Hanukkah at the Great Greenwich Ice Creamery - Sharon Ibbotson Page 0,2

ancient buildings, had a stringent food safety policy that put the US to shame. All the same, he was glad her hair was back, because her face ... her face was a wonder.

Hazel eyes, neither green nor brown but a magical mix of both, looked at him from under long dark lashes. Her skin was creamy, though her cheeks were flush with the cold, or perhaps exertion, Cohen couldn’t be sure. He stared all the same, noting that they were high and pleasantly round; that when she smiled, he was reminded of apples, nestled in the branches of a tree. What would it be like, he abruptly thought, to steal a kiss from such sweet fruit? But then she smiled again, and all and any rational thought left his mind.

He definitely did not have time for this.

He made a concerted effort to bring his mind back, to pull himself away from images of fruit and sweetness to something resembling a coherent, mature thought process. He dragged his gaze from hers, looked down at his feet and muttered under his breath.

‘Is she here? Rushi, I mean?’ He looked back up, and the woman was still gazing at him, curiosity in her eyes.

Okay then. Cohen took a deep breath, indicating to the counter. ‘There isn’t a bell,’ he remarked, but once again, he was met with that same curious look. A look of confusion, concern and even a little pity. Cohen stiffened, standing taller.

He couldn’t bear pity, well-intentioned or not.

Cohen Ford was a busy man, and he did not have time for a pity parade, even if he was the float of honour.

‘Look, is Rushi here or not?’ he finally snapped, adjusting the strap of his bag across his shoulder. ‘I don’t have time for just hanging around, and—’

And she surprised him then, this woman. She surprised him by walking towards him, reaching out and taking his cheeks in her hands. Before he even had the time to register his surprise, to think how amazing her skin felt against his, she’d angled his face towards the light, looking with deep concern at his forehead. She stepped back, her hands leaving his face, and he felt bereft at the lack of her touch. She frowned, pointing to her own forehead, nodding at him.

You’re hurt, she seemed to say.

Cohen brought his fingers to his forehead, mirroring her touch, but when he removed his hand, it came away wet.

Wet and warm, not at all like the British sleet. Red and salty, not at all like the pastel sweetness of this ice creamery.

‘Oh God,’ he exclaimed, seeing the blood on his fingertips. ‘I’m bleeding, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry—’

It said a lot about this woman, he thought, that his first reaction was to apologise, rather than sue her for her antiquated, small and head-injuring doorway.

Her reaction was quick. From behind the counter she bundled up a cloth, leaning over the counter to press it to his head. It was yellow gingham, made from the same fabric as her apron, and it smelled like her. Like spun sugar, clean cotton and warmth.

For a moment, Cohen couldn’t breathe. All he could do was look into the liquid flecks of her eyes and lose himself. With another smile, she lightened her grip on the cloth, motioning that he should keep it pressed to his head. She turned away and ran water over her hands at the sink.

‘I’m Cohen,’ he said abruptly. ‘Cohen Ford. I’m, uh, here to see Rushi. She’s an old friend of my mother’s. I have a gift for her. Is she here?’

The woman looked back, giving him another small smile, before turning to a cupboard. She started to rummage through it, and he tried – he really, really tried – not to stare at the delicate curve of her hip as she leant before him.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked now, his voice soft.

Because screw Rushi and the birthday gift he was supposed to deliver from his mother. Screw the fact that he had three trains to catch back to his flat. Screw the fact that he was still dripping wet, blood seeping from his head. Screw the fact that he was going back to the States in, what, another four weeks? Screw everything except the fact that there was this woman. This woman, with her beautiful eyes and kind smile. This woman, the first woman to turn his head in over three years, since Christine spun on her kitten heels and left him with an