Page 3 of Charlie

"May I help you with something?" someone asks, the timbre of his voice doing something funny to my insides.

I spin on my heel and bump into a wall of lean muscle, bracing myself against his chest.

"Oh—" he stammers, taking a step back. A long, elegant finger pushes his glasses up his nose, blue eyes staring back at me owlishly.

"I'm so sorry," I laugh, my hand over my racing heart, "It seems like we may have startled each other." Dark hair curls around his face and over his ears, almost making him seem boyish, but that first impression fades quickly as I take in his bedroom eyes and chiseled jawline. God, he's beautiful.

"I just wasn't expecting..." He motions from my head to my toes, flustered. A blush creeps up his throat and into his cheeks.

He straightens, pulling on the lapels of his tweed jacket and clearing his throat. "Let's try that again. Is there anything I can help you with?"

His frank stare and deep brogue have my own cheeks flushing. "I'm Charlie; I'm renting the flat upstairs."

"You're Charlie. Of course you are." He slaps his hand to his forehead. "You've come down for dinner?"

"Yes, I'm early, though. I thought maybe I could look around the store?" I check my watch. "It's barely past 5:30, so I have a little time."

"Of course! You're more than welcome to look around any time." He rocks on his heels for a couple of seconds. "I'm going to get back to work. Let me know if you need anything."

I nod and move toward the books, watching him out of the corner of my eye as he rifles through a stack of papers. After a few minutes, he shrugs out of his jacket, rolling up his shirtsleeves to reveal muscled forearms. Fucking hell. I definitely hadn't expected that. He runs his hands through his hair, which explains its disheveled appearance. When I realize the book I'm holding is upside down, I snap it close and walk over to him.

"What are you working on?" I ask, keeping my voice soft so I don't startle him again.

"Ah, nothing fun, unfortunately." He shows me a page filled with columns and figures. "I come to help my mum every Sunday. She refuses to succumb to technology, so manual accounting it is."

"You're Millie's son!" I exclaim, the dots finally connecting.

"God, I should have introduced myself," he mutters. "Cameron." He reaches his hand over the desk.

His grasp is cool and firm.

"So, what do you do the rest of the week when you're not here?" I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.

"I'm an archeologist," he said, pushing his glasses back into place. "God, that sounds pompous." He laughs. "Everyone here knows everyone else's business. I haven't been asked that question in a very long time."

"Do you teach, or do you get to do all the cool stuff they show on TV?"

He chuckles. "I teach and I get to do the cool stuff."

I drag a chair over and sit on it backward, pushing my jacket sleeves up a bit. "Tell me what it's like," I say, checking my watch. "But hurry, we only have fifteen minutes till dinner."

"I can do better than just telling you. I'm heading to the Fairy Pools next week if you want to come along?" He pauses, shyness creeping in a little. "If you're not busy, I mean."

"Seriously?" I squeal, my bracelets jangling as I jump up.

Cameron grins, a dimple winking at me from his left cheek. "It's settled then. Meet me out front at eight Friday morning. But first, dinner." He walks to the back of the shop and holds the door open for me.

3

Ican’t keep my eyes off Cameron as we eat dinner. I’m enamored with his easy demeanor and how he looks at his mom as she’s telling stories about his surprisingly rakish university days. He doesn’t stop her, only interjects his side of things every once in a while, sometimes both of them falling into fits of laughter so great they can barely finish the story.

"Now, Charlie," Millie says, standing up to start clearing the table, "make sure you're dressed for the weather Friday. It may be June, but that doesn't mean Mother Nature will cooperate."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you so much for dinner, Millie. Can I help clean up before I go upstairs?"

"Goodness, no. That's Richard’s job. I cook; he does dishes," she says with an exaggerated wink. "Go on and enjoy your evening!" She shoos Cameron and I out the door and back into the bookshop.

Cameron pauses amid the piles of twilight-lit books, looking at me with a fire in the depths of his midnight gaze. "You don’t happen to have the next couple of hours free, by chance?" he asks, running his long fingers through his hair.

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