Page 73 of Book People

He glances back at his screen, taps a few more times, then pauses. Frowns slightly. ‘I’m not sure what to say.’

I lean over him to peer at the screen. He’s got a very formal introductory sentence, but that’s it. ‘Hmm. My newsletter is chatty, but I don’t think that’s your vibe.’

‘Really? What makes you say that?’ His tone is dry as dust.

I love it when he teases me. When you first see Sebastian Blackwood, you’d think that a man that uptight couldn’t possibly have a sense of humour. But he does. Just as underneath his cool reserve there’s a volcano.

Another secret I get to keep.

‘I don’t know,’ I say, grinning. ‘Maybe it’s got something to do with your complete inability to do small talk.’

There’s a wicked gleam in his eyes. ‘Small talk is overrated. Especially when there are other things we can do instead.’

‘Settle down, Casanova. Your vibe is informational and intellectual. So, no, not chatty. You should have your new releases in various subjects, plus reviews, and I think you should have a regular column where you discuss what you’re reading.’

He nods and types some more, then pauses again. ‘What would you say to writing a paragraph or two for me. Include some of your new releases that you think might have some appeal to my readers.’

A little shiver of delight runs through me that he’s thought of me. ‘I would love to,’ I say. ‘You can write one for me too.’

‘Excellent plan.’ He types a little bit more.

‘Don’t forget to do something about important dates. You know, advertising upcoming events.’

‘What upcoming events?’

I elbow him. ‘The festival, duh.’

He gives me the most charming boyish grin. ‘Oh, yes, I’ve almost forgotten about that.’

‘You have not.’

‘Nearly.’

‘Lies.’

His eyes gleam yet again and my breath catches. His attention span is limited this morning, clearly. ‘You haven’t finished,’ I say. ‘You need to talk about the chess evening you’re going to start running. And the poetry night. Not to mention the mainstream fiction book club.’ I glance at his screen. ‘Actually, start with the book club and see how much interest you get.’

He shuts the laptop with a snap, takes off his glasses, and turns to me, gripping my hips and hauling me up so I’m lying on top of him.

‘You have the attention span of a goldfish,’ I inform him.

‘How am I expected to concentrate on anything when you’re naked beside me?’ he says plaintively. ‘On second thoughts, don’t answer that. It’s a rhetorical question.’ His hands stroke down my back, an idle, absent touch that is somehow even more erotic for being so. ‘We’re going to have to tell Lisa we solved the mystery of who my great-grandfather was writing to.’

I relax onto him. He makes a fine bed, his body hard and smooth and hot, like sun-warmed stone. ‘We will. And I think she’s going to find it even more romantic that Sebastian Blackwood the First was writing to Kathryn Jones the First. And slipping notes into books, no less. And now we’re . . . well, we’re kind of together, aren’t we?’

I feel a ripple of tension go through him. We haven’t talked about this yet, about where we go from here and what last night and this morning mean.

Last night it was all about physical demand, but he told me that he wanted ‘maybe more’.

Well, it’s morning now and I suppose we need to talk about what ‘maybe more’ constitutes.

Part of me is reluctant, because the atmosphere between us has been so easy, so sexy and tender. He woke me with a kiss, his hands stroking me, and then that turned into slow, sleepy, sensual sex.

Now, I don’t want to disturb anything or rock the boat, but . . .

We do need to talk about it.

He lifts his hands and pushes my hair back from my face, his gaze shadowed. ‘We’re not together, Kate,’ he says. ‘We slept together and that’s not the same thing.’

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