Page 41 of Book People

‘Why not? Maybe we’d get on better if we didn’t have this ridiculous sexual tension getting in the way.’

‘No.’ The word is flat and hard, and it’s the most profoundly irritating thing I’ve ever heard him say.

I step closer to the counter and lean in. ‘Give me one good reason. And not the stupidity about not sleeping with women who live in the village.’

‘I do not owe you an explanation.’

‘Actually, you do.Youkissed me, don’t forget. What do you think is going to happen? That one night with you and I’m going to fall at your feet and beg you to marry me? That I’m going to demand you be my boyfriend? That I’m going to fall hopelessly in love with you?’

He says nothing, his mouth a hard line, his hands thrust in the pockets of his tailored black trousers. The shirt he’s wearing today is black and he’s so insufferably handsome I can’t bear it.

I lean in even further. ‘I’m not a virgin, you know. I’ve just come out of a long-term relationship and I’m not looking for another one.’

His eyes seem even bluer and darker somehow, the colour of the sky just before it breaks into the stratosphere. He’s like a high-tension wire, a tautly drawn bow. He could snap at any moment and I want him to.

I want to see him lose control again.

The air around us is so thick you could cut it with a knife and spread it on your toast for breakfast.

Anything could happen . . .

Then the bell above the door chimes, shattering the seething tension, and Mr Parsons, the ultimate book snob, who has never once darkened the door of Portable Magic, comes in.

I’d have thought he’d be oblivious to the atmosphere, but he’s not. He glances at Sebastian then me, then at Sebastian again. ‘Am I . . . interrupting?’

That muscle in Sebastian’s jaw is leaping, fury in every line of him. Though I don’t know whether it’s at Mr Parsons for interrupting, or at me, presumably for existing, or at himself for being utterly ridiculous.

I’m hoping he’s annoyed at himself for being ridiculous, because he is. Though Mr Parsons’ interruption has given me a moment to think, and now I’m aware that I’m furious myself.

That’s why I charged over here. Because of Sebastian’s text about the kiss – extraordinary, he said – and my own impatience with his ‘later’ response to the letters. Mainly, though, it was about the kiss, and how I didn’t sleep well last night because I was thinking about it. How my dreams were full of heat and desire, and how when I woke up this morning, I was in a foul temper.

So much for good thoughts.

His kiss has woken up something inside me and I’m angry about it. I want him to do something about it.

‘Not at all,’ Sebastian says, his cool tone utterly at odds with the look in his eyes. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Parsons?’

Mr Parsons approaches the counter. He gives me a nod, but keeps a wide berth, as if I’m going to infect him with my horrible genre germs or something.

‘I readThe Bay at Midnighton your recommendation,’ he says to Sebastian. ‘And, look, I have to say, it was really very good. You said the author was coming to the festival, if I recall correctly?’

Sebastian opens his mouth, but I get in first. I’m feeling petty and thwarted and, again, as if I’m the problem. But I’m not. I know what I’m talking about, dammit, and both of these men need a lesson in that.

‘Have you ever readColours, Mr Parsons?’ I ask.

Mr Parsons blinks and reluctantly looks at me. ‘Colours?’

‘Yes. By Lisa Underwood.’

‘Er . . . no. Should I have?’

‘You should.’ I stride unerringly to Sebastian’s contemporary fiction section, take the book off the shelf, and stride back over to Mr Parsons, who is gazing at me suspiciously.

I hold the book out to him. ‘Try it.’

Mr Parsons glances at the book as if he’s never seen one before in his life, and then he glances at Sebastian. Clearly for guidance.

Of course. Ask the man. He is infinitely wiser than me, a mere woman. I let him have his moment, though, because regardless of anything else, Mr Parsons knows Sebastian and he doesn’t know me.

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