A British love at first sight

Chapter 2

One must know how to choose their battles. The allure of novelty, choice, space. I'm like Julius Caesar, before he got stabbed, I have no intention of getting screwed... well, actually, I would quite like that. Let's keep focused. So, I take advantage of the invitation my neighbor sent out to the local merchants for his professional housewarming party, to take a tour of his shop, see what he offers, his prices, in short, to spy on the competition. I realize I will need to lower my margin on a few items; he doesn't stock several items that I do. I virtually rub my hands together in glee. On the other hand, he has products that interest me. Discreetly, I take photos to show my suppliers. I will let him have his pens in thirty-six colors and his fancy paper; I'm aiming for the essentials, the classics, the tried-and-true.

"Hello, neighbor," he said, approaching while smiling.

I briefly size him up; he's easily a head taller than me with unremarkable brown eyes. A nose and mouth that fit his face well, but not worth the hassle of getting all dolled up for a night out. He appears well-built, despite his sweater concealing his muscles. However, the pectorals I discern beneath the stretched wool indicate he shouldn't have any trouble lifting boxes for his orders. I finally manage to locate the switch in my brain and breathe an inner sigh of relief when I see my social system kick into gear.

"Hello, welcome to the neighborhood," I respond politely.

That's how you recognize people with a certain upbringing, like me. They can be courteous while thinking the opposite.

"How do you find my shop?" he asks, staring at me.

Does he expect an sincere answer, even if it means crushing his little heart? I should rather play it sneakily.

"Did you conduct a comparative and competitive study in the neighborhood before setting up?"

Or not. I prefer honesty.

"Absolutely. There's no competition for two blocks."

Except right across from you, you idiot!

"Well then, I reiterate my greetings."

"You run the florist, right?" he asks, his gaze unwavering.

"Absolutely not. The bookstore, just across the street."

"Ah, you have a lovely shop, I adore it!" he says convincingly, probably dishing out the same compliment to everyone.

You've never set foot in there!

"You've been there? I don't recall seeing you."

"A few weeks ago, indeed."

"Then perhaps you noticed, on the left, a rather remarkable part of my shop."

"I confess, I don't recall," he responds after a few seconds of intense reflection, looking to the right.

No surprise there.

What he doesn't know is that I binge on detective series, I devour them all. I know he's lying the moment his contemplation prompts him to look to the right and up, sifting through the pile of lies that must be stored there.

"What a shame. Come by sometime; I'm sure you'll find it interesting."

"With pleasure," he responds, maintaining his smile.

Is it just me, or is he getting close? Was he like this with others? Mac! Where's Mackenzie?

We're not many, and his shop isn't that big either; it's not a football stadium. So, I should spot her. Setting down my glass of fruit juice, I bid my colleagues goodbye and step out, crossing the street to find Mackenzie sitting behind her counter. Since I act like I own the place, I lean on the counter and grab a candy from the bowl.