“Good morning, Mrs. Ellis,” I called back to the woman leaning from her upstairs window. Mrs. Ellis had been a schoolmistress back when I was in secondary school. She was a plump, red-cheeked and kindly old woman who loved three things most in the world – teaching, teacakes, and raunchy romance novels. Right now she leaned out a window, her blue-tinged hair rolled in tight curlers and wearing her best do-not-mess-with-me-young-lady expression.
“Mina Wilde, is that you?” She peered through her tortoiseshell glasses, her stern features evaporating into a wide smile. “I thought you’d gone away to the Big Smoke.”
“I did, Mrs. Ellis, but I’m back for awhile. I’m going to be working in the bookshop—”
“That’s nice, dear. Please remember that some of us were up late at choir practice last night.” She tutted as she flung open the blinds. “I can’t hold my communion wine like I used to.”
“Pipe down, you legless old biddy!” Mr. Pearsons called out his window down the road.
“It wasn’t me, it was the Wilde girl,” Mrs. Ellis screeched back. “Not that she knows a thing about being wild. Back in my day we had orgies that lasted for days—”
“Argh!” I clapped my hands over my ears.
“What’s all this racket, then?” The butcher next door poked his head out.
“Shut up, shut up, all of you.” Another window sash banged open.
I pounded on the door. “Mr. Earnshaw, open up!” Please? Before I end up tarred and feathered in the street, or are forced to hear more about my former teacher’s sex life.
A window flung open from the balcony and a head of unruly black curls protruded from within. “Can’t you read the sign?” A deep voice boomed. “We’re closed.”
“Mr. Earnshaw, it’s me, Mina Wilde. You hired me yesterday? You said I needed to show up at eight thirty on the dot, no earlier, no later.”
I heard a noncommittal grunt. “Fine. Go buy coffee while I find some trousers.”
I tried not to let my mind go to the delicious place where my new boss’ toned body was unfettered by clothing. It wouldn’t do to think of him like that, especially when he was such a grump. I went across to the bakery and ordered two cups of steaming coffee, as well as a couple of scones still warm from the oven.
The shop door flew open just as I ascended the steps. Instead of Earnshaw, within its frame stood another fine specimen of the male persuasion. This gent stood so tall he had to stoop to duck beneath the door jamb. A crisp white shirt tugged across broad shoulders, and a finely tailored grey jacket accentuated his majestic frame – the kind of wiry musculature one obtained through energetic exercise like cycling. Close-cut brown hair topped his head, and he carried a leather laptop case with a confidence that suggested he could kill me with it if required. A pair of ice-blue eyes fixed on mine, and the smile that played across his lips was pure devil.
Oh yum. My stomach burned for something that wasn’t breakfast. I could eat you right up—
“Why, you shouldn’t have.” The guy whipped out a long-fingered hand and swiped one of the scones from my tray.
“Hey, that was for Mr. Earnshaw,” I said.
“He doesn’t need it. Sugar makes him cranky.” The guy chewed happily, wiping a speck of cream from his perfect nose with the back of his hand. “Trust me, I’ve just saved you from a torturous morning. No need to thank me. I’m James Moriarty, at your service. Everyone calls me Morrie.”
He stuck out a hand. I shook it, an electric pulse running up my arm and straight between my legs. Isis help me, this man is trouble.
“Your name is James Moriarty, like the villain from Sherlock Holmes?” I snorted. “No wonder everyone calls you something else.”
“I can assure you, the association is coincidence. James Moriarty the character fell off a cliff, and since I abhor the great outdoors, that’s unlikely to happen to me. As is the nature of nicknames, I had no choice in the matter. If I had, I’d make everyone call me ‘Your Highness.’ Or perhaps, ‘Oh well-endowed one.’” He winked at me, and my stomach flipped. “You must be the new shop assistant. You won me a bet, so I like you already.”
“Bet?”
