An Unexpected Kind of Love (When Snow Falls)

by Hayden Stone

  “You should see what I can do in five,” I blurt. Oh God, the unintended innuendo. If only I could take those words back.

  “I’ve already had a preview,” he drawls, all southern silk.

  Of course he’s going to torment me now. And he’s obviously thrilled at the chance.

  I shiver. “I meant generally speaking. Not… Well.”

  Too late. We’ve both gone there again.

  For a moment, it’s nothing but us alone in his trailer, me on my knees and him decidedly elsewhere, and truthfully, in this moment, what I’d give to be back there right now—

  “You wanna know something?” he asks.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve been dying since then to know what you can do in two hours. For science.”

  I swallow hard. Obviously, he’s messing me about. “There’s absolutely no way a film person would have anything to do with a book person. Because, you know, different media.” Even when lewd acts are involved. Especially when lewd acts are involved. I flip open my ledger and scowl at the page. “Different business.”

  His chuckle, so near, undoes me. I do everything that I can to suppress any hint of that. I’ve already revealed far too much.

  “Aubrey?”

  “Yes, Blake?”

  “Wanna go out for a drink later?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. Is that a come-on? It’s got to be. Bold. Hard to say as his eyes dance with mischief.

  “We could discuss our separate industries. If that would make you more comfortable. I’d do that for you. It could even be cross-cultural learning,” he says generously.

  My face burns. Arsehole. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

  Blake looks serious. “It could be a terrible idea, you’re right. But I get it if you’re scared.”

  “Scared!” I give him a stern look, straightening to my full height. What does he take me for?

  Flustered, I adjust the cuff of the aviator watch from Eli. “I’m not scared. Are you?”

  “Nope. Then—I dare you to come out with me tonight.”

  He can’t be serious. Are we teenagers? He’s obviously trying to provoke me into a reaction. Don’t give him that satisfaction.

  “A dare. How ridiculous. Is this what actors do?”

  “Mm, it varies on the film genre.” He’s nonchalant. Damn actor advantage, schooling his expression like that.

  “Fine.” There’s a competitive streak in me, usually deeply buried these days, that abruptly comes to the surface. I won’t be outdone, shameless goading or not. “I’ll see you your dare, then.”

  “You say it like you’re gonna raise it.”

  My lips twist. “Dinner, then. Drinking on an empty stomach is a recipe for disaster. I’ve been told on excellent authority that crisps will only carry one so far.”

  He grins with delight. “Right, dinner it is. Mind you, it might be late, depending how it goes. Us film people have long days.”

  “So I’m learning about film people.”

  God, he better not be gunning for a Michelin-starred restaurant. Already, I’m torn between regret and curiosity.

  The director claps his hands, whistles, and then calls everyone to gather for the rehearsal.

  “Guess that’s my cue,” says Blake. He starts to leave, then turns back and flashes a smile that takes my breath away. “I’ll text you if you’re not here when we wrap for the day.”

  “’Kay.” I can hardly believe what I’ve agreed to.

  Then, it’s all serious film business. I settle on the stool behind the counter, out of the way. Thank God, a chance to recover a slight distance from him. But even in the same room, goose bumps linger.

  The actors gather. Scripts are shared. They talk blocking, lighting, logistics. And my heartbeat is faster than a sparrow, like this moment is something fleeting that could disappear in an instant.

  …

  There’s only so long a man can pretend to work on the books or browse online while a film rehearsal goes on. They run through lines and camera angles and do other things. I don’t know what exactly is going on. Warm-ups, possibly. I stay for some of the filming then retreat to my office after essentially swearing a blood oath to silence. Occasionally, I hear the wash of voices down the hall when they take a break, and then I know I can boil the kettle or run upstairs to get something. And I do end up—mostly—working.

  Filming goes late. They weren’t joking about the endurance hours.

  Around 6:00 p.m., Blake texts me. Clutching my phone, I reread the message several times.

