Page 9 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

“I’m making tea,” I say curtly. “Then, I’m going to find this Alice person and put a stop to this filming nonsense before it goes any further.”

Chapter Three

Instead of putting the kettle on as usual for tea, I stride down the lane flanked with glass-fronted shops toward the filming barricade. The afternoon swelters, close and sticky. Traffic remains at a standstill around the filming diversions. There’s the occasional beep or shout. The sun, meanwhile, is relentless, doing its part to crisp what skin I have visible like a human toastie.

This will be quick. There’s no time for filming shenanigans. Certainly not in my shop.

Whatever patience I usually possess has evaporated like any hint of moisture this July, shattering heat records for London, along with my nerves. Today’s been a nonstop crush of one thing after another. After over a year, there shouldn’t be a rip in me like an open wound, with Eli’s visit the latest salt.

Tourists swarm Soho like a tide, spilling down main roads and side lanes. They tote maps. They take selfies. They’re a curse and a blessing. If only they bought more books, but everyone reads on phones these days. They don’t want to carry heavy books home in their luggage.

Winding through the crush of humans and the gawpers at the barricade, I stride up to the filming fortress with purpose. A security guard eyes me. He looms, a man of substance, and clearly no whimsy. He folds his arms across his vast chest like a wall. Behind him is another city of industry with a sea of trailers and people engrossed in filming and filming-adjacent activities.

“Yes?” he asks.

“I’m here to see Alice Rutherford.” I show him her card and the notice with the film location request, and pass over my business card. “She said to stop by. I own the bookshop down the street, Barnes Books. I’m Aubrey Barnes.”

“ID.”

I show him a dreadful driver’s license where I look rumple-haired, as usual.

He grunts in reluctant acknowledgment and keeps my business card, stepping back to let me through. “Third trailer. Go on in.”

On the other side of the barricade, people come and go with kit. When I reach the third trailer, there’s a dilemma. There’re two identical white trailers, one to my left and one to my right. Closed doors. No signage. I look around. No one is near to ask which one is Alice’s. Odds are even on which trailer is hers.

I knock on the door of the trailer to my left. After no response, I try the door handle. The door opens easily, and I step inside. Instantly, it’s cooler, thanks to the air-con.

“Oh!” I say when the man from my bookstore and then the coffee incident spins around to face me, just as startled as I am. He’s bare-chested. I try not to stare and fail miserably.

He’s stunning. Especially shirtless.

I shiver, partly from the shock of the chill after the sun, and partly from the shock of the half-dressed man before me in the low light. Of course it’s him, the man I can’t seem to avoid today. He’s lithe and toned. Dark hair curls around his ears. His face is all angles, caught between shadow and light, something timeless that would be a dream for a sculptor of any era. And he has that grin that’s becoming familiar, last spotted over my ruined parcel.

And now, the ruin of me.

“You’re not Alice,” I blurt. “I don’t think. I’m sorry to disturb you. I’ll leave.”

Whirling around to retreat as quickly as I arrived, my hand is on the door handle again when he speaks.

“Wait!” he says in that soft drawl. “Just wait.”

Gulping hard, I freeze. I don’t dare turn around. Mortified, my face burns at the intrusion. I should have waited for an answer and not barged in. Foolish.

“The security guard said to go on in…”

“You’re right. I’m not Alice.” He laughs. “I’ve got to say, one of the things I’m loving about London is blending in plain sight. It’s refreshing. You don’t know who I am, do you? What a relief.”

I frown at the door, my back still to him. “You’re a man with no time for poets who are arseholes. And I’m evidently an arsehole, so I’d best be off.”

“Hang on a sec. Please.”

Something in my stomach melts a little. Which is ridiculous.

“Would you look at me?” he asks.

Reluctantly, I turn around. He’s still there, this strange man. Still beautiful. He runs a hand through his hair, just to torture me, holding a heather-gray T-shirt in his other hand. Slightly backlit by the filtered light from the window, with the main lights off, his skin has a soft golden glow.

There’s something vaguely familiar about him. I’ll be damned if I know why that is. “You’re not Timothée Chalamet, are you?”

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