Page 26 of An Unexpected Kind of Love

“Um. I can try,” I say, with complete confidence, as though my shop isn’t in shambles and my ex-boyfriend isn’t shooting proverbial daggers at him. “Yes. How can I help?”

Perhaps better luck with round two. Standing tall, I keep my ground, ignoring Eli.

“I’ve come for a poetry book,” says Blake eagerly.

Part of me, a big part of me, suppresses a groan, sigh, or some sort of visceral poetry-related physical response. “Not the one you returned, I hope?”

I sincerely hope that’s not what he’s after, amusing himself at my expense. Also, there’s the simple and practical fact that the poetry section’s been boxed up and carted off to who knows where—and Alice Rutherford’s team has the box list in their care.

“Oh no. I’ve actually come for poetry recommendations.” Blake gives me a hopeful look. He glances around what once was a nice shop, if I can say that much. “But I see things have taken a turn.”

“Evidently,” I say wryly.

“Well. Guess I’ll need to come back another time. Try my luck then.”

“I suppose that’s a sensible plan,” I say gamely, as though I’m totally up on sensible plans, especially around poetry supply and demand for American customers.

“Great. Better get going, then.” Blake grins. “Nice flowers, by the way.”

That does it. Words escape me. I do my best to channel the endearing on-screen charm of, say, Hugh Grant or Timothée Chalamet, but there’s no such luck.

“Who sent them?” he asks. If I didn’t know better, his eyes widened ever so slightly.

The cheek.

“Er…the kind people atHorse and Hound. They’re dedicated to their retailers, you see. Fine British magazine, actually,” I say. “It was either that or send round a gift pony. And you know what they say about looking gift horses in the mouth. They’re also terribly behaved in shops.”

“Good intel. I’ll need to check that out. I mean, who doesn’t like horses? Or hounds?” With that, Blake nods at Eli, but he can’t stop smiling either. “Nice to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine,” says Eli neutrally. Unfortunately, I can’t elbow him without it being obvious. With any luck, he can feel my invisible elbow in his pancreas.

Blake beams and heads out, head held high. Also a fine opportunity for me to admire his arse in faded blue jeans, but that’s neither here nor there. Something Eli doesn’t need to know about, certainly.

Once Blake’s safely away, Eli hovers for a few more minutes till he finally takes off for home.

Taking a deep breath, I gather up Blake’s bouquet and head upstairs to my flat, which does indeed smell of paint fumes and freshly sawn wood. I set the bouquet down on the desk, staring at it.

My stomach twists at the thought of Blake potentially being in my shop again. For poetry. Or…even on set.

If he’s even in this scene.

He won’t be.

I flop down bonelessly into the sofa in front of the fan that puffs air. I’m not sure how I feel about the possibility—disappointment or relief.

Chapter Seven

By seven o’clock the next morning, my shop’s tarted up. Not in an unbecoming way, for the record. Yes, it’s still my shop, but a posh, film-friendly version ready for the limelight, and even the odd close-up.

The film crew’s taken out half of the usual shelving, which ordinarily leans tall and close, instead leaving shorter oak bookcases in the middle of the room. The sunlight pours in across the red area rug, a bath of light. The shop feels warm and inviting. Every surface has been touched up, repaired, and painted. The wood floors have been polished, the carpets washed, the windows gleam. The deep aubergine paint smells fresh. And it looks expensive, with that color saturation. They haven’t started scenting paint yet like exotic perfumes, buteau de la bookshopcould absolutely become a thing.

Having given Alice a key to the shop yesterday, I start my day by hearing voices downstairs, which spurs me into action. After a quick shower, I join the gathering crowd in the shop. Different people, talking logistics and filming angles and the like, all broad gestures and sweeping arms.

I hang back. Alice joins me, handing over a takeaway cup of coffee, with a sleeve from the café down the street.

“Flat white for you. And, by the way, please feel free to use the catering tents since we’re causing no end of disruption. It’s the least we can do.” She gives me a lanyard with my own laminated identification card on the front. “You’ll need this to get back inside if you leave. If you stay for the filming in the afternoon, you’ll be let back in between shots. You’ll have to be absolutely silent, but you’re welcome to watch them film.”

I stare at the card. There’s the predictable photograph of me: reddish hair in unruly waves, a hint of my nose ring, full lips. At least they’ve caught me rightfully looking skeptical as one might expect when a camera appeared uninvited in my face yesterday, like a snap from the ID paparazzi. Clearly, I’m not ready for the media or social media or, frankly, any sort of press. I’ll leave that to the professionals. I hang the lanyard around my neck and taste the coffee. It’s excellent. Maybe this won’t be so terrible after all.

---