Chapter 2: When the hero needs rescuing...

...and begins to fall under her spell.

OK, I know some of you have been waiting to see how the story continues, so here’s the next chapter…

(If you missed the beginning, you can catch up here)

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I’ve been in this dratted shop far too long.

I hate shopping at the best of times. Thank goodness someone invented online ordering and home delivery.

But apparently the present my niece so desperately wants for her birthday next week is a ‘flagship store only’ exclusive. So here I am, doing battle with the screaming hoards of Oxford Street on a Saturday morning.

And I am definitely losing.

Still, it has resulted in one bright moment. The woman in the haberdashery department.

I smile at the memory.

It was pure luck that I’d got totally lost trying to find my way round this retail labyrinth and momentarily distracted by a head of the most striking auburn curls I’d ever seen, their siren call drawing me towards the woman up the stepladder.

Just in time for her to fall right into my arms.

Honestly, I’ve never really been one for fairy tales or love at first sight, but something jolted through me in that split second when she turned round and looked up at me with sparkling, emerald green eyes, that I think may have shifted the entire axis of my universe.

Now, having finally completed by shopping mission, I’m retracing my steps in the hope of seeing her again.

Ridiculous, I know.

I’m not the kind of guy to go chasing after random women. In fact, life has been so busy the last few months it’s been a relief to be able to avoid the whole dating scene.

But something about this woman…intrigues me.

And anyway, I actually do have a genuine reason for going back to her section.

As I get closer I spot her ringing up another customer’s purchases on the till, and catch her laugh as it sings out across the space. The poor woman she’s serving looks in about as much awe of her sheer vibrancy as I felt.

She’s dressed smartly, elegantly even, as all the staff are here, but there’s a playfulness about her that none of the others seem to have.

She’s more colourful.

And I don’t just mean her eyes and hair; the collar of her cream blouse has some kind of bright pattern trailing over it, and there’s a slim pink belt encircling her waist.

Then she steps out from behind the counter to wave off her customer and I spot the matching pink shoes peeking out from under the wide hems of her navy trousers.

I can’t help grinning at that touch of rebellion among the sea of neutral corporate wear.

Getting closer I know the moment she spots me because she freezes. Fortunately, the broad smile she had for her previous customer doesn’t drop from her face, but I think I spy a hint of wariness as well as surprise flash in her eyes.

She waits for me to reach her and I stop a couple of feet away, just as mesmerised as before.

“Hi.” That’s as much as I manage. Wow. Really eloquent.

“Hello again,” she replies, her smile lifting at my awkwardness and her head tilting slightly to the side in curiosity. Frankly I’m wondering what I’m doing too.

“I uh…I just wanted to make sure you’re OK. After earlier.” Two sentences this time. Better.

“Oh. Yes, I’m fine, no harm done.” Her eyes twinkle as she holds me entranced. “Honestly, I trip over my feet all the time, but thank you again.”

“My pleasure,” I respond, except using that word reminds me what a pleasure it was to hold her, to catch the faint scent of her perfume, and makes me imagine other kinds of pleasure…

Whoa. Slow down there buddy. You’re in a public place, remember?

Her breath seems to hitch, and she pulls her eyes away from mine before I can read them.

“Well it looks like you’ve had a successful shopping trip,” she says in that way that manages to be both comment and question at the same time, and nods towards the giant bag I’m holding.

I look down, remembering the whole reason I’m standing here.

“Oh, right, yeah.” I look up again and aim for my most charming smile.

“Actually, I need your help. I had a bit of an altercation with an overenthusiastic five year old over this,” I pull the edge of the box out of the bag a little to show her, “and ended up losing a button,” Now I finger the edge of my coat where a couple of loose threads are hanging. “I don’t suppose you could help me find a new one?”

Her grin widens revealing straight, pearly white teeth behind subtly glossy lips, and she lets out a laugh that’s like music.

I really want to kiss that mouth.

“Oh wow, no wonder the kid fought you for it, those have been flying out faster than we can restock them!”

I grin back, heartened by her humour over the situation.

“Apparently so, but I faced being named the worst uncle ever if I didn’t get one of these for my niece for her birthday, so I reckon it was worth the sacrifice.”

A flicker of something that might be surprise and…relief?...passes across her face at this, before that sparkle of laughter is back as she says “Well, I’m pretty sure I can help you out with that button.”

But instead of leading me towards the back wall of the department where I can see the most extensive collection of buttons I’ve ever seen in my life – and that quite honestly terrifies me at the thought of having to choose – she stays where she is.

“Do you still have the spare attached to the care label?” she asks.

“The what?” I respond, confused.

“Most coats have a spare button attached to the care label inside, so if you’ve still got that, problem solved!”

“Really? I never noticed that before.” I pull apart the front edges of my coat, looking for this elusive care label, eventually locating it about halfway up the side seam. I grab hold of it, and lo and behold, there’s a matching grey button securely attached to it.

