Page 52 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

“I know, but I’d love to get to know you more. If you’d let me.”

I gulp and nod.

His answering smile warms the room. And me. “Besides,” Blake drawls, “you need some serious bean education. Who else is going to provide that?”

“Nobody else,” I say with certainty, because that’s a plain fact.

“I really like you, Aubrey.”

“I really like you too,” I confess sheepishly, my face warm. I can’t quite look at him. There’s tumult in my stomach at the realization that Blake actually does mean something to me. Something important and unexpected.

Blake considers. “You want to do something rash?”

A laugh escapes me. “Like what, aside from being up at a ridiculous hour for this long without tea? Go all out at the organic grocery store? Buy mixed nuts?”

He grins. “Nope. Let’s get away together on the weekend. Out of the city, away from anything to do with films and media. We can even take our cameras. Your shop’s still closed, right? And by the look of things, they need to do repairs before you can put anything back in order.”

I open my mouth to protest. To say no, I can’t, I couldn’t possibly. There are the floors to repair, the shelves to restore, and never mind what promises to be days of sorting out books into their right places. He’s got to be mistaken, like he’s got some read on me that I haven’t, because I feel like someone who’s far from living up to my potential. Everything I wanted was put on hold for Mum and the shop. There’s no place for me.

And yet. His eyes are a deep blue in this light, his gaze steady and unwavering and hopeful. It does something melty to my insides, and I’m going to blame that for what happens next.

“’Kay, all right,” I find myself saying to my complete shock. “Let’s fuck off out of town for a couple of days, then.”

Chapter Thirteen

There’s still a day of filming ahead of the weekend. Blake goes off on his filming call at the unholy hour of 6:00 a.m. or whatever horror he said. It’s no kind of hour for a bookseller, and instead I go back to sleep and aim for a more reasonable later start to the morning.

When I go down for tea a couple of hours later, I admire my newly repaired kitchen sink. The new faucet gleams. At a touch of a lever, water runs smoothly from the spout. Water doesn’t squirt at alarming angles or from strange places.

Terribly pleased, I can’t stop grinning as I fill the kettle. Thinking about Blake repairing the sink only leads to me thinking about the invitation back to my place upstairs, the tryst that followed, our confessions to each other.

He didn’t run away. In fact, he left with great reluctance, lots of sleepy kisses, and the promise to catch up later. It’s a rash thought, but what if we could actually make this work? Despite everything, including some small matter of distance.

Humming, I go about my morning. Fortified with tea and some breakfast, I retreat to my office and do some work on the accounts and orders. I even go out to the damaged shop to sigh at the floors without spiraling into deep, existential despair. It’s still bad, but this can be fixed, right?

The door’s open for some fresh air as I sweep up the debris left behind. If I clean up, maybe it won’t look so dreadful. As I work, there’s a knock at the door, and I pause to turn.

The courier peers at me. This time, it’s not the flower delivery man, or my usual courier. She gives me an intent look, only momentarily thrown from her game with the complete absence of my bookshop’s interior.

“Mr. Barnes?”

“Yes?” I ask, leaning the broom in the corner and going over. Sunlight spills across the half-swept floor. The gouges admittedly still look terrible. It’s not the usual day for a book delivery, and she doesn’t have any boxes with her.

I frown slightly as she hands me an envelope and a clipboard.

“Sign here.” She taps at the bottom of the page, and obediently I sign.

“What’s this?”

She gives me a look like I’m especially thick before she leaves. “A letter.”

I grunt an acknowledgment, turning the envelope over to see the return address from the borough. A scowl comes immediately. Whatever this is, I don’t like it already.

As she disappears out of the shop, I stand by the entry, the breeze promising a hot afternoon. My good mood’s rapidly disappearing as I open the envelope with a satisfying tear. And—it’s worse than I thought. They’ve reassessed the bills for my flat and my shop.

Dear Mr. Barnes,

Please remit prompt payment immediately upon notice. Our recent calculations indicate that you are owing on bills for over the past year due to the incorrect council tax band, given the attached flat…

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