Page 18 of Book People

Aisling grins. ‘Mrs Abbot told me last night that you’re now going to be part of the book festival. How did that happen?’

I had a little rant to her a few days ago about how Sebastian left me out of planning the festival, and how annoyed I was, so she knows my feelings on the subject. She also knows that I’ve been in the process of planning my own.

‘Oh, she basically shamed him into it by assuming he’d asked me already and so he had to agree, otherwise he would have looked like a dick in front of her.’

‘Did he retract it after she’d gone?’

‘No, actually. He didn’t. He was pissed off, I saw it in his eyes, but he agreed.’ He knew that the ideas I’d given him were good ones, and even now, I feel again the traitorous little echo of warmth that thought gave me.

As if I actually cared about his opinion.

How ridiculous.

‘Points to him then, I guess,’ Aisling says.

I want to ask her more questions. About the Blackwood family and about what he’d been like as a kid when she’d gone to school with him, but that would render all my protestations that I wasn’t interested null and void.

Then just as I’m about to change the subject, a movement out the front window of my shop catches my eye and I see Sebastian stepping into Blackwood Books.

Finally.

I feel the oddest little shiver of anticipation, but I tell myself it’s the anticipation of planning. Definitely nothing to do with him and being in his fierce, electric presence.

‘Gotta go, Ash,’ I say to my friend. ‘I’ve been waiting to talk to him over there about some ideas for the festival, and he’s just come back.’

Aisling grins and, after making me promise to tell her all about it later, she disappears out the door.

For a second I’m half tempted to pop upstairs and check the bathroom mirror to see if I’ve got lipstick on my teeth or something, but then I tell myself sternly I’m not buying into that. I’m done with prettying up myself for a guy, and especially notthatguy.

However, I do pause beside the Science Fiction/Fantasy section of my shop and peruse the shelves, because after my discovery last night that he was reading a science fiction novel, and after he’d looked so annoyed that I’d discovered it, I kind of want to give him a gift.

A gift that will annoy him, true, but one that he’ll appreciate in the end, I hope. After all, genre is my area of expertise and I read avidly from all of them.

I take the latest Murderbot book, by Martha Wells, off the shelf, because it’s just come in, and if he hasn’t read it already then he should, and then I step out of my shop, cross the road to Blackwood Books and approach the door.

The sign still says ‘Closed’.

Of all the . . .

But there’s movement inside and, when I peer through the glass, I can see him standing behind his antique oak counter, talking on his phone.

Well, he may not be officially open, but he’s there, and I want to talk to him, so I push open the door.

So I’m just in time to hear him yell ‘Fuck!’, and aim a kick at the empty wire rubbish bin beside the counter. It bounces, then rolls across the shop floor before bumping gently up against my feet.

I stare at him, absolutely riveted.

I’m not afraid of his display of male fury. What I love is seeing cold and controlled Sebastian Blackwood lose his temper completely.

Then I love it even more when he realises I’m standing there and I’ve witnessed his little tantrum, and his impressive jaw hardens, a muscle jumping at the side. His eyes burn like twin gas flames.

He raises a hand and shoves it through his short black hair.

‘Apologies,’ he says stiffly. ‘You were not meant to see that.’

‘I imagine not.’ I pick up the bin and carry it over to the desk. ‘But, sadly for you, I’m now curious. What happened?’

‘Nothing.’ The word is terse as he tucks his phone back into the pocket of his black trousers. He’s steadfastly not looking at me.

---