Page 39 of The Battle of the Bookshops
“If you want to fret about something, fret about your own bottom line, Montbeau,” she responded tartly.
This raised a small smile. “We should talk,” he said, meeting her eye at last and then quickly looking away, as he nudged the topbook in the stack experimentally, looking as if he was about to pick it up and then changing his mind.
Jules empathized with his difficulty in meeting her eye—looking at him was almost unbearably overwhelming. She felt a flush blazing up from her chest to her hairline, remembering their kiss... their embrace. Everything.
“Coffee?” she said, nodding toward Finn’s.
Of course, the sight of a Montbeau openly consorting with a Capelthorne over a cup of coffee would set the town alight with gossip, but what the hell. Jules was past caring.
Chapter 17
“So, the other night,” said Roman carefully, once they were seated with flat white coffees in front of them and an almond croissant for Roman. He paused, tore off the end of the croissant, and then sat there looking at it, his brow knitted, as if he had forgotten what to do with it next.
Jules could no more eat than run a marathon, not with her heart pounding like it was.
Abandoning the croissant, Roman was fiddling with his spoon now and avoiding her gaze. Then, with visible effort, he put the spoon down in his saucer and looked up, his eyes ranging over her face as if he had never seen another human being before—as if he were Adam, and she, Eve. His mouth was slightly open, in preparation for something he seemed to be having enormous difficulty saying.
Jules nodded and sighed inwardly. She could see where this was going. She had waited through four agonizing days of radio silence, and now it was obvious from his tense demeanor that she was about to get the kiss-off.
Fine.
It didn’t feel fine.
“I’m a grown-up,” she said. “You can spit it out.”
“It’s not you,” he said.
Oh, dear God,thought Jules,not the whole “it’s not you, it’s me” thing. Seriously?Her heart was still hammering hard, and she didn’t reply. She was terrified she was going to cry. Looking down at her hand, resting on the table, she could see it moving slightly with every heartbeat. She slid it off the table and into her lap, out of sight.
“This thing between our families,” he went on. “It’s ridiculous, I know... some historic squabble... whatever...”
“Yeah, so?” prompted Jules, eager to get it over with, but unable to resist issuing a futile challenge. “Romeo and Juliet,yousaid.”
“It was stupid of me”—the corner of his mouth quirked up—“as you pointed out yourself at the time, I seem to recall. So, there are forces at play,” he went on, giving a gusty sigh, leaning back in his chair. He rubbed his face with his hands. “Things I don’t have any control over...”
Suddenly Jules couldn’t bear it. He was ending things before they had even begun. She wasn’t going to let it slip away if she could help it.
“Look,” she said, “we’re head-to-head, I get it, but it’s our businesses—they’rehead-to-head. That’s not us, as human beings, though, is it?” she implored, all memory of his mocking laughter at the dance so many years ago forgotten or at least forgiven. It was as if that supercilious, posh, in-with-the-cool-crowd idiot she despised as a teenager had never existed. She knew him now. He was kind. He was funny. God help her, he washot.
“I’m a big girl,” she went on. “I know whatI’mdoing, you know whatyou’redoing... What’s to say two consenting adults can’t contemplate some sort of relationship despite what they happen to do for work? Despite some row a whole load of dead people might have had with each other a hundred years ago and more?”
There was a glimmer in Roman’s eyes, just the tiniest spark of—what was it? Hope?
“You make it sound so simple,” he said, hanging his head.
“Itissimple,” Jules insisted. “The shop competition thing, it’s totally separate from this. I want to beat you. You want to beat me. It’s an even contest—except that I’m better than you, obviously,” she added with a sly grin. “And don’t tell me you don’t enjoy it, just a little bit.”
Just for a microsecond, Roman’s expression told her he did, and then she saw something else: utter, bleak, devastating hopelessness, quickly replaced with his usual neutral, inscrutable expression. The intimacy and connection of that kiss had gone. Totally.
Now it was her turn to rub her face with her hands. She pressed her fingers into her eyeballs until she saw stars as she thought for a moment. “Here’s an idea,” she said at last, dropping her hands and pushing her empty cup to one side. “Why don’t we continue to run our shops in competition with each other—same as we’re doing, no concessions, no mercy—and then, at the end of the day, when the ‘Open’ sign turns to ‘Closed,’ why don’t we sometimes just spend a bit of time together? Just you and me. Or with friends? It doesn’t have to be anything heavy. We can see where maybe this could go. And no one else’s opinion—no other factor—is relevant to that. Right?”
“A summer romance?” he said, with a wry smile.
“Exactly,” said Jules, although she felt instantly deflated. Was that all it was to him? A temporary diversion? Didn’t he have annoyingly elegant Cally for stuff like that?
She sat up a little straighter, channeling Flo for inner strength. “A summer fling is exactly what it is,” she declared firmly. “God! What makes you thinkIwant anything more?”
Roman hated himself. He was weak, and as a direct result of his weakness, it was the woman he loved who was going to suffer. Yes, he loved her—there, he had said it—and if anyone dared to tell him it was too soon to know, he would remind them of that moment at the dance, all those years ago. No, this love had been a long time brewing. And he knew he was going to cause her pain, and he had still given in to his selfish desire to know her better anyhow.