“Yes. I’ve been bugging His Royal Surliness to get an assistant for several months now. He was convinced no one would want to work for him. I bet him a hundred quid that if he put an ad on the app, he’d get at least one applicant. He agreed to the bet on the condition he wrote the ad and I uploaded it, since he doesn’t know what an app is. And here you are, which is fascinating.” Those icy eyes swept over my body. “You grew up in the village, but you’ve recently returned from overseas. America, if I may be so bold? Perhaps New York?”
I blanched. “How’d you know?” I hadn’t told Mr. Earnshaw any of that.
“It was a series of simple deductions. I heard you speaking to Mrs. Ellis, and from her words and her previous occupation as teacher, I concluded you must have known each other from your youth. Even if you hadn’t yelled it in the street, I guessed New York because of the slight accent you’ve acquired. That you’ve been away some time is evidenced by the fact that everyone in this village knows not to knock on this door before nine, if they know what’s good for them. Especially if they’re carrying the wrong kind of coffee.” Morrie swiped one of the two coffee on the tray. “He prefers his black.”
“And how do you know that?” I fumed, not bothering to tell him he was drinking mine. Those coffees weren’t cheap, and my funds were running low. I hadn’t expected to also be buying breakfast for a random stranger.
“Ah, but that should be easy for you to deduce. No time to talk. The game is afoot.” Morrie hopped down the steps, his laptop case banging against his long legs. He glanced back over his shoulder, throwing that wicked smile at me once more. “If you ever get bored of trying to wrest an intelligent conversation out of your friend Earnshaw, go upstairs and wait for me. Oh, the fun we’ll have, Miss—”
“She’s not going upstairs,” Earnshaw glowered. He strode down the steps and whipped the remainder of the scone out of Morrie’s hand. I opened my mouth to speak, but he’d already disappeared back into the depths of the shop. “You better get inside within the next thirty seconds,” he yelled from the other side of the door. “Or I’m giving your job to the bird.”
Morrie shrugged. “He’s a little precious about his personal space. Honestly, I’m surprised he even lets customers into the shop. I’m his flatmate and he won’t even let me cook him dinner. And I’m a fantastic chef.”
“So you live upstairs, too?” I asked. My fingers gripped the doorknob, conscious of Earnshaw waiting inside for me. But Morrie’s smile had me frozen on the spot, my legs a pool of jelly. A delicious shiver ran down my spine as I felt Morrie’s eyes roam over my body again. I hope I get to see a lot more of you, you strange and delicious creature. “Do you also work in the shop?”
“Not bloody likely. I have a real job.” Morrie checked a smartwatch on his wrist. “Which I should probably be getting on with. But I’ll stick around for a few more minutes if you like, make sure he actually lets you touch the books.”
“I’d appreciate that,” I grinned at Morrie. This day is looking up.
Morrie escorted me back to the bakery to buy another coffee and scone. When we returned to the bookshop, he held the door open for me, sweeping his arm in a grand gesture of chivalry. My eyes struggled again in the dim hallway. Two dark shapes darted across the brown carpet in front of me. I followed them into the main room. A black cat stood on the large oak table with the globe on top, one paw raised in defiance as she stared up at the chandelier above. The raven perched on one of the spindly arms of the light fixture, waving the tip of his wing just out of the cat’s reach.
“You’ve played the game before, Grimalkin,” Earnshaw muttered to the cat without looking up from the computer screen. “You always lose. Why would this time be any different?”
I set the remaining coffee on the desk. “I hope you like it strong and black.”
&nb
sp; “Like my soul,” he sighed and grabbed the cup.
I waited for Earnshaw to give me some instructions, but he kept his eyes glued on the screen as he sipped his coffee, his mouth twisted in an ugly scowl. Morrie folded his lanky body into the wingback chair under the window. He slid his phone out of his pocket and tap-tapped the screen, but I could tell he wasn’t reading it. His eyes burned trails across my body.
“So…” I swung my arms around. “Where do I start? Can I take down the black-out blinds and arrange some window displays? Or I could dust the shelves in the—”
“Yeeeeooooow!”
I whirled around just in time to see a flash of black streaking behind the Medieval History shelves. The chandelier swung wildly as the raven unfurled its wings in victory.
“Croak,” declared the raven.
“Stop torturing her.” Earnshaw glared at the bird.