  Still want to meet for dinner? Cool vegan place nearby if you’re up for that The Wholesome Pea

  I purse my lips, perturbed.

  A cursory Google search tells me that Blake isn’t pranking me. In fact, there’s a legitimate new restaurant about a ten-minute walk away called The Wholesome Pea, celebrating the humble legume and bespoke seasonal dishes, according to its website. No Michelin star, but there’s 4.5 stars on the reviews, which seems surprising for a place celebrating the triumph of okra this week. If that isn’t troubling enough, the lack of appropriate punctuation in Blake’s text before the restaurant’s name has me twitching. A colon. A dash of some manner. Anything.

  Rubbing my eyes, I tell myself to chill the fuck out.

  I didn’t used to care about those things so much. I used to be relaxed.

  Don’t judge people by their use of punctuation, Aubrey. Give the man a chance. Eli’s always saying I need to relax. And the arsehole’s right.

  Fuck off, Eli.

  Like I can’t angst over the prospect of a first date without Eli interrupting my thoughts. Rude. Better go back to the series of lewd daydreams I’ve had about Blake since meeting him. The man is very effective at driving me to distraction and beyond. Like my new habit of flinging hot beverages around whenever he appears, like some visceral automatic response deep in my nervous system that can’t be stopped.

  Chilling the fuck out isn’t in my nature when it comes to Blake.

  Instead, during the next break of filming I hurry upstairs to look in the abomination that is my dilapidated wardrobe, crammed full of clothes wilted with heat. God, why didn’t I think about this problem hours before? Back when I might’ve had time to do something about figuring out something half decent to wear.

  I flip through shirts hung on wire hangers in a haphazard way, in the empty hope that a shirt I’ve never seen before might materialize like a first date offering from a portal to Narnia. But no. There’s no instant access to Topman or anything of the like through my wardrobe. Instead, I’m confronted with the reality of a series of unironed shirts for the simple fact I don’t own an iron.

  I find the least wrinkly option—a white shirt with a small gray bird print. With a frown, I hold it at arm’s length. If only I could run the shower set to blistering to try to smooth the wrinkles out. I pat the shirt down ineffectively. The heat wave’s done nothing for de-wrinkling fabric. But I don’t dare run the shower with the shrieking pipes and faulty plumbing. I don’t want the wrath of the director on me. But I haven’t had a chance to get ready, not properly.

  I give my Docs a three-minute polish to get the worst of the scuffs off.

  The distant part of me that occasionally embraces reason knows Blake hasn’t had a chance to get ready either. He’s been filming all day.

  I find my cleanest jeans, run a hand through my hair, and change my shirt. That’s about as good as it gets. And, on schedule, I go downstairs as they wrap for the day.

  Decidedly not ready, I shove trembling hands into the depths of my pockets. Reality dawns that I’m going on a date—a date!—with Blake Sinclair. Thrilling. Terrifying.

  Here goes nothing.

  Chapter Eight

  At 7:30 p.m., the evening’s still warm. The sky is soft, light sliding toward
twilight. I meet Blake outside of the shop. He leans against the building by the front door, dressed in dark jeans and a fresh shirt. Blake’s bright-eyed, and there’s nothing about him to suggest the man’s worked the last twelve hours straight. His hair is perfect and he gives that devastating grin, which proves to be my undoing.

  I do my best to give him a confident smile. Laughable, if he knew how nervous I am. Hurriedly, I busy myself by locking the door to the shop.

  Act cool. Pretend you’re cool. Also: has anyone ever thought me cool?

  “An idea occurred to me.” I slide the key in my pocket, followed by some fidgeting with my watch as I glance up at him. So close. He’s slightly taller than me. Scented of cedar, like something woodsy and wholesome, but I know better about how gloriously not-wholesome he can be from firsthand experience.

  “Tell me.” He hooks his thumbs into his jeans pockets. Still leaning, like he owns Soho.

