spirit was boundless.” Zoe yawned. “I’m glad you roped me in.”
“Wake up.” Betty tapped Zoe’s still half-full beer bottle. “Surely you can put more energy into the night than this, or are you an old woman? Finish your drink so you can get another.”
Zoe cradled the one bottle of beer she’d been nursing all night. “I’m the designated driver. You want to get back tonight, right?”
“We’ll get a taxi.”
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Betty Mostyn?”
“
Moi
?” Betty fluttered her eyelashes and plastered on a coy smile.
Another woman Zoe recognized from yoga spilled herself over the bar. Flo. Her boobs hung out of her low top, and she wore leopard-print leggings with her hair pulled back into a high updo so big and bouncy it was like something she’d see on a Sunday morning in church back home, not in a back-of-nowhere village pub in Wales.