Page 9 of Book People

KATE

‘It is nigher than you think.’

Oh my God. Sebastian Blackwood is a stupid man who says the most unbelievably stupid things, and that makes me even stupider for taking his bait.

I crash around my tiny kitchen, stacking the dishwasher noisily and coming near to breaking several glasses.

It’s been a couple of days since that moment in my bookshop and I can’t stop thinking about him putting his hands on the counter and leaning in, his blue eyes piercing me right through.

I was shocked he even deigned to set foot in Portable Magic. Then incensed that he only did so to warn me away from his stupid festival again. Then furious that I inadvertently glanced at his magnificent chest as he stood with his arms folded, looking around at all the people having fun for Cosplay Day as if hecouldn’t think of anything more stupid in his entire life, and basically being a human energy sink.

Then enraged that he leaned in, pinning me with that cold stare of his, telling me I was responsible for the drop in sales of his bookshop and basically accusing me of being Jeff Bezos.

The gall of him. The absolutegall.

I’m so tired of men telling me I’m the problem when they’re not exactly blameless themselves. Jasper, for example, always used to complain about how busy I was, that I never had time for him, when in fact it was the opposite. I was always rearranging my time to suit him, because he was the one who was so busy.

The annoying thing about the argument with Sebastian Blackwood, though, was that I felt bad for him. And thereallyaggravating thing is that I still do.

I researched the village when I first arrived, though that mainly consisted of looking at the other businesses here and the villagers. I didn’t do any research about its history. I decided I’d get to the history part – including my mother’s family’s history – once I’d settled in with the bookshop.

More than a few people have tried to talk to me about my great-grandmother, the original Kate Jones, and what a strong personality Rose, her daughter and my grandmother, was. But I didn’t know Rose. My mother, Rebecca, left Wychtree when I was three months old and she never went back.

I didn’t know much about the history of this village, because I never knew my family’s historywasthis village. Mum never talked about it, and I never asked, because it seemed as if the subject was a painful one and I didn’t want to bring anything up that might be hurtful. My distractible, optimistic, bright mother had enough to deal with being a single parent; she didn’t need to be doing battle with her history too.

Anyway, all that to say: I didn’t think a great deal about the historical significance of Blackwood Books. I didn’t think I’d feelbad about taking some of his customers away, either. But . . . I do.

I’d told him – and myself – that it was good old healthy competition, yet in that moment, when I looked up at him and there was fire in his eyes, all I felt was guilt.

The times I’ve seen him around the village – in the corner shop, the butcher’s, the little bakery, the café where all the tourists and the locals like to get their coffee, the post office – he’s seemed cold and distant. Not a man who cares too much about anything or anyone, and, yes, I’ve made some assumptions. Assumptions that were upheld every time he looked past me or through me, never acknowledging me, not even once.

Yet, just a few days ago, he looked straight at me and I saw the fire inside him. He wasn’t as cold as he seemed. He cared about his bookshop and, dammit, no matter how much I didn’t want to, I related to that hard. And I felt bad for taking his customers.

Infuriating man.

He hasn’t changed his shopfront window since then. I took down my romance theme after a new shipment of witch books came in, and had huge fun setting out tarot cards and crystals, a black cardboard cat and an old-fashioned twig broom. I even managed to beg a cauldron prop from the Wychtree Dramatic Society.

I thought he’d respond, put some kind of science-y books out and maybe a few biographies of Nobel Prize winners, but he hasn’t. The only prize winner in his window right now is that same stack of the Booker book that’s been there all week, and I don’t know why that annoys me so much, but it does.

No. I know why it annoys me.

I felt guilty for taking his customers, and now he’s decided to stop playing our little game with the windows, I’m disappointed.

I hate that I’m disappointed.

I hate that I feel guilty.

I was supposed to come back here to find joy, to find happiness, to think good thoughts, but Sebastian Blackwood is threatening my quest and my dream, and that isnotwhat I want.

I slam the dishwasher shut and turn around, reflecting on how much men suck as I survey the tiny but cosy flat above the shop.

It’s an open-plan living area and kitchen, with a small hall that leads to a small bedroom and even smaller bathroom, but it’s plenty of room for me, and I love it.

I loved the flat I shared with Jasper, too. It was big and airy and got lots of sun. Except it was his and he never let me do any redecorating – he had no patience for my cheerful clutter.

Damn. I don’t want to think about Jasper. He doesn’t deserve any of my thoughts, and I’ve thought of him too many times lately already.

Anyway, the important thing is that I have a whole building that’s mine and a business that’s mine too, and no one can take those things away from me.

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