  “Is it fine for”—I wave a hand vaguely—“for a famous person to go out to dinner, just like that? Without being bothered?”

  “I’m not that famous.” Blake chuckles, watching me in an entirely unnerving way. His gaze isn’t exactly intense, but he’s taking me in far more closely than I’m comfortable for anyone to do. “They’re interested in the leads. Not me.”

  “You’re in a film,” I point out.

  “But I’m not a lead actor, not by any stretch of the imagination.”

  “What’s your role, then?” Curiosity gets the better of me as my glaze flickers over him.

  “Understudy to the bookcase.”

  “Very funny.”

  Blake laughs and straightens, all long limbs and perfect teeth. “I’m in a supporting role. The best friend to the lead. Which is a very noble and important role, by the way. You’ll see me for at least two seconds.”

  “And in those two seconds everyone goes to the bookshop?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, unable to keep the skepticism from my voice. “It doesn’t seem like the place for a rom-com. Just think of the dust.”

  “People happen to like reading, you know,” he chides lightly. “And don’t you vacuum in your shop? I know for a fact you do.” Blake beams at me. “Besides, we’re in London. In the film, as well as now, obviously. For work. And we take a break in a bookshop from work and the romantic leads meet by chance. Sparks fly. She’s into business, he’s into romance. They bump into each other.”

  I frown at him. This is where he’s getting his inspiration for literally bumping into me around Soho. “So this date is method acting, then. You’re having me on.”

  He laughs, holding his hands up. Wide-eyed, he’s terribly appealing, the shameless arsehole. “Oh no. Just serendipity. Honest.”

  “Hmm. Serendipity.” Unconvinced, I gaze at him. Maybe that explains the flowers, his eagerness for our impulsive encounter in his trailer. How can I explain this otherwise? Return a poetry book, pick up a bookseller? Odd tactic otherwise. Perhaps this is what they do in America.

  His expression softens. “I like you, Aubrey. You’re intriguing.”

  Gulping, I give him an uncertain smile. “You must say that to all of the boys. In all of the London bookshops.”

  “Oh no. Believe me, I don’t. I keep my personal life low profile. And you’re the only bookshop date I want.” He reaches out to touch my arm, which instantly brings goose bumps, traitorous body. “Ready for dinner? It’s supposed to be a small place.”

  “’Kay.”

  “’Kay,” he agrees, and we walk.

  It’s not long before we reach the restaurant. Blake’s made us a reservation at a table toward the back, tucked away in a quiet corner. I haven’t been here before, but Ryan’s mentioned it in the past. The waiter brings us broad menus printed on unbleached recycled paper. The room’s high-ceilinged and bright. The tabletops are decorated with assorted mason jars holding flowers. Paintings and illustrations from local artists hang on the wall. I recognize the work of a couple of them from cards in my shop.

  The walk was long enough to let anxiety run riot with my stomach. I have no idea how I’m supposed to eat anything, legume or otherwise, under such conditions. Gingerly, I sip my glass of cold water once we’re seated at a reclaimed wood table, a thick varnish over dark planks, including part of a hand-lettered crate.

  We gaze at each other across the table. I swallow hard.

  What have I done, agreeing to come out with Blake, a man I know next to nothing about? My track record for actual dating is disastrous, and Eli’s shadow looms over everything. At least Lily’s dating disasters don’t have the shadow of her longtime ex lurking in the background.

  Don’t be daft. Plenty of people date after their relationships end.

  “You all right?” he asks curiously.

  I gulp and nod and immediately stare at the menu, trying to pick something. Anything.

  Just don’t think too much. You always think too much when you’re nervous.

  Blake’s looking at me. I flush.

  “Braised kale?” I ask gamely over the menu. “Does that have cheese?”

  “Unlikely in a vegan restaurant,” he says easily, smiling.

  “Oh.”

  My face is on fire. It’s warm in here. Too warm. Like I might faint. I gulp down water.

