Page 43 of Book People

It’s stupid to be so disappointed, and about sex of all things.

Sure, Sebastian’s hot, but there are plenty of hot men in the world. If it’s sex I want, I can find another guy. It doesn’t have to be with him.

The morning proves to be a quiet one, so I go over the draft of my programme for the festival. I don’t have the money to pay anyone to come, so I have to rely on goodwill and the promise of exposure, but the few feelers I’ve put out to various local authors have been successful. I’ve also used some of my publishing contacts to invite a few other authors: not big names, but well-loved in their genres, including a guy who does somevery popular graphic novels. Some have refused, but enough have accepted to make my programme look enticing. I’ve got a romance book-club session planned, and one for the cosy mystery fans. With dogs. Naturally, there’ll be a cosplay cocktail evening. I haven’t run that past Sebastian yet, but it’s one of my most popular nights, so I’m sure I can talk him into it.

It’s exciting seeing it all take shape and yet . . .

I can’t shake off the flat feeling.

Maybe it’s not all Sebastian. Maybe part of it is the letters and the history they contain. They’re part of his history and they’re making me think of my own. Or rather, my lack of history.

He’s lucky in many ways, to have a sense of place, of belonging. Mum and I moved around a lot when I was a kid, and she never spoke of Wychtree. Of her mother or her grandmother. She never spoke of my father either, and now whatever she knew has been lost. It didn’t bother me before – I had too many other things to deal with – but it’s bothering me now.

There’s a history there that I’ll never know because of her choice not to speak and that would be fine if I didn’t care. But . . . I do care. When I lost her, I lost my only connection to the past, to any family I had, and now it doesn’t take a psychologist to understand that what I’m trying to do here is to replace that lost family.

I’m gathering people to me, trying to reconnect those old connections.

Sebastian is one of those connections. He’s the one that, despite our differences, I feel the most kinship with, even if it’s only because of the books.

Anyway, it’s romance book club tonight, and, for the first time, I’m not looking forward to it. I can’t seem to muster up my usual enthusiasm as our regulars pour through the doors. Aisling attends and she comes in with the others, carrying herusual platter of food. It’s all items she hasn’t been able to sell that day that must be eaten, but no one cares about that.

We never look a gift éclair in the mouth. Even if it is a vegan one.

I’ve arranged the chairs in a circle and Mrs Abbot – who is our convener – sits down and gets out the book we’re discussing. We’re going old-school withThe Shadow and the Starby Laura Kinsale, so cue the complaints about rapey heroes. Which is Mrs Abbot’s favourite topic and on which she has a lot to say about the nature of female desire and how society has changed since the early nineties when the book was written.

The conversation then devolves into what’s sexy in a love scene and we’re just debating the merits of the word ‘cock’ when Sebastian walks in.

At the sight of a man in our hallowed romance space, everyone falls immediately silent.

A normal man might have been intimidated by the relentlessness of the female gaze turned upon him, but Sebastian isn’t. He’s impervious to the sudden silence, his attention skimming over the circle of romance fans and stopping on me where I sit near the counter.

Aisling gives me a surreptitious thumbs-up, while Mrs Abbot, a rebel deep in her heart, says, ‘Sebastian, what are your thoughts on the word “cock”?’

Sebastian’s blue gaze doesn’t budge from mine. ‘I think it’s a perfectly adequate word, Mrs Abbot. And speaking of words, Miss Jones, can I speak to you for a moment?’

Everyone’s collective breath holds and I can feel myself blushing, which is hugely annoying.

I don’t know what he’s doing here, given our discussion this morning. I was expecting more terse-sounding texts, not his presence in my bookshop, a dark, brooding cloud of masculinity that every woman here is suddenly mesmerised by.

‘Well,’ Mrs Abbot says briskly to the room at large. ‘Let’s all reconvene at my house. I’ll get out the sherry.’

No one moves.

Mrs Abbot frowns. ‘Come on now. Chop, chop. Let’s give them some privacy.’

Finally there’s a scraping of chairs as everyone gets to their feet, grabbing coats and bags, and eyeing Sebastian and me.

I want to tell them they don’t have to leave, but before I can get a word out, Sebastian says, ‘Thank you, Mrs Abbot. Yes, privacy is exactly what we need.’

He’s not even blushing, the bastard. Not like I am. How infuriating.

The romance book club begins to file out the door, grinning at me as they leave and throwing approving glances in Sebastian’s direction. He’s a famous bachelor in the village, but most of the single ladies don’t bother with him because, as he’s already made very clear, he prefers to find his partners elsewhere.

He doesn’t look at all the women filing out, though.

He only looks at me.

As the last person leaves, shutting the door behind them, I say, ‘Come upstairs, Sebastian.’

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