Title: Wild Ginger in the Rhubarb

Author: Eule Grey

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 08/13/2024

Heat Level: 3 - Some Sex

Pairing: Female/Female

Length: 23600

Genre: Contemporary, contemporary, romance, lesbian/sapphic, butch/femme, detective, gin-maker, bikes/bike shop, siblings, first love, secrets, family drama, sweet, steamy, summer fete, flip-flop love, synaesthesia

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The rules for ex-undercover cops are clear: No girlfriend, no sex, no snuggles—too risky for everyone concerned. After a year of spying on gangsters, tough Charlie couldn’t agree more. She doesn’t want a girlfriend or a relationship; she only needs power tools and a job in her brother’s bike shop.

Still, it’s difficult to leave the past behind. Charlie feels bad about betraying the gangster’s trust. Guilt comes with the job. So what? When a gorgeous gin artist becomes a neighbour, wanting to help is natural. Fix the fridge—yeah. Sexual attraction? Nope. Girlfriend? Double nope. All that matters is following the rules: No girlfriend, no sex, no sharing. Repeat.

Rose loves summer flowers, gin, pretty clothes, and butch lesbians. Owning a cocktail shop is a dream come true, even if the responsibility is tricky for one person to bear. If only she had friends and family! A caring friend would be extremely welcome to fix the fridge and put up the shelves. It’s strange how Charlie smells of wild ginger and Rose of sweet rhubarb, like an award-winning gin.

Rose has secrets, too, about the past. She doesn’t intend to cuddle up with Charlie. It’s just that the heart wants what the heart wants. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

One thing is certain… When wild ginger gets in the rhubarb, nothing can stop it.

Excerpt

Wild Ginger in the Rhubarb
Eule Grey © 2024
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One
Raspberry and Apple

Rose

Rose had never been more nervous. The uncomfortable bus journey from her dingy bedsit, which had been ‘home’ for the last three months, to a fabulous new shop took forever, or at least it seemed so. She expected something awful to happen with every jolt—engine trouble, catastrophic floods, planetary annihilation…

An abundant, gingery aroma soon ascended the suncream most people had liberally applied because of the heatwave. It was a trick of the senses, nothing more. As a child, Rose’s family had joked about her uncanny ability to identify flowers at a distance and how she’d associated strong smells with people. Dad was apple, Fionn, ginger.

A pang went through her when she remembered her family. She missed them, particularly Fionn, her twin, though it had been years since they’d been together. Rose glanced among the other passengers, looking eagerly for him anyway. If only he were here! She could have done with the support of family on today of all days. Ah, well.

The new shop door key had become embedded in her sweaty palm as if engraved forever. Legalities had long been finalised, contracts signed, and the deposit paid. Nevertheless, Rose couldn’t lose the certainty that something was bound to go wrong.

Because today meant everything. Everything. Ever since she was a small girl, her ambition had been to own and manage a business. The details of her fantasy changed with the years—spacewoman, dancer, nurse—but the dream remained: to begin work each morning hopeful, knowing exactly how the day would go. No bitchy managers or impossible targets, just blissful days spent doing what she loved, cocooned with the scent of flowers and herbs, in charge of her destiny at last.

It had taken years to save for a deposit while learning the ancient art of ginmaking. Rose planned to build a small but loyal customer following at the shop on the high street next to a greengrocer. It would be lovely to hire an assistant, though she became quite nauseous at the thought of interviews. How would she know which candidate to pick? As a girl, she’d been useless at spotting a rogue from a sweetheart despite her status as the daughter of a gangster. No amount of lost dinner money or brotherly ‘lessons’ had made her a better judge of character.

To give herself something to think about other than Fionn, she planned an itinerary once inside the shop. First, scrub the rooms from top to bottom, then arrange some dried flowers in elegant bowls. A new venture required lavender, lemon balm, and jasmine to lift the mood and welcome in the summer. Once the place was fragrant, she could buy a cheap sleeping bag and work out where to sleep. With all of her savings used up, she reckoned she could live at the shop until the money started coming in.

Two women sitting close together across the bus aisle from Rose interrupted her daydreams. They were holding hands, giggling, and sharing stories. The elder wore a sleeveless top, which revealed an impressively muscular physique; the younger a short, pretty dress Rose might have chosen for herself. They fit together perfectly, brawn, snuggling petite. If Rose had to guess their scents, she’d have selected clematis with olive.

