Page 20 of Book People

I hold up a hand. ‘Stop. Wait right there. Don’t move.’

Sebastian gives me Blue Steel (if you haven’t seenZoolander, I can’t help you). ‘What?’

‘I might have an idea,’ I say, and smile. ‘I presume you’ve heard of Lisa Underwood?’

Chapter Six

You are so beautiful. It’s a cliché, I know, but you quite literally take my breath away.

H

SEBASTIAN

Of course I’ve heard of Lisa Underwood. I readColours. Who in the entire world hasn’t? It was a runaway hit and one of my biggest sellers, and despite my initial misgivings when I first read it, it wasn’t bad.

But I have no idea what Lisa Underwood has to do with my festival.

A festival that will be a disaster because offuckingJames Wyatt.

I couldn’t believe it when his publicist rang this morning to give me the news. I was less than polite to her. And when he called me just now to give me his apologies personally, I almost bit through my tongue restraining the urge to tell him that he’s justfucked my fucking festival fucking fuck.

Yes, I kicked the bloody bin.

No, I shouldn’t have kicked the bloody bin.

And I wasextremelyunhappy to have Miss Kate Jones, so perky and pretty, witnessing my toddler meltdown.

We’re men of control, the Blackwoods. We keep our emotions locked down and it’s a point of pride. There’s nothing more embarrassing than being out of control emotionally, so we do other things to compensate.

My great-grandfather lost himself in books, the way I do.

My grandfather liked betting shops.

My father liked the bottle.

We all have our vices and mine is to let fly sometimes in the privacy of my own home. Or my shop. When no one’s in it.Privacybeing the operative word.

Now Miss Jones is standing on the other side of the counter looking like the cat who’s got the cream, as if my outburst hadn’t mattered and hadn’t happened, and fuck me but that’s a good look on her.

She’s wearing (I can’t help but notice because I always notice) a bright blue dress with frills and flounces that barely grazes her knee, and silly little high-heeled sandals that are somehow also sexy as hell. Her hair is loose again and I wish it wasn’t because it’s perfect for gathering into a fist, and she’s glittering in that way she does. And I want her.

I’m appalled at myself, the way I was appalled the first time I saw her six months ago, when she leaned in to peer through the window of what would be her shop. She’d been wearing golden yellow then, a dress that clung to her figure, and her hair had been loose then too, and somehow I’d lost my mind.

It was as if a ray of sunshine had taken human form and I’d been in darkness my whole life.

‘Yes,’ I say. Tersely. Because I’m always terse with her, I realise now. Because I can’t be any other way. I’ve never met a woman I’ve wanted so badly and, even now, even amidst thewreckage of my festival, all I can think of is how much I want to kiss her. ‘Of course I’ve heard of Lisa Underwood.’

‘Well,’ Miss Jones says grandly. ‘I happen to know her quite well. I used to work with her in my former job. We got to know each other and I still email her on occasion.’ She sparkles just like she did last night in the pub. ‘I could ask her if she wants to come to All the World’s a Page as our headliner. What do you think?’

I think it’s ridiculous. It’s outlandish.

It’s . . . good.

No. Not just good. It’sfucking brilliant.

Lisa Underwood is the perfect meeting of genre and literary fiction. A genuine cross-genre sensation.

Literary types might look at her askance, but . . . No one can argue with her sales or her talent. She’s not James Wyatt, but then James Wyatt isn’t her, and the one thing she has that he doesn’t is reach.

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