Page 98 of The Bad Wedding Date

“Because of your mum?”

“That’s one of many reasons.”

Her face was contemplative, and her hand found the opposite arm as she began to rub the bare skin there, as though she was cold despite the radiating heating of the summer sun.

“How many women have you taught over the years?”

I let out a long, slow exhale. “Hundreds. Maybe thousands.”

“And how many women have you saved from the clutches of men like Matteo Vega?”

“Far too many,” I said, my voice low as I tried to suppress the growl stirring within me at even the mention of that man’s name.

Charlotte looked down at her drink before she took a sip of the cool water, then dropped it back onto the table. She rested her arms on the surface, leaning into me as she said, “So, basically, to live my safest life, I should stick around you for a while then.”

“Until you get sick of me.”

“I’m starting to think that’s impossible.”

“First thing I teach the women at my classes: you never know what’s around the corner. Be prepared for any outcome.”

She stared at me with a soft smile touching her lips, and I thought I was going to be interrogated some more, but then she leaned back in her chair, letting her arms fall in her lap.

“You never fail to surprise me.”

“The feeling’s mutual.”

A little blush rose to her cheeks, and even though I could see her trying to hide an obvious smile, I didn’t pull her up on it. Instead, I continued to watch the way she ran her delicate fingers over her forehead and down through her hair.

“It’s getting hot out here,” she said, letting her eyes fall to my mouth.

“Do you want me to take you somewhere cooler?”

“What did you have in mind?”

As soon as she raised a brow my way, my slow smirk came to life.

* * *

The bell above the old wooden door rang out, the smell of musty pages and books full of history hitting us both square in the face as soon as we stepped out of the midday sun. I held the door open for Charlotte, watching her reaction as she walked into this little piece of heaven. Not many people knew it existed. Not unless they’d stumbled upon it by accident or spent a lifetime on the streets of London like I had.

It wasn’t the biggest bookstore around, but its walls were filled with a heartbeat that pulled you in, dragging you further into the soul of everything that sat inside. Books weren’t displayed in any particular order on the vintage mismatching tables that took up the floor space in the middle of the room. Only the shelves around the outer edges had any indication of genre for the customer to help guide them. Several old lightbulbs hung from the ends of long cables, each one a different length, as though the owner couldn’t be bothered with such trivial fancies as making sure everything matched or had a theme.

Still, despite its obvious carefree vibe, it happened to be the best place to lose yourself for a few hours. In this building, anyone could feel a million miles from the reality that awaited them back on those streets.

The old man behind the counter, wearing his dark brown woollen vest, looked up at us both from above his thin-rimmed glasses, giving nothing but a grumpy nod of acknowledgement before he let his attention fall back down to the book on the counter in front of him.

A minute or so passed before Charlotte turned to find me standing there with my hands in my pockets, and she quietly said, “You’ve brought me to a bookstore?”

“Thebestbookstore.” I grabbed her hand. “Let me show you.”

At the back of the shop sat three dusty old sofas, well-worn terra-cotta fabric covering the cushioned seats that had permanent dips in the middle of them from where people like myself had spent hours upon hours hiding away.

Charlotte’s breath caught in the back of her throat when she saw the snug waiting for her. I let her take in the small coffee machine, as well as the table in the middle, and the rug, cushions, and bean bags littered all around.

She moved past me, stretching my arm out until she had to let her fingers slip away from mine to go any farther. Her hand grazed over the arm of the smallest sofa, and she made a small circle around it before she looked up at me and smiled.

“This is beautiful.” Her gaze drifted to the shelves behind me. “Do you come here often?”

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