  “Sorry,” I say. “I suppose I’m not up on veganism.”

  He chuckles. “Plenty of people aren’t. There’s vegan cheese, but it’s not quite the same. No dairy products. Or any sort of animal-based food.”

  “Not even eggs?”

  “Not even. Vegetarians eat eggs and cheese, though.”

  Chewing my lip, I give him a wry look. “Not off to a good start, am I?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s fine.”

  God, I have kale-related anxiety and Blake-related anxiety and all of the anxieties that are there to be had in a vegan restaurant at the best of times. Forget about the first date part. Faux cheese faux pas are only the beginning. Never mind the nut pilaf, a quandary of squashes, and then the greens. We haven’t even gotten into the okra or the noble chickpea, the namesake of this place. What was it again? The Whimsical Chickpea? The Whodunnit Chickpea?

  “I think I’m doomed, actually.”

  “Not at all. I can help.” Blake looks eagerly at me. “What do you like? Pasta? Burgers? Pizza? Looks like they do it all.”

  I gulp. “I do…”

  “But?”

  “I didn’t even say but.”

  He laughs. “It’s written on your face. Go on, tell me. You secretly eat mushy peas and pies every night. Or what is it, fish and chips?”

  “No. Wrong and wrong. On a good night, a sarnie.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A sandwich.”

  “And on a bad night?” Blake leans in slightly. “If you’re naughty.”

  Transfixed, I couldn’t look away if I wanted to. “A cheeky kebab. Or two. Eaten in the street. After a night out.”

  “When was the last time you did that?”

  “Haven’t the faintest clue. I don’t keep track of these things.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Busy running a shop and all that.”

  Somehow, I break away from the intensity of his gaze to study the menu as the waiter approaches for our order.

  Blake goes full-core vegan with said braised kale and collard greens nestled on a bed of wild rice and chickpeas. Not to be outdone, I go for the tempeh curry which calls itself a summer celebration of vegetables. My body’s about to come into a shock.

  “How about you?” I dare ask. “Your last mad night out?”

  He grins. “Saturday night, maybe?”

  I shake my head. “See, different worlds, yours and mine.”

  “Well, you know. I flew in from America and met up with friends here already in London. So I just didn’t go to bed
to calibrate with London time. Figured it was the sensible thing to do. We went straight to a party.”

  “Is that normal for you?”

  “No, not exactly,” Blake admits. “But I’m not one to turn down an invite. You never know what might happen. So we had a night out. And just kept going the next day. I did need a couple cups of coffee to keep going but it was fine.”

  My bravery ends at asking who the “we” might be, but I don’t think I want the answer to that. In case it’s not the answer I’m looking for.

  “Have you been to London before?”

  “Nope. First time.”

  “And how do you like it?”

  “It’s cool. A British New York.”

  “Hmm. Does that mean New York’s American London?” I could get used to the way he looks at me, like I’m someone special. I’m hardly mysterious, I don’t think.

  Blake laughs. “Sort of. I don’t know. Obviously, London’s older. But New York’s twice as big. Trade-off.”

  I’ve never been to New York before to trade notes, aside from what I’ve seen in films and read in books.

  “How long are you here?” I ask. “You can make more research happen.”

  “About two weeks? Depends on how it goes with the filming. If we stay on schedule. With a couple of days off at the end to chill out.”

  “Difficult in a heatwave.”

  “Very.”

  “You can’t even have ice cream.”

  “But I can have vegan ice cream.”

  We contemplate each other as the food arrives. And it’s surprisingly good, despite some of my deeply held suspicions about vegetables beyond potatoes in deep-fried form, the bloodletting of beets, and the slime of okra. The curry’s excellent. I’ll never confess to anyone else about the lentils. As for cooling down, it’s tough to imagine how that might happen, as the temperature steadily increases between us.

  “It’s good?” Blake searches my eyes, seeking approval. Eager to please. Unexpected.

  “It is,” I admit. It’s hard to focