The Piggy Farmer (The Barrington Patch Book 3), Emmy Ellis [electric book reader txt] 📗

older woman’s tongue was as sharp as her pruning shears, and she had the thorns of the roses she sold an’ all. Prickly cow.

They walked farther onto the estate, arms linked, Lou humming out of tune, Doreen recalling the conversation they’d had earlier about some bloke coming into Blooms, acting weird towards Lou. She’d said he kept buying bouquets then handing them back to her after paying, saying stuff like: “You deserve every flower in this shop. Fancy going for a drink?”

Lou always refused, said he gave her the creeps with his staring bright-blue eyes, and had even told Betty she felt harassed. The thing was, Betty said the man was only being romantic and Lou ought to be grateful she was getting any attention.

That wasn’t right—rude, in fact, like Lou wasn’t pretty enough to have a man treating her that way—and Doreen had offered to go right up to Betty perched on the barstool sipping her Pernod and black, telling her to her face she should have her employee’s bests interests at heart, but Lou wasn’t having any of it. Instead, Doreen had given Betty evil stares a lot of the night, the hag giving them right back. God.

“I reckon that fella’s got a screw loose,” Doreen said now, her little handbag bumping her hip with each step. “You know, the one who buys you flowers.”

Lou tripped on nowt, said, “Whoopsie daisy!”, and giggled. “Yeah, he’s a bit much. I’ve told him I don’t want to go for a drink umpteen times now—like, a couple of times per visit—but he won’t listen. Maybe I should tell him I fancy the pants off Joe Wilson. Then again, no. He might tell Joe, and I’d be right embarrassed, because Joe doesn’t know how I feel.”

It was simple to Doreen, the solution there if Lou had the balls to do it. “Why not just bite the bullet and ask Joe out? If he says yes, at least you can tell the weirdo you’re seeing someone. Who is he anyroad?”

“That’s the thing, I hadn’t seen him before. He sounds like he’s from Yorkshire.” She paused walking and groaned. “For Pete’s sake, I’m getting a bloody blister.”

“You should have put plasters on like I said before we went out. New shoes, sore feet.” Doreen shook her head. “Has he given you his name, the flower fella?”

Lou set off again, limping. “See, this is where it gets even stranger. He writes the cards himself, right in front of me on the counter, and signs them as ‘S’ with a kiss and a love heart. Like, the first time, what he’d written was romantic—because I thought it was for someone else.”

That was coming on a tad strong. Who drew love hearts for strangers?

Doreen shuddered. “What did it say?”

Lou snorted. “You’ll piss yourself. I’ll never forget it: Roses are red. Violets are blue. I’m in your life. And I will have you.”

“Err, okay… I don’t find that funny. It’s creepy.”

“And he’d underlined ‘will’. Like I said, I thought it was for someone else, but once he handed them over, that ‘will’ came off as sinister, like I had no choice but to go out with him in the end. Maybe I’m just being silly and he doesn’t know how to chat girls up, so he thinks that’s the way to go.”

Doreen shivered, despite the muggy air. “Too right it’s sinister. How many times has he been in since?”

“Five. Monday through to Friday this week.”

“Bloody hell.” Doreen couldn’t imagine having someone being pushy with her like that. She had her eye on a bloke, but he was a bit of a lad, seemed to overly enjoy sowing his wild oats. She’d wait until he’d calmed down, then see if he wanted to date her. Then again, did she want someone who was the town stud?

Lou swept her free hand through her hair. “And when I go for lunch at Sam’s Café, you know the one, around the corner from work, I swear I feel someone watching me. It’s that bad, I’ve been staying away from the window seats.”

Doreen stopped and gaped at her friend. “Pack it in. That’s seriously not right. I’ve got bloody goosebumps.”

Lou shrugged, unlinking their arms and clutching Doreen’s hand. “What do I do, though? I can’t go to the police and say I think I’m being followed. I’ve got no proof, just a stupid feeling. I’ve never seen him around or owt, only ever in the flower shop.”

“Next time he comes in, tell him if he doesn’t stop it with the bouquets, you’re calling the police, whether Betty Bitch likes it or not. It’s harassment, that is.”

“Betty would have a fit.” Lou tugged Doreen back to walking.

“Fuck Betty. Stupid old goat.”

Lou laughed. “She’s okay, just sees ‘S’ as being passionate.”

“I wonder what that stands for. Sam? Simon?”

“Spy.”

“Yeah, or Stalker.”

Lou squeezed Doreen’s hand. “Don’t. It’s even weirder when I hear footsteps on my way home, but when I turn round, no one’s there.”

“What? Why didn’t you say something? Or wait for me outside the betting shop and we walk home together? Jesus Christ, Lou.”

“Keep your hair on. I’ll do that from now onwards, okay?”

“You’d sodding better. We’ll even get the bus if we have to. At least then if he gets on, we’ll know it’s him pissing about by walking behind you.” But what if it wasn’t? What if someone else was doing it? “Is he the only one acting off?”

“Yeah. Everyone else is fine.”

They’d reached the end of their street, and because there had been a lock-in at The Donny, it was late, and all the houses stood in darkness bar theirs, the streetlamps doing bugger all, dim as they were. They always left the outside light on beside the front door—Mam had given Doreen a long list of what