Page 1 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

Chapter One

There are two kinds of people in the world: people who put things away as they should, and arseholes who shelve books with no respect for the alphabet.

I hold the two—yes, two—misfiled copies ofPride and Prejudice.What sort of heathen would put Jane Austen’sPride and Prejudiceall the way across the shop with the thrillers? The other copy had been over in Comedy.

I’m a tolerant man, but only some sort of twisted individual would go that far. Like I don’t have enough to do to keep my Soho bookshop afloat without some rogue bookshelving action to muck up my inventory.

The other day I found Oscar Wilde’sThe Picture of Dorian Grayshelved with Mil Millington’sThings My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About.Before that, Brontë’sWuthering Heightswas caught canoodling with Gabaldon’sOutlanderin the G section.

Vandalism, pure and simple.

The last customer for the evening left five minutes ago. The radio’s on, playing the Arctic Monkeys as I put the shop to bed for the night. I head over to Romance, Jane Austen in tow. Along the way, I neaten up a stray stack of bestsellers on the front table.

Each book has a place, and that place follows the rules of the alphabet. Most people have some passing familiarity with the alphabet before they start school. AndAis the first letter they should learn if they paid any attention at all as a four-year-old.

As I shelve the wayward books, I spot Madeline Miller’sTheSong of Achillesin Romance when it ought to be in General Fiction.

Oh, for the love of—

“Getting worked up again? Or still?” My only employee, Gemma, leans across the counter, amused, rubbernecking shamelessly at the scene of the crime. She’s curvy, something decadent. She’s in a lightweight silver blouse over her skirt, the hot day having shifted into evening. She’s ready to go out once we close. Something I won’t be doing tonight.

There was a time not that long ago when my Friday nights were spent out. Now, that time’s better spent working and not thinking about the past. Or the future, for that matter. As in, there’ll be no future if my shop goes belly-up.

Behind Gemma, built-in oak bookcases with classics and collectible editions reach nearly to the tall ceiling. Light spills into the front of the shop from the streetlamps.

She snaps her gum, because she knows that will drive me mad. One day, I think she’s expecting my brain to literally melt out of my ears. One day, it might actually happen.

“What did I say about snapping gum? It’s seriously annoying.”

She waves a hand. “Loosen up, Aubs. You’re the youngest grumpy old man I’ve ever met. You might look cool with the piercings and band T-shirts, but to be honest, sometimes I worry about you.”

I stand to my full height, which can be imposing I’m told for someone not quite hitting six feet. “It’s Aubrey. Not Aubs. How many times have I told you?”

She laughs, unrepentant as she peers at me from beneath a blunt-cut dark fringe. “That’s brilliant on your dating profile. Or Grindr. Mr. Aubrey ‘How Many Times Have I Told You’ Barnes.”

We look at each other across the shop. Or, more accurately, I glare at her. Thankfully, there’re no customers present to witness my daily mortifications by a uni student barely younger than me who loves to mop the floor with my pride.

The truth is we met in a book club a couple of years back, and we became fast friends. She gave hilarious reviews, which turned out to be handy for the shop. She thought I was delightfully quirky. It would have been the perfect spring romance, except that I’m attracted to men, and I was together with my ex. At any rate, we’ve got the banter down, especially now that I rely on her help in the shop. Customers love her too.

She pretends to reconsider. “Or how about ‘Aubrey Barnes, Fierce Defender of Books’? That’s got a superhero thing going on. More sympathetic, I think. Am I right or am I right?” Gemma gives an impish smile.

Once upon a time, I was just Aubrey Barnes, ready to go for pints or a gig or the occasional big night out. Back before life became too real. Now, I’m twenty-three going on forty-three.

I sigh, noting the untied lace on one of my Docs. I bend to fix it. “You’re here as the weekend help, remember?”

“And to give solid dating advice too. Value-added. You really ought to pay me extra for that.” She grins.

Gemma dates like it’s an unofficial Olympic sport. She also has a habit of telling me all the gruesome details, no matter how much I protest that I’m her boss and don’t need to know those things. She says it’s for my own good.

“Heckling is a bonus feature, I take it?” Resigned, I cross the shop to fileThe Song of Achillesin the right section.

“You can thank me another time.” Gemma at last straightens, adjusting her messy bun. “So am I done for the day yet? I’m going dancing after work.”

I check my watch amid my stack of black and brown leather bracelets. The watch is proper vintage, aviator style, with a black dial and white numbers, complete with a rich brown leather strap. Beautiful—and a glum reminder. Not just of the passage of time, which at twenty-three years old I’m still getting used to. No, even worse, it’s a reminder of Eli and last year’s birthday gift. To be honest, I should put it away or give it away, but he knows my taste so well. Besides, it really is a brilliant watch. It’s not the watch’s fault that he gave it to me.

“Aubs?”

“Yeah, sorry. Right. Go on, then. I’ll flip the sign in a minute.”

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