An Unexpected Kind of Love

by Hayden Stone

  My sarcasm is lost on him. What a shame.

  “For the filming?” he asks, still staring at the extravagant bouquet, which really is out of place in the upside-down shop.

  I hesitate a bit too long. My lips twitch, an unwanted tell. “Not…quite. Sort of. It’s related?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “It’s complicated.” Flushing, I look away. God, stupid complexion. If only I could keep a poker face.

  Eli takes me in, perplexed. “You’re all right?”

  “Aside from the fact it’s hotter than the fucking sun in here and I’m high on paint fumes and my family’s shop is in bits? I’m perfect.”

  “I just saw the trailers and people outside the shop. There’s a catering tent.”

  “So I hear.”

  We’re quiet.

  “They’re very nice flowers,” Eli admits, bemused. He shoves his hands in his pockets.

  “They are,” I agree. “I’m going to take them upstairs in a few minutes before they do whatever they’re going to do to my front counter.”

  He fidgets with his tie in his pocket. I continue to chew my lip.

  A crew member comes up to us, interrupting our prolonged moment of awkwardness that neither one of us is particularly enjoying. I’m petty enough that I’m enjoying watching Eli’s bewilderment about the arrangement on the counter. On the other hand, I’m annoyed that he doesn’t immediately think that someone would want to send me flowers. Someone other than him.

  “We’re ready to start on the front counter,” says the woman with green hair.

  “We’ll be out of your way in a minute,” I tell her.

  “I’m going,” Eli says. “Are you staying here tonight?”

  I frown. As if I have a reserve of cash just for premium—or non-premium—London hotels. “Why wouldn’t I? I live here.”

  “Because of all this…whatever this is.” He gestures around.

  “They’re not filming in my flat. Their voyeurism only goes so far.”

  He’s quiet. “If you need anything, or if they do take over your flat, call me.”

  “You’ll chase them out?” I laugh.

  He brightens at that, his expression softening. The damn man is too attractive for his own good, and he knows how to use it. “I just might.”

  I swallow. “You can’t be my defender anymore.”

  I hate saying it, acknowledging that truth out loud. If only I could swallow this moment down, keep it in a private place away from light and scrutiny. Granted, he’s got a track record of Aubrey defense. From dealing with arseholes at school to uni shenanigans together at UCL, Eli was always predictable and reliably in my corner.

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  And for a moment, Eli looks a bit deflated, slump-shouldered with his hands in his trouser pockets. Of course he looks handsome as ever, golden hair slightly disheveled from the heat, a hint of stubble along his jaw. There’s always something appealing about him, no matter how irritating he is at times, even with the past championing.

  “Ryan’ll be waiting,” he says.

  “I know.”

  About then, there’s another sort of commotion at the door. Thankfully, I don’t hear any more about safe—or unsafe—words. Which is something to thank some higher order of deity for, one who manages texts and looks over hapless booksellers.

  Gemma’s too-cheerful voice rings through the chaos. “Of course Aubrey would love to help you.”

  Both Eli and I turn as if we’re one to see Blake Sinclair weaving his way easily through the upheaval, deftly striding toward me through the builders and their kit, under Gemma’s gleeful watch. Even her new BFF, the security guard, watches with interest.

  Oh shit.

  Blake’s tan has only deepened since I last saw him, his tropical flamingo shirt cheerful as though we’re in Florida or somewhere deeply exotic and not at all like central London. Behind him, feedback still shrieks over the guard’s radio. The heat of the day rolls in through the open door. As he walks, the black lanyard around his neck swings with his filming ID. He grins at me as he approaches with an easy nod at Eli.

  “Hey.” Blake stands with easy confidence, slightly shorter than Eli but somehow even more of a presence. His gaze goes from me over to the flowers then back to me with a slightly wider smile.

  Beside me, Eli stiffens ever so slightly, his expression quickly covering any hint of surprise with cool lawyer facade. Not noticeable to anyone else, but enough for me to pick up on that he’s recognized Blake Sinclair at the very least. And that Blake’s looking at me in a way that’s not entirely the sort of usual way customers do.

  “Hi.” I gulp, palms already slick with sweat. Unobtrusively, I attempt to dry them on my trousers. Dear God, let’s hope he spares us the round of awkward greetings. What do Americans do? Especially in already awkward social encounters, the dreaded post-blowjob-bolt-and-apology-flowers gaff.

  Eli’s eyes narrow ever so slightly at Blake.

  My face burns. Meanwhile, Blake is the epitome of cool despite the oppressive heat of the day and my unfortunate unraveling.

  Please, on the deities that watch over booksellers, don’t mention the flowers right now.

  “How can I help?” I manage, somehow keeping my voice from breaking like a teenager’s with emo angst.

  “Shop’s closed,” says Eli abruptly, who evidently gives no fucks for celebs and is getting weirdly…possessive?

  I frown slightly. “No, no,” I say to Blake. “I’d like to help.”

  Regardless of Eli’s terribly unsubtle attempt to brush Blake off, I’m not going to be influenced by his bad manners. My gaze flits from the flowers to Blake.

  Blake’s smile widens ever so slightly. “We all ought to make proper introductions, don’t you think?”

  Oh shit, the awkward greetings of doom. Here we go.

  “I suppose. Since you’re becoming a regular,” I acknowledge awkwardly.

  God, is he becoming a regular? Better not focus on that.

  “Blake Sinclair.” He sticks out his hand, looking at me in a way that melts my insides.

  With a hard gulp, I dare touch his hand and it’s everything I can muster to keep from yanking my hand back with the thrill of touching him again. My body betrays me. I open my mouth and have to try twice for words to come out. It’s highly unlikely this theater is convincing Eli, who obviously knows something’s up, judging by his arms folded tightly across his chest.

