Page 19 of Book People

‘Do you always kick bins across the room when nothing happens?’

The muscle in the side of his jaw leaps again. ‘Frequently.’

‘Did you just make a joke?’

He finally lifts his gaze to mine and I catch the intensity in it head-on. ‘What are you doing here, Miss Jones?’

It’s annoying how my breath catches, but I try to ignore that. ‘I’m here to talk about the festival,’ I say cheerily. ‘We were going to, remember?’

‘Ah, yes. Right.’ He glances away again. ‘Well, I can’t do it now. I have too much to do.’

‘Is it related to that temper tantrum?’ It’s probably unwise of me to ask, but what the hell. If he didn’t want anyone to know he was upset, he shouldn’t have kicked that bin across his shop.

He glances at me yet again, his mouth in a hard line, and all at once I wonder how I’d ever thought of him as cold, because he’s not. He’s a bloody house on fire and the flames are licking out the windows.

‘Just tell me,’ I say. ‘You look like you want to chew through a wall.’

He lets out a breath at that and runs a hand through his hair yet again, and I can’t help the flicker of desire that shoots through me. Because he was already hot and now, all angry and fierce, he’s even hotter, and I like it.

It’s honest. It’s passionate. And it’s an obvious sign that he cares about whatever is making him so angry.

Jasper wasn’t honest. He lied all the time and he certainly didn’t care. Not about anything, not even me.

‘Fucking James Wyatt has pulled out of the festival,’ Sebastian finally spits. ‘There was a scheduling clash and now he can’t come. James Wyatt is—’

‘Yes,’ I interrupt. ‘I know who James Wyatt is, I’m not stupid. I have been staring at your Booker Prize-winning window for the past couple of weeks now.’ It makes sense, then, his rage, and I’m not surprised. You don’t want your headliner pulling out of your carefully curated event at such short notice.

He glowers at me. ‘If he can’t come, it’s going to be a disaster. I might as well call it off right now.’

I shouldn’t smile, that’ll only make things worse, but I can’t help it. He looks so angry and he’s being so dramatic, and it’s adorable.

‘That’s right,’ he says shortly. ‘Laugh. The death of my bookshop is fucking hilarious.’

I have the oddest urge then to put my hand on his brow and smooth away the lines there, and it’s so strong that my fingers itch. I curl them into a fist instead, but I don’t stop smiling.

‘I hear the Wychtree Dramatic Society is doingHamletthis year,’ I say dryly. ‘You should audition, Mr Blackwood. I think you’d be a shoo-in after that performance.’

His glower becomes a scowl. ‘You don’t understand. This shop is—’

‘Your livelihood, your history, your legacy. Yes. I remember.’

‘Then you’ll know why this is a disaster. And it will affect you too.’

He’s not, unfortunately, wrong.

James Wyatt would have been a great drawcard and it would certainly have given the festival some of the cachet that we need. As much as it galls me to admit it, you do need a big name to grab the crowds, especially if you’re not in a major city.

But just then I have a thought and, quite frankly, it’s brilliant. I’m even impressed with myself, and I haven’t been impressed with myself for longer than I’d care to admit.

I might have left publishing behind, but I still have my contacts, and while I didn’t edit many big names, I did work with one. I didn’t acquire her or anything. I was only her point-person when it came to administration, and worked with her on a couple of her later titles, but she was great, and we got on like a house on fire.

Lisa Underwood. She wrote a breakout hit calledColours, a sweeping romance that managed to hit the nirvana of publishing: cross-genre audiences. Mainstream fiction readers loved it, so did literary readers, so did romance readers, etcetera, etcetera.

It was the biggest book of the year, hit all kinds of bestseller lists, and garnered glowing reviews everywhere. A movie was optioned and that was a hit too.

In short, she was huge, and we still sometimes email each other, and now I’m wondering if she would want to come to tiny little Wychtree, come to our festival, be our headliner.

She might not, but . . . she might.

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