He pulled out two of my tail feathers, a dark voice shot back.
I glanced up. It was that same voice from yesterday. It wasn’t Morrie’s London private schoolboy drawl or Earnshaw’s northern dialect. It was throaty, rich, and utterly entrancing.
It also didn’t appear to have an owner.
“Is there someone else here?” I asked.
“We’re not open yet,” Earnshaw snapped.
“But I just heard a voice talking about feathers—”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” A woman spoke. I whirled around and saw an old lady standing in the door, clutching a large tapestry purse between her trembling hands. “The door was open. I just wanted to know if you had a certain book. I’ve been looking for it for years in different bookshops, but no one can help me.”
Earnshaw’s eyebrows shot up in my direction, as if to say, “See?”
But… but that’s not the same voice!
The lady approached the counter, holding her hands six inches apart. “Do you have this book? I read it at a hotel in London back in 1984. Or ’83. I can’t quite remember. It’s about this big, with a blue cover, and it’s called something like The Idiot’s Confectionary Shop…”
Earnshaw sighed. He lurched his massive frame from the chair, and moved to the Classics shelf, which occupied one entire wall of the room. He pulled out a copy of John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces and shoved it into her hands. “This the one?”
“Er, why yes… yes it is!” She stared at the book with shock.
“Shall I ring it up for you?” I beamed, moving behind the counter. I can’t believe we’re already making a sale this early in the morning. This is thrilling!
“Oh, well, I…” she flipped open the cover. “It’s a little bit too pricey for me, I’m sorry. But thank you.” She dropped the book on the desk and backed away. “I’ll just be on my way—”
“Croak,” the raven spoke from his position on the chandelier.
“Oh, a raven!” The woman’s face broke into an enchanted smile. ‘What’s he doing inside the bookshop?”
“He lives here,” Morrie said.
“He sure looks comfortable up there on his wee perch,” she cooed. “He’s like the shop mascot. It reminds me of that poem… the nuns made me memorize it as a wee lass in school. 'Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, by the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore—’”
“Croak,” said the raven.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Morrie warned, sliding his phone into his jacket pocket and steepling his fingers as if he expected something specific to happen.
“—‘Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, ‘art sure no craven—’”
“Croak.”
“Seriously, lady.”
“Leave her, Morrie.” Earnshaw placed Toole’s book in Morrie’s lap and flipped open the cover, pointing to something on the page. “She’s sealed her fate.”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, just as the raven lifted a leg, angled its body, and dropped an almighty poop onto the woman’s shoulder.
She screamed, flinging her purse up to clobber the raven, but it had already swooped away, landing gracefully on the armadillo. The woman screeched a string of words that would have made the nuns blush and scrambled down the hall. The whole house shuddered as the door slammed on its frame. The bell tinkled.
“Croak!” the raven called after her, and proceeded to preen its wing.
Earnshaw and Morrie burst out laughing. I put my hands on my hips. “You might have helped her!” I cried. “You could have given her a tissue or at least knocked a couple of quid off the price of that book.”
“What, and pay her to take it off my hands?” Earnshaw held up the book, where I could see a price written in neat cursive. £1.50.
“But she said it was too expensive. And she didn’t look poor. That purse she was carrying was a classic Chanel.”
“Here’s your first lesson about the second-hand book business. Many people come into bookshops every day. Only a select few of them want to buy books. The rest want to waste your time. You’ll learn to distinguish them two, but only if you stick around long enough and don’t do anything stupid. She was a time waster, and now she won’t come back. The bird did us a favor.”
Earnshaw reached into the top drawer and pulled out a handful of dried cranberries. He tossed them on the floor. The raven leapt down from the light fixture and hopped across the rug to collect his prize.
“He’s really cute,” I said. “I didn’t know you could have a pet raven.”
The raven jerked its head up and glared at me with fierce brown eyes edged with gold, almost as if he objected to my choice of words. Which was ridiculous. Ravens were intelligent, but they didn’t understand English.
“He’s no pet,” Earnshaw growled. “He’s another bloody nuisance flatmate, just like that twit over there.”