  “Aubrey Barnes.” It takes all of my powers of concentration to remember my name and not just echo Blake’s.

  We stare at each other for a moment too long before Eli coughs.

  “And, ah, this is Elliot Gladstone,” I say quickly.

  They shake hands in a slightly aggro manner, some sort of reluctant acknowledgment on Eli’s part and undaunted good cheer on Blake’s. If Blake’s surprised or caught off guard, he doesn’t show it—but then again, he’s an actor.

  “So,” Blake says, focusing his devastating gaze on me. From the corner of my eye, I swear Eli’s glowering at the flowers. Could be a trick of some feral, hopeful part of my imagination that wouldn’t be sorry to see Eli jealous. Is that so wrong? “You said you could help?”

  “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 at Horse 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, but eau de la bookshop could 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.

  “Thanks.”

  She smiles. “What do you think?”

  As I gaze around the shop, I can’t help but notice in prime view is the artful arrangement of the green books they purchased on one of the low oak bookcases. At least they’re getting a moment in the limelight.

  “It’s actually not bad.” I give her a wry smile and shrug of my shoulder. “Any damages?”

  “None to report. Don’t worry, I’d tell you if there were.”

  Relieved, I nod. That’s something, at least.

  We hear new voices from beyond the open door, laughter ringing out.

  “Come on through.” Gemma’s voice carries from outside, where she’s refereeing traffic at the front door with security. She was here before I came down to start the day, giving anyone who would listen a full report of the breakfast options she’d already enjoyed at the nearby catering tent. I can just see her from where I stand, but not who she’s talking to.

  “The actors,” says Alice. “On time for their seven-thirty call.”

  The actors troop in on schedule, a surprisingly rowdy set for the unholy hour. A couple of them are quieter, but the group of them are exceedingly awake. And there, in the knot of effervescent enthusiasm, is Blake Sinclair.

  I scald my tongue on the coffee, splutter, and try to cover as Alice gives me side-eye.

  “Wrong pipe,” I manage hoarsely when I can speak again, not looking at Alice as my eyes water.

  But I am, however, looking at Blake.

  God, he’s got that gleaming grin from his social media, the grin he unleashed on me last Saturday, which inspired me to unprecedented impulsiveness. He’s in a navy jacket and T-shirt, looking photo-ready.

  Someone calls for Alice across the room, and I busy myself by my made-over oak counter, which is looking far more posh than usual. Studiously, I shuffle papers and retrieve my ledger, which obviously is an integral part of my business that I need to deal with right now. I pretend to look things up, cross-checking with my planner for extra effect.

  “Hey,” says a now familiar Southern male voice very near beside me.

  My head shoots up. I jostle my coffee as I reach to snap the ledger shut. Blake’s hand is out like a shot to grab my coffee before there’s disaster.

  “Motherfucker.” I back up literally into the counter and jar myself to 110 percent alertness, my body so taut it could snap with a hint more strain.

  Blake’s grin is huge. “Good to see you too. I need a nickname for you, but I don’t have one as catchy.”

  I flush scarlet. A furtive glance out of the corner of my eye shows that the full-on filming shenanigans have everyone else busy enough that no one pays attention to me dying not so subtly of dire embarrassment.

  “Shit. I mean, sorry. Fuck. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I gasp, then force myself to take in one deep breath. Which leads to another, and another while I white-knuckle grip the counter.

  Blake looks from my hands to meet my gaze.

  God, he’s devastating. The bluest eyes, and such an unrestrained grin. Not overblown, but as though he’s genuinely entertained by my lack of suaveness. At least someone’s enjoying it. As for me, I’m trying—and failing again—to keep it together in front of him.

  Behind us, the din continues. The director’s
arrived, and they’re gearing up for the rehearsal, bringing in and arranging chairs. But I don’t register anything beyond that.

  Instead, everything’s Blake. The air. The sky. The swelter of heat that rises from the core of my stomach in waves, and beyond. My chest is tight. This is what suffocating must feel like. Euphoria. All of it, at once. Once, I was chill. Not now.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  “Hi.” He’s perfectly calm, letting me calibrate to his presence. Like he knows if he makes any sudden moves, I’ll flee like prey, an impala bounding on the Serengeti to escape the lion. Or more likely, run out the front door into traffic. Or possibly up the back steps to go hide in my flat.

  Even so, no more Animal Planet for me.

  Shit. He’s not smiling. Why isn’t he smiling? It’s got to be because of Eli yesterday. Eli ruins everything.

  Or…maybe he just realizes this is all too strange. Him being an actor, and me being a bookseller.

  “Thanks for the card,” he murmurs, mimicking my pose by standing beside me at the counter, leaning his forearms on the edge. So near I smell his posh cologne. “That handmade flower was my favorite part.”

  I can’t speak. Not for a long moment. Till I remember what breathing is. “Thanks. For the real flowers. Obviously. They’re so…so—”

  He peers at me, lifting his eyebrows at me in a way that’s subtle and truly devastating, cursed things. “So—”

  “—beautiful,” I say in a rush, dizzy.

  His grin is wicked. “Not as beautiful as you,” he whispers.

  “Fuck off with that,” I gasp immediately, unbidden.

  Jesus. What did I say? Like some other power controls my mouth and it’s a nonstop litany of shit.

  Blake laughs with delight, as if I’d said the most clever and witty thing. It’s mortifying. Once, I was good with words. Supposedly they’re my thing. Clearly, that’s a pack of lies now.

  I eye him warily.

  “Tell me more,” he says.

  “I’ve got nothing.”

  “You’ve already had plenty to say in the last…” Blake makes a production of checking his watch. “Two minutes.”