by Bella Andre
Owen tugged Mari all the way into his arms. He didn’t say anything, just held her.
And it was everything she needed. His warmth. His support. How good he smelled. The heat and hardness of his muscles against her—
Wait. No. She wasn’t supposed to let herself go there. Not yet, anyway.
With great reluctance, she drew away from his embrace. “You must be wondering what you’ve done, getting involved with me.”
“If family didn’t mean this much to you, I wouldn’t have fallen head over heels for you.”
If ever there was a cue for a kiss, that was it. Instead, after a heavy moment of staring at each other’s lips, they both awkwardly turned to pick up trays, his with cupcakes and hers with lemon bars. He grabbed several mugs through the handles while she put a box of tea bags beneath her arm and picked up the electric kettle.
“What section of the store can I be the most help in today?” he asked when they were heading out of the flat and down the stairs.
“Actually, instead of working on cleaning and organizing today, I’d love it if you could take a look at the business plan I’m putting together. I’ve finally been through Charlie’s books, so I have a fairly good sense of how the business was going. Unfortunately, it won’t survive much longer unless I can bring in more revenue. Lots more.”
“I’d be happy to look at it. And to brainstorm revenue-generating ideas with you too.”
“I’m up for trying anything that will work,” she said. “Even if it’s a long shot.”
“It’s going to work, Mari. I know it will. You’re too smart and too determined for it not to.”
It was almost exactly what her brother had said in his email. And though she still had plenty of daunting hurdles to leap—and every cell in her body was yearning for more of Owen’s kisses—his faith in her made it so that she couldn’t stop smiling, even after nearly bringing down an entire bookcase of legal books on her head a short while later.
* * *
Owen was impressed by Mari’s business plan. Hugely so. Though she had been overloaded this week with cleaning and reshelving the books, not to mention her discoveries about Charlie’s life and the stories he’d written, she’d also managed to put together one heck of a good plan for the shop. Everything from creating a state-of-the-art website, which her stepbrother had evidently offered to build, to coordinating a multipronged social media campaign, to contacting mystery, thriller, romance, literary, and nonfiction reading groups to set up regular book club nights, to supporting local artists with a gallery wall, to reaching out to a list of local publications she hoped would be interested in covering the shop’s relaunch, to continuing talks with the TV network execs who had been interested in filming Mathilda’s series in the shop.
Just as he’d predicted, she was going to make a success of the shop. There was no way her mother wouldn’t be just as impressed as he was once Donna Everett came to Elderflower Island and talked with Mari in person about her daughter’s well thought-out plan.
While the four of them took a tea and cupcake break, Alice and Jacob weighed in with additional ideas for the business plan. Alice suggested a twice-a-year plant swap and gardening book sale out in front of the shop. Jacob suggested cooking demos from chefs using both new and old cookbooks. Owen suggested setting up writing workshops and mini-conferences in the shop. Mari was thrilled with everyone’s input, and then Alice and Jacob both announced they had to be on their way.
Leaving Owen alone with the woman he wanted now more than ever.
The first day they’d met, he’d been struck by her natural beauty. Her resilience was the next thing to wow him, quickly followed by her intelligence. And now, her utter determination to not only keep the bookshop open, but also to build it into something absolutely remarkable. That she was devoted to family felt like the icing on the cake.
Perfectly whipped, delicious icing that he couldn’t yet devour. Which was why there was no way he was going to let them make the mistake of staying alone in the shop together tonight.
“You’ve been working hard since sunup.” It was two o’clock, and she’d already put in a full day’s work. “Time for a break.”
She looked around the shop. “There’s still so much to do.”
“Trust me, after you spend some time in the places I’d like to take you, you’ll be even more inspired when you return.”
“How can I say no to that?” she replied before heading upstairs to grab her things.
Five minutes later, Mari was ready to go, her hair pulled into a ponytail, wearing dust-free black jeans and a sky-blue jumper. “Do I look okay for wherever it is we’re going?”
“You look perfect.” He nearly forgot his restraint and kissed her. Remembering their agreement at the last second, he walked to the door and held it open for her. “Your chariot to Waterloo Station awaits.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Afterward, Mari couldn’t decide which part of the day she’d loved best. Over the course of the afternoon, Owen took her on a whirlwind tour through some of the best literary haunts in London. It was exactly the boost she needed.
They started at the London Library in St. James’s Square, where Owen had a membership. Thomas Carlyle founded the library in 1841, and for the past nearly two hundred years, writers such as Agatha Christie, Virginia Woolf, T. S. Eliot, and even Sir Winston Churchill had been members. Mari was hardly able to believe she was walking the same halls, looking at the same shelves of books that Charles Dickens, Sir Laurence Olivier, and Charles Darwin had perused during their lifetimes.
Though she wasn’t an author herself, and didn’t see herself becoming one anytime soon, she could easily have spent a full day in the London Library, whether looking through the hundred-year-old newspaper archives from The Times or the endless array of coffee-table books on every subject imaginable. The fact that this magnificent library was only a thirty-minute ride away on the Tube was yet another huge bonus to staying in England.
Next, they ventured around the corner from the London Library to Fortnum & Mason, one of the world’s most impressive and luxurious department stores. Owen treated her to a delicious afternoon tea. Mari wasn’t sure why sandwiches tasted so much better when they were small and cut into triangles with the crusts cut off. All she knew was that they did. The freshly baked scones and petits fours for dessert didn’t hurt either.
And then they were off again to visit the home of Charles Dickens at 48 Doughty Street, where he’d written Oliver Twist and Nicholas Nickleby. Again, it was hard to believe that she was actually in the same room where the great author had sat at his writing desk and penned his masterpieces.
Mari had always been enthralled by books, but coming to the country and city where so many of the great works of literature had been written was making her fall in love with books all over again.
Though Owen was close by throughout the afternoon, she got lost in her own world. And he seemed to relish just being there with her, rather than trying to get her attention or engage her in conversation. She was immensely grateful for the chance to simply soak it all in. Later, there would be time to discuss and debate. But for a few precious hours, she let herself be swept up in pure joy and wonder.
By the time they walked out of the Charles Dickens Museum, she was full to the brim with happiness—and gratitude. “Thank you so much for today.”
“It’s not quite over yet.”
“Surely everything is closed by now. And you’ve already taken me to see so much.”
“I know you must be anxious to get back to the shop to dive into your piles of books,” he said with a smile, “but there’s one more place I’d like to take you tonight.”
After he informed her that their final destination for the evening wasn’t too far from the Charles Dickens Museum, they stopped at a van on the corner of a small park and bought soft-serve ice cream, or Mr. Whippy, as it was called here. Even vanilla ice cream tasted better in London, she thought with a smile.
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br /> If she could have designed a perfect day for herself, it would’ve been this.
The only thing marring its perfection was their having to go out of their way not to touch or stand too close to try to keep from leading themselves into temptation.
It should have helped that they had been continually surrounded by people on the Tube and in the busy London streets, but Mari found that when you wanted someone as much as she wanted Owen, it didn’t matter how many people you were surrounded by. The desperate longing didn’t lessen one bit.
Suddenly, Mari realized where Owen’s “one more place” was. “We’re on Baker Street!”
“We certainly are.” Owen grinned, looking pleased with himself. As well he should.
“Visiting 221B Baker Street has been on my bucket list forever. I’m the hugest, geekiest Sherlock Holmes fan.”
“Who wouldn’t be?”
She stood on the sidewalk in front of the famous black door. “I know this is going to make me look like the world’s biggest tourist, but I’ve got to have a picture in front of this.” She handed Owen her phone, and as soon as he took some pictures of her grinning in front of the famous door, he stood beside her and took a selfie of the two of them together.
It wasn’t until she turned around and saw the CLOSED sign that she realized museum hours were over for the day. She’d already seen and experienced so much, she shouldn’t be disappointed. And yet she was, just a little bit.
Just then, the door opened, and a friendly looking woman said, “Owen, it’s lovely to see you again. And you must be Mari.” The woman motioned for them to come in. “Welcome to the Sherlock Holmes Museum. If you need anything, I’ll be behind the desk on the ground floor. Please, enjoy yourselves.”
The first two destinations Owen had taken her to had brimmed with rich literary importance. The Sherlock Holmes Museum, by contrast, was pure fun. From trying on a deerstalker cap while holding the pipe to her mouth as she sat by the fireplace, Owen pretending to be Watson as he looked through the magnifying glass in the seat across from her, to laughing at the wax figures on the top floor that had been made to represent characters from the most famous stories, to reading the wonderful fan mail that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle still received to this day from readers around the world.
Mari had thought her heart was as full of joy as it could be. But Owen had managed to give her even more.
So much more that she couldn’t stop herself from throwing her arms around him. “I’ve had the most wonderful day.”
“It’s been just as good for me.”
The heat from his body seeped into hers, his muscles strong, his hold around her waist giving her that breathless feeling again.
Just then, however, her stomach rumbled, breaking the spell. She should have been grateful for the accidental reminder to step away, but she wasn’t. Not when she wanted more than ever to kiss him…and he clearly wanted exactly the same thing.
“Looks like I’d better get some food into you,” he said in a low voice that moved over her skin like a caress.
“I can’t believe that massive afternoon tea didn’t fill me up for the rest of the day.”
“You’ve been working hard all week. I’m sure your body is more than ready to catch up with food and rest.”
“I don’t think I’ll be able to rest again for quite a while, not if I want to well and truly bring the bookstore back to life. Which is yet another reason why this afternoon has been so perfect. If I ever start to feel tired or overwhelmed, all I’ll have to do is think back on today.”