She could hardly tear her gaze away. The big woman slung an arm around her girlfriend’s shoulders, kissing the top of her nose. She caught Rose staring and winked.

With a start, Rose looked away, embarrassed. A familiar ache entered her plans and then her lonely heart. If only she had someone to share her days—a woman with a loyal, caring fierceness who wouldn’t mind Rose had been born into a family of gangsters. Truth was, she was too nervous to meet such a woman. What if they found out about her infamous family? No. Life was too hectic anyway. A new business took much energy and time. Once established, she could better consider matters of the heart.

The bus finally trundled into the town centre. Rose walked with unsteady legs and a smile. She still expected a catastrophe to prevent her from reaching the shop, but the short walk had gone swimmingly. It was another hot day, with an azure sky, birds singing, and everywhere, laughing shoppers. The street boasted a busy, peaceful atmosphere, with a green park at one end and a cosy café at the other—a perfect location for a speciality gin shop: Gin, Gin. The whole area had recently been renovated. The grand opening ceremony was due midsummer, with a parade and a street party for all vendors planned, not that Rose would be going—she was far too shy.

Even without the extra sales the carnival would bring, Rose had a clear business plan. Shoppers could pop in after a long day or when they needed a special gift. Where better to purchase an individualised tipple made with love and care? Her gins were like no other. Long ago, she’d discovered how to listen to a story and identify what the person wanted through flowers and scents. Orange blossom to heal a jealous heart, honeysuckle for courage, mixed berries for love. Personalised gins offered a fun means to reach one’s goals. Rose adored making people smile better than anything else.

She reached the shop before noticing the monstrosity dumped on her doorstep—a rusty old bike covered with mud and grime. Some of the muck had rubbed onto her green door. Determined not to let an ancient bike ruin her day, she wheeled the contraption to a nearby communal bin, scribbled a quick note, rubbish, and attached it to the frame before hurrying back to the green door. Hers at last!

A bubble of happiness rose from her chest, lifting her from lingering worries. As she slotted her key into the lock, she hoped it was the moment she’d dreamed about, the event which would facilitate a happy, fulfilled life free from grime and crime. Her certainty was reinforced by the lime freshness zinging in the air and the faraway hint of a smoky bonfire.

Just as Rose stepped happily onto the shop’s threshold to begin her new life, an angry shout came from the bins.

“Oi! What the hell? I want a word with you, missus.”

Rose turned with alarm. A strapping, tattooed woman lifted the rusty bike from the bin with one hand and then stalked across, wearing heavy combat boots that might’ve been at home on an army base. Her expression became contorted by anger, and her fists were tightly clenched.

Fearing the worst, Rose did what she always did at times of crisis—she ran—straight into the shop, where she locked the door behind her. “Sorry! I thought it was scrap.” Please go away, please go away. An overwhelming scent of ginger almost caused her to gag. Mentally, she returned to ten years old, locked in the bathroom with Fionn and a bottle of ginger fizzy pop as the police kicked down the front door, searching for their parents.

Meanwhile, the muscled woman thumped rudely on the door. “Scrap indeed. How dare you. Don’t touch our bikes!”

Rose sank to the floor, hoping fervently the woman would disappear. Not for the first time, she wished she were braver, more able to assert herself instead of running at the first sign of trouble. But she didn’t know how to achieve the goal, and nobody was around to offer support. Not even honeysuckle had helped her be more assertive despite keeping bunches of the stuff in her underwear drawer.

After a while, ordinary street sounds returned: children laughing, birdsong, an ice cream vendor shouting his wares. Rose eventually peered outside, first from the window and then through the glass in the door. Once she was sure the woman had moved away, she gradually opened the door, blinking into the bright sunshine like a bear after hibernation.

The pavement was now littered with bikes, and it became apparent why. The shop next door was no longer a greengrocer but a bike shop. The tattooed woman stood inside, cleaning the window. When she saw Rose, she placed her hands on herculean hips, glaring like a Greek goddess, emanating anger and something else Rose tried hard to forget—the smell of ginger, different from Fionn’s but ginger nonetheless.

NineStar Press | Books2Read

Eule Grey has settled, for now, in the north UK. She’s worked in education, justice, youth work, and even tried her hand at butter-spreading in a sandwich factory. Sadly, she wasn’t much good at any of them! She writes novels, novellas, poetry, and a messy combination of all three. Nothing about Eule is tidy but she rocks a boogie on a Saturday night! For now, Eule is she/her or they/them. Eule has not yet arrived at a pronoun that feels right.

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