Page 12 of Book People

‘I’ve been told consent is important, Miss Jones. And I do not consent to you sitting at my table and disturbing my reading.’

‘You really are a stubborn bastard, aren’t you?’

‘Pot. Kettle.’

We glare at each other over the table and once again his gaze drops to my dress, and all at once I’m aware that I neglected to put on the cream slip I usually wear with it and that my knickers are purple, and my bra is red, so he can see them.

At first I’m reflexively embarrassed, but then I catch myself. It’s not my problem if he doesn’t like it or disapproves. It’s only underwear and I very much don’t dress for men any more.

I grip my drink. ‘I had to open my shop there because I inherited the building when my mother died. I had a relationship breakup, and I didn’t come out of it with any money, so I didn’t have the luxury of choice. I deliberately don’t stock any of the books you have in your inventory. Not a single title. There’s no overlap. But I genuinely didn’t know that people in the village used you to order in titles. I thought they would have gone through Amazon or something.’

He is silent, staring daggers at me over the top of his glasses. He’s very fierce and it makes me restless. It’s disturbing to be under his gaze. He stares at me like a watchmaker stares at a watch he’s taking apart, piece by tiny piece.

‘That’s all very interesting,’ he says at last, as if it’s the most tedious thing he’s ever heard. ‘But I don’t care. The fact remains that you have taken some valued customers and now I have to find some way to replace them.’

I take another sip of my drink. ‘Tell me about Blackwood Books.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to know. You said yours was an historic local business and it should be respected.’

He crosses his arms over his broad chest, his expression nothing but hostile. ‘Tell me, did you do any research at all before you came here?’

Heat creeps into my cheeks. ‘Of course I did.’

‘Then why are you asking me questions that you should already know the answers to?’

My face is hot. I take yet another sip, relishing the burn of the gin as it goes down, because I donotrelish the way he’s looking at me. It’s clear that he’s majorly pissed off, not to mention being very judgemental, and he does have a right to his anger if not the judgement. And I suppose I have to give him points for honesty, too. I had precious little of that with Jasper, for example.

‘I get that you’re angry with me,’ I say doggedly. ‘And you have every right to be. I . . . perhaps assumed a few things about bookselling that I shouldn’t have. But if you want me to respect your business, then tell me why I should respect it. Unless it’s a state secret, of course.’

He doesn’t like that, not at all. His eyes glitter and his mouth hardens. ‘I don’t owe you anything.’

It’s true, he doesn’t.

We’re not going to get anywhere if we’re too busy sniping at each other, and I don’t know why I evenwantto get somewhere with him. He’s rude and cold, so why bother?

I’m not here for arguments, for negativity, for bad feelings. I left those behind in London. I’m here to reclaim my joy, to find something good in the wreckage of my life.

I want to be happy again and it’s clear that I’m not going to find it arguing with the stubborn bastard across from me, so maybe I won’t bother.

Maybe it’s better to leave him to marinate in whatever fury he’s in and disassociate myself from him entirely.

So I give him a tight smile. ‘No, you don’t,’ I say, and pick up my drink. ‘Well, you can’t say I didn’t try.’ I get to my feet. ‘Thanks for the non-conversation, Mr Blackwood. I’ll leave you to your book.’

Chapter Four

Of course you can tell me these things. You can tell me anything you like.

H

SEBASTIAN

She’s leaving and that’s a good thing. I definitely don’t want her sitting at this table in that extraordinarily sexy dress I can see right through. She’s wearing purple knickers and a red bra, and both of them are as lacy as that dress.

I don’t want to talk about my shop and I don’t want to hear her explanations as to why she stole my customers. I don’t want to hear any excuses from her at all.

Yet the moment she came into the pub, I couldn’t concentrate on my book and I know I won’t be able to until she leaves. Her presence prickles over my skin, then creeps underneath it, needling me.

---