Page 13 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

From negative ten to a hundred—Jesus, something’s wrong with me. Sucking off a stranger like that. Like something feral had taken hold of me, and just as violently as that desire had appeared, it’s replaced with panic.

Darkness seeps around the corners of my vision, a rising tide. God, I can’t faint. Not now. Not here.

What have I done, so recklessly? With a man I know nothing about? Once, I could do those things, but not anymore.

As quickly as I’ve arrived, I bolt.

This time, I don’t turn or stop when Blake calls out for me to wait. I disappear into the sweltering afternoon, the one left undone, heading anywhere but here.

Chapter Four

Adrenaline courses through me. I walk blindly through Soho for who knows how long despite the sweltering heat. Everything’s too near, the searing day clinging to my skin. Meanwhile, my brain careens inside my skull. No matter how far I walk, I can’t make sense of what I’ve just done.

WhoI’ve just done, actually.

One Blake Sinclair.

Stopping in the shade of a building, I drag my forearm across my brow in an effort to wipe away my perspiration. If the gesture could take away my thoughts too, so much the better.

Around me, the din of Soho continues. Tourists knot on pavements. Traffic stands mostly at a standstill. Heat rises in waves from the street.

Jesus. What just happened?

If I was religious, which I’m not, I would pray to a higher power for an intervention. For strength. Possibly even for absolution. But there’s none to be had today.

When I’m tired enough and resigned enough that I can’t escape my brain, even with a heatwave, I make my way back to the shop.

Pausing just before the entry, stalling, I rake a hand through my hair, pushing it out of my eyes. God, what must I look like? Not that I particularly care under ordinary circumstances what I look like. I have strawberry blond hair like my mum, which resists combing at the best of times.

That was terrible. Impulsive. Risky. Check, check, check. All of those things.

I mean, I know I’m clean after my last Grindr hookup on a lonely night’s fit of desperation a couple of months back. I regularly get tested at the clinic. Everything’s fine on my end.

But is Blake careful? I mean, being famous, even as a triple-threat, C-list celebrity, he’s guaranteed to see a lot more filth and debauchery than any London bookseller. Even in Soho. Particularly when the bookseller is me.

I look at my reflection in the glass-paneled door of the shop, at the green painted trim needing a fresh coat. The carefully hand-lettered sign saysopenand the other sign reads10–5 daily, closed Sundays.

Definitely stalling.

The problem is that Gemma’s inside. Even though I’m the shop owner and she’s my employee, she would doubtless start in on questions about why I was gone so long, why I’m acting weirder than usual, and all of that.

Good points, to be fair.

I definitely don’t have the presence of mind to come up with any kind of convincing cover story. There’s no way I’m going to reveal a hint of the truth. Not to her. Not ever. Because, well, that’s beyond the usual realm of employer-employee relations. Even if I’m only a few years older than her at most, and everything else about our working relationship has questionable boundaries on her end. Cue our odd friendship. I may grumble, but we have each other’s backs. Still, I don’t want her to know. This is too private.

I fish my keys out of my pocket to unlock the nondescript green door next to the shop’s entry. It’s the alternative entrance to upstairs, which is the usual stockroom access, and now the entry to my makeshift bedsit. It’s had a checkered history, my bedsit. Supposedly my parents lived up there before I was born, running the shop. And the room was old even back then. Doubtless it’s full of original lead piping from when piping was first invented at the dawn of time, eventually followed by the invention of electricity a few minutes past that. Likely the building has wiring which should have been replaced decades ago. I ought to look into that for the insurance, and general safety.

Pushing the wooden door open with its usual creak, I flip on the light in the cramped entry at the bottom of the too narrow, too steep stairway and make my way up through the sweltering dead air trapped there, walking through the gruesome tickle of spiderwebs. Hopefully, no adventurous spiders have seized the opportunity to crawl over me.

At the top of the landing, I unlock the second door into the stockroom and lock it once more after me. I push the laundry basket out of my way with a toe, then carry on through the corridor. My clothing clings to me, and I strip down as I beeline to the equally cramped shower room, separate from the toilet room beside it. It’s so small I can put a hand on each wall. Wedging myself into the shower stall, I turn on the water, letting the pipes shriek for a moment before a spray of cool water splatters feebly. I douse myself in cold water, or as cold as it can manage today.

Come back to reality, Aubrey.

No film star would want you anyway. Even if you wanted a film star. Safest to forget about his all-American looks, the ease in his own skin. The way he looked at you with a ready smile when you showed up like a buffoon in his trailer, catching him half dressed. Almost as if he’d been expecting you to stop by, like you were a friend or someone who mattered to him.

Not as though we kept having unfortunate encounters all day.

And then—

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