Before leaving the Sherlock Holmes Museum, they browsed in the gift shop for a few minutes. She couldn’t resist buying a teapot in the shape of an antique typewriter. As she was taking the pot to the register to pay for it, she saw the children’s books. The Sherlock Holmes mysteries hadn’t been written for children, but they were so popular that they had been adapted in every way possible over the years—including into delightful children’s stories that left out the gore, but kept the mystery. The illustrations in the books were good, she noted, but not quite as charming or fun as her father’s.
That was when it hit her. “Owen, I’ve just had the craziest idea.”
His eyes met hers and she could see her own budding excitement mirrored in them as he said, “I think I’ve just had the same one.”
They left the museum and headed down the street to a Vietnamese restaurant that he said served fantastic pho. But though it was one of her favorite things to eat, she could hardly think about food right now.
“How difficult do you think it would be to publish Charlie’s stories? Obviously, I have no idea whatsoever what’s involved, but I’m willing to do whatever research or work is necessary to make it happen.”
“The honest answer?” Owen replied. “I’m not sure. While Mathilda and I have talked about making children’s editions of her books, it’s never been a top priority.” He looked pensive, obviously turning things over inside his head. “Still, I don’t know why I didn’t think of it earlier. I suppose I was just so surprised that he had written the books, done the illustrations, and made them all about the two of you, to be thinking in practical terms.”
As they sat down to look at the menu and place their orders, Mari realized she needed to clarify her earlier comment. “I would never assume that you’d want to be involved as an agent or manager for Charlie’s books. I just got excited and wanted to bounce the idea off you.”
“Of course I want to be involved. Not only because I want to see you succeed with the shop—the revenue from a good book deal would help—but also because Charlie was a close friend. If only he had let Mathilda or me or any of the book buyers he worked with see them, I’m sure they would have been published long before now.”
“I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up,” she said softly, “but it feels so right, doesn’t it? To think that Charlie’s books might one day not only be in bookstores, but in his bookstore.”
“Why shouldn’t you get your hopes up? After all, isn’t hope what we’re holding on to, for the shop and for us, as well? Why not add our hopes about Charlie’s stories making the journey from his notebooks to the printed page and to digital readers in people’s homes?” He was smiling as he said, “Any other hopes you’d like to add to our list?”
“I hope I never forget how happy I’ve been today, no matter what happens in the future. And,” she added in a soft voice, “I hope you know how much meeting you, spending time with you, talking with you, dreaming with you means to me.”
With that, their bowls of food were delivered. Her appetite roared back to life, and she devoured every last morsel of noodles, vegetables, tofu, and aromatic broth while they discussed everything they’d seen today. Owen told her how much he loved the Frankenstein book display at the London Library. She told him how inspired she was to reread A Christmas Carol, even though it wasn’t the holiday season, simply so that she could think of Dickens writing it in the office she’d stood in only hours ago.
According to Owen, they had barely scratched the surface of everything that London, and the rest of what England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales had to offer, with a new wonder around every corner. All she had to do was get on a train or plane or bus and she could be transported into a world of history and adventure beyond her wildest dreams.
She was struck by a pang of regret that she had waited so long to get on that plane in the first place and take that step into a new world. At last, Mari had to be honest with herself and admit that, deep down, she had stayed in Santa Monica in case her father ever came to find her—because what if the one time she left was when he finally showed up?
Her behavior hadn’t been rational by any stretch of the imagination. But love, she was beginning to understand, wasn’t always rational. The heart wanted what it wanted.
What she already felt for Owen was imprinted on her soul. No amount of telling her heart to quit or to give up its feelings would make a lick of difference. Which only made it more
important that her parents should come around to accepting him in Mari’s life.
There had been no word from her mom today. Mari wasn’t surprised, given that Donna was caring for Eleanor, but that didn’t make the waiting any easier.
By the time they were back on Elderflower Island, Mari couldn’t stop yawning.
“Shall I come upstairs and tuck you into bed?” Owen asked.
There was a teasing glint in his eyes, but at the same time, she could see the longing beneath it. The same longing she felt—not for him to tuck her into bed by herself but to join her there.
“I wish you could,” she said softly. And then, “Thank you, again, for the best day ever.”
“My family is looking forward to seeing you tomorrow at Sunday lunch.”
“I’m really looking forward to meeting them, too.”
Though she was working hard at restraint, there was no way to keep from walking into his arms and holding on tight. She breathed in his delicious scent and dreamed of a day in the hopefully not too distant future when she could do so much more than hug him good night then watch him leave.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Owen took Charlie’s notebooks with him when he left the shop, letting Mars in to settle down in his spot by the register for the night before closing the door behind him. His grandmother greeted him with a knowing smile when he walked into the cottage.
“I can see from your happy glow that you’ve had a lovely time with Mari today,” Mathilda said. “So there’s no need to give me any details. Unless they’re particularly juicy ones, that is.”
Owen rolled his eyes. His grandmother might write mysteries for a living, but there was nothing she loved more than a good romance. Particularly the juicy parts. She’d tried to write a romance herself, she’d once told him, but she’d quickly realized she was much better at murdering people on the page and sending in her fictional sleuths to solve the crime.