Page 69 of Book People

Who wants that? Not me.

‘It’s sad,’ I say coolly. ‘But it happened a long time ago.’

‘I know,’ she says. ‘But Kate disappeared when Rose turned twenty-one. Her husband died and she just . . . vanished. They never found out what happened to her.’ More tears slide down her face. ‘I want to know how Rose coped. I want to know if she knew Sebastian’s son, if Kathryn knew him. I want to know so many things and, all those things, all those stories . . . They’re just gone, Sebastian. That’s why I’m crying. I’ll never know what happened to them. All their joys and their sorrows, all their little moments of happiness are gone. Because Mum and my grandmother didn’t talk to each other. Because of me.’

I understand now. I understand deeply. Lost stories are the worst, lost histories we’ll never know, because no one ever told them. I have my own history, my own story here in this bookshop and I know the stories of my family – at least I thought I did. Until now. Until we discovered a connection we never knew we had.

It’s worse for Kate, though. I have the bookshop and a sense of permanence, but Kate doesn’t. All she has is a box of letters and a sense that maybe she’s to blame for the loss of her history.

And, yes, that’s devastating.

I’m round the corner of my counter before I can think and then I’m reaching for her, drawing her into my arms. She doesn’t resist, turning her face into my chest, and weeping. Her arms creep around my waist and my hands are in her beautiful hair, stroking. Her scent winds around me, so sweet, and the warmth and softness of her body against mine is making me hard.

But she’s grieving and now is not the time for my baser self to take over, so I ignore it. Instead I hear myself murmuringnonsense to her about how it will ‘be all right’, how ‘it’s not because of you’, and whispering, ‘Please don’t cry, sweetheart.’

Sweetheart. I’ve never called anyone sweetheart in my entire life.

‘I know,’ she murmurs, her voice muffled by my shirt. ‘I’m being way too dramatic, but I can’t stop thinking about Kate. About how she must have felt, trapped in that terrible marriage. I know what it’s like being with someone who hurts you, and how awful it is. Then not being able to be with the man she loved. Hurting him . . .’ Her shoulders shake.

I go very still, bludgeoned over the head by the words‘I know what it’s like being with someone who hurts you’. . . What does she mean by that? Is she talking about her ex? The relationship that broke up before she came here? Didhehurt her?

My arms tighten around her as a sudden upwelling of rage fills me. I want to know everything about this ex of hers, everything. So I can strangle him with my bare hands. Then maybe go back in time and strangle the man who hurt her great-grandmother too.

It takes a conscious effort to pack my rage up into a tiny box and shove it away. Now is not the time for those kinds of questions and I don’t have the right to ask them anyway.

This is about her grief, not my anger, so instead I gather her closer and kiss the top of her head. Her hair is soft against my mouth and she smells good, and naturally this is the moment that my body decides it wants some action.

‘Kate,’ I say, because it’s getting so I’m going to have to say something and it seems ludicrous now to call her Miss Jones. ‘Please, ignore that.’

‘Ignore what?’ She sniffles and shifts her hips against mine.

The movement makes my breath catch. Audibly.

She goes still. ‘Oh,’ she murmurs. ‘That.’

I grit my teeth. ‘Yes, that.’

A sigh escapes her and she lifts her face from my chest. Her eyes are red and her cheeks are shiny, and she is honestly the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says huskily. ‘I didn’t mean to end up sobbing in your shirt.’ She makes as if to pull away, and I can’t help myself, I tighten my grip.

‘I didn’t say I wanted you to leave,’ I murmur.

And I don’t, I realise. I don’t want her to leave my shop. I don’t want her to leave my arms. Not yet. I haven’t finished with her yet.

It’s physical, that’s all it is. It’snotbecause I care about her feelings or how good it was to hold someone, to make them feel better. It’snotbecause I’m falling for her.

I want her, that’s all, and one night doesn’t feel like enough, not any more.

The pulse at the base of her throat is beating hard and fast, and she’s looking up at me, searching my face. There’s a fearful kind of hope in her eyes.

One night wasn’t enough for her either.

‘What are you saying?’ she asks.

‘Kate.’ Her name is a sweet bite of sound. ‘Kathryn.’

She blushes, a tide of rose sweeping across her lovely face. ‘Be clear, Sebastian.’

‘Clear? Fine, I’ll give you clear.’ I let her go, but only so I can cup her face between my hands. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you, Miss Jones. And I’ve been thinking about you solidly ever since I walked out of your door. You’re in my head, in my dreams, and I want you naked in my bed. I want you all night and in the morning I’ll probably want you again.’

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