Pitch Imperfect(33)
Anjuli scrambled for a topic Mac would feel as strongly about as matchmaking, before it could occur to her to enthuse over what a great idea it would be for her to come to dinner, rekindle her relationship with Rob, marry him and have his babies.
“Are you riding the perimeters during the Common Riding Festival?” Anjuli asked, hitting gold. “Don’t tell me you gave it up after we fought so hard to show them how it’s done.”
Mac brightened with a different kind of zeal. “I’m the Chairman of the Common Riding Committee this year and that means admin duties up to my eyeballs. We’re going to beat Halton, receive more visitors and have a finale that puts theirs to shame, I can feel it.”
“Et tu, Mac?” Anjuli teased. Although not a fierce as the older generation, Mac possessed strong loyalty to her Border village, and her competitive streak seemed healthy. Mostly.
Satisfied her ploy had worked, Anjuli settled back to hear Common Riding gossip and Mac’s plans to make the festival memorable. The wall clock chimed and reluctantly, she looked at her watch. Ash wouldn’t be pleased if she were late for her shift again. Her sister had a long memory and would list all the times she’d been left waiting at restaurants and cinemas from the age of ten. Worse, she might even dock her pay. Ash was a ruthless businesswoman and she’d been extra cranky of late. Today she had a doctor’s appointment and she had stressed the need to be on time.
“Another shift?” Mac said.
“Yep.” And as an afterthought, “There’s probably no better way to join the community again than working behind the bar.” Anjuli grabbed her handbag, pulled out a pen and notebook and bent over the meeting table. “Can you give me directions to the vet practice? I heard it’s somewhere near the turn off to Moordale.”
“What for?” Mac said suspiciously.
“Because I need a thorough checkup and large doses of that understanding and sympathy you mentioned, especially since Damien Mitchell is a hot blond with an Irish accent. Not to mention the David Beckham aspect of the whole package if he really knows how to use those golden balls and—”
“Hi, Rob,” Mac said, louder than loud.
Anjuli spun around. Rob was standing in the staffroom doorway, dressed in a charcoal grey suit with a black shirt. His thick hair had been combed back, accentuating his stone hard jaw and making him look far too dangerous to be standing in a primary school doorway.
Damn it! Why couldn’t she be one of those people who never blushed? She could feel the heat staining her face crimson. Mac looked delighted and Anjuli wanted to strangle her. Oh no, this wasn’t good. She was getting far too many urges to strangle people since moving back to Heaverlock. She’d never considered herself a violent woman; maybe it was time to reevaluate. The look Rob gave her, as if she were a cockroach he’d squash with his shoe, made her want to add him to her list of murder victims.
“Thanks for popping in at such short notice,” Mac said. “I was sure I’d left my house keys in the usual place until I saw them in here this morning.”
Anjuli shifted on her feet, trying not to look like she was listening while Mac and Rob discussed convoluted childcare arrangements.
“I’ll try to make it to the debate tonight if Craig gets back in time,” Mac said. “He can take care of the boys while I go out for a change. Are you chairing?’ Rob shook his head and, glancing at Anjuli, Mac explained. “Before the Scottish referendum on independence Rob was Heaverlock’s answer to Braveheart. Now it’s done and dusted he still chairs the debates on how we can work together moving forward.”
Her brows might as well take up permanent position at her hairline where Rob was concerned. “I never knew you cared.”
A flinty glance. “There’s a lot you never knew.”
Time to reread the notices. Before Rob left he paused, eyes lingering on her shirt. What the hell was wrong with it? Didn’t people wear clothing that showed more than an inch of skin in Heaverlock anymore?
“Mrs. P. told me you’re on my schedule for Friday, eleven a.m. sharp. Try not to be late.”
Anjuli made a face at his retreating back. Of course, he would have to remember her little problem with timekeeping. Speaking of which, Ash was going to kill her. “I really do need Damien’s details, Mac. I’ve got an appointment next week and I don’t want to be late. And can you please tell me what’s wrong with my shirt?”
“Nothing, sweetie. A little cleavage is good for the soul and you, my luscious lass, are a double D dose of heaven.” Mac sighed and patted her plump stomach. “You’re lucky I’m your friend or I’d have to hate you.”