“I’m no twit,” Morrie yawned. “Heath is the one who uses up all the hot water shampooing his eyebrows.”
Earnshaw did have magnificent eyebrows. “Your name is Heath?”
Morrie snorted. “He hasn’t told you yet? And after you made such fun of my name, you’re going to love this. Our beloved, cantankerous bookshop proprietor goes by the name of Heathcliff Earnshaw.”
Chapter Four
I laughed. “As in, Heathcliff the infamous rogue from Wuthering Heights?”
“My mother had an abominable sense of humor,” Heathcliff mumbled.
More than that, she has bloody psychic abilities. Because how else did you explain that this devastatingly handsome, epicly-eyebrowed, brooding fuckwit ended up with the name Heathcliff?
“This is too hilarious.” Laughter bubbled out of me. I leaned against the desk, clutching my stomach as tears of amusement prickled in my eyes. “How can you two live in a bookshop with those names? It’s way too meta.”
Heathcliff and Morrie exchanged a weird glance. “We met online,” Morrie said, “in a chatroom for children of literary-obsessed lineage.”
His words took a few moments to sink in. “Oh. You guys are a couple?” Of course; all the clues were there – two bachelors living over top of a bookshop, Morrie’s impeccable dress sense, the fact Heathcliff kept looking at me with that sneer of disgust. Obviously, they were more than just flatmates. Shit. I sounded so disappointed. I tried to cover my tone with a cough. “I mean, that’s perfectly okay, of course. I just meant that I didn’t realize, not that it matters to me one way or the other—”
“James answered an ad I put in the shop window,” Heathcliff said. “Our names are an unfortunate coincidence.”
“We’re not together,” Morrie added, his tongue flicking across his lip. “Although it’s not for lack of trying on my part. Heathcliff is such a prude.”
“So you’re—” I dared to ask.
“Pansexual, I believe you call it these days. In the world of my books, it was known as sexual deviancy.” Morrie’s eyes flicked down my body again, and I shuddered. Yes, please.
“So if you want to fuck him, you can go righ
t ahead.” Heathcliff scowled. “Just don’t do it upstairs. I have to eat up there.”
“Hey, that’s not appropriate—”
“All this talking isn’t getting any work done.” Heathcliff shoved a box from behind the desk with such force that a cloud of dust kicked back into his face, staining his eyebrows and stubble a dignified grey. “These are books.”
“No shit, Sherlock.” I shot a glance at Morrie. “No offense.”
“Oh, I never take offense.”
“You’re to go through this box and pick out the books we’re going to keep, then load them on to the computer and shelve them. There won’t be many books for keeping.” Heathcliff glared at Morrie. “You can blame him for this thankless task because I slipped out to the post office and he got sweet-talked by a dim-witted octogenarian into accepting this drivel.”
I flipped the lid on the box, revealing stacks of James Patterson and Nora Roberts titles. Airport books, of course.
“If you’re wondering why we don’t want books like these—”
“Because they’re airport books. We don’t buy airport books, Mills and Boon, or nineteenth century bibles. If anyone comes in with railway books, self-help, local history unless it’s self-published, and Folio Society volumes, those go on the yes pile immediately. I told you, I grew up in this bookshop. I learned a few things from Mr. Simson.” I held up a copy of The 5 Love Languages. “Case in point – this is a keeper.”
Morrie and Heathcliff exchanged a pointed glance. Are they making a judgement about my competency, or did I miss something?
Both of them swiveled away, as if they’d been caught doing something naughty. “She’s got this, grumpyguts,” Morrie flapped his hand at Heathcliff as he picked up a battered copy of Jurassic Park from the top of the box and settled himself back into the leather chair. The raven perched on the back of the sofa, peering over Morrie’s shoulder and moving its head across the page. It almost looked as if it were reading the words along with Morrie.
I sorted through the book stack. Grimalkin crept back into the room and wound around my ankles. Morrie read while Heathcliff worked at the computer. Heathcliff’s version of working involved mashing the keys with his fist and yelling colorful swearwords at the screen when it didn’t do what he wanted.
Welcome to Nevermore Bookshop Page 3