“Well would you look at that!” I exclaim, looking back up to her again.

Except she doesn’t meet my eyes this time. She’s fixated on something in the middle of my chest, her eyes wide. I run my hand down the front of my jumper in case there’s something stuck on it.

The movement snaps her out of her trance and her face pops up to meet mine. I watch as she swallows hard and blinks to hide the heat that was flaring in her eyes, enhancing the green even more.

Ohhh…it was that kind of look.

I can’t resist a small smirk of satisfaction. At least I’m not the only one struck half dumb by whatever this is that feels like it’s suddenly simmering between us.

Shaking her head slightly, which only causes those glorious auburn curls to dance around her head and has me wondering if the colour is entirely natural, she stammers out “Yes…umm…great…so…do you have matching thread at home to fix it?

Remembering we were talking about my missing button, I realise that clearly finding the spare is only part of the solution. You actually have to attach the thing.

“Err…no, I don’t think so…” I tail off, trying to think if there’s anywhere in my house that a reel of thread might be hiding.

She pauses and does that quizzical head tilt thing again before a teasing smile lifts the corners of her mouth.

“When was the last time you reattached a button to anything?” she asks, clearly suspecting the answer.

I huff out a sigh as if I’m trying to recall.

“Probably once, in a home ec class at school…longer ago than I care to remember.”

I chuckle, and she laughs right along with me.

“Come over here,” she gestures towards the large table in the centre of the space that seems to double as display and practical space, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

I follow her willingly, watching as she reaches across the table to a small plastic caddy filled to overflowing with…well I don’t really know what, but she seems to know exactly what she’s searching for. Laying a reel of grey thread on the table next to a tiny pair of very sharp looking scissors, and selecting a needle from some sort of little felt booklet, she looks back up at me with another of those smiles.

I just stand there.

Honestly, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I don’t think any other woman ever has struck me like this one does. And it’s not just her appearance. I mean, she’s gorgeous, I’m not blind. But I want to get to know her. Talk with her. Learn every little thing about her.

“You’ll need to take it off then,” her voice interrupts my reverie.

“Huh?” I blink, my brain struggling to make sense of the words, but my body very much eager to respond.

“Your coat,” she chuckles, “I can’t fix the button while you’re wearing it.”

“Oh. Right. Of course.” And I manage to reconnect my synapses enough to shrug out of the garment and hand it over to her.

I just catch her admiring glance before her lashes lower and she bends to her task, a curtain of glossy curls hiding her profile.

Her nimble fingers make short work of snipping the spare button away from the label, and then she somehow threads her needle with a length of cotton so swiftly and easily that she could have achieved it by witchcraft for all I know.

I like to think I’m fairly agile in the finger department myself, but this is a whole new level of delicate accuracy.

She lays the coat out on the table in front of her, carefully matching up the position for the new button with the previous remnants of thread before her needle starts dancing in and out of the fabric.

“Shouldn’t you be trying to sell me something new and expensive rather than mending my old coat?” I ask, knowing the sales tactics most shop assistants, especially in this department store, employ to extract as much money as they can from customers.

She glances up, tucking her hair behind one ear, before bending again to her work, the slightest furrow of concentration creasing her forehead.

“Probably,” she says with a one-shouldered shrug, “but this is a really great coat with lovely buttons already, so why change them out for ones that would likely ruin the style, or send you down to menswear to buy a whole new one?”

I can’t fault her logic there, and anyway, I do really love this coat, I’ve had it for years and it’s served me through many a bleak London winter.

“There, done!” She snips away the excess thread with a flourish before turning and holding up the coat so I can put it back on.

I turn my back to her briefly, slip my hands down the sleeves and shrug it back onto my shoulders, feeling the softest touch of her fingers smoothing the fabric across my upper back. It sends a tingle down my spine.

I’m sure I hear a quiet cough but by the time I spin back round to face her she’s back at the table tidying away her sewing things.

“Perfect,” I say instead, examining the newly repaired button and offering her a smile of gratitude. “Thank you so much, really.”

“You’re welcome.” The faintest blush is colouring her cheeks at my praise, but her returned smile is genuine.

“Are you sure I don’t owe you anything?” I can at least do the gentlemanly thing and offer. “For the thread, or your time?”

“No, no, not at all,” she dismisses with a shake of her head. “I’m happy to help. Especially after the traumatic experience you’ve had.”

This last is said with a smirk and laughter dancing in her eyes. I’d almost forgotten how I’d come to lose the button in the first place.

“Ha! Yes, well. Thank you, again.”

And then something – it may be a tag team of the devil on my shoulder, the undeniable attraction I have for this woman, and some desperate part of me that doesn’t want to walk away just yet – makes me say: “Well in that case, can I at least buy you a coffee or something?”

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I need your help before the next chapter. These characters need names. Any suggestions?

P.S I’m having a LOT of fun writing this - are you enjoying reading it?

Photo by Merve Sehirli Nasir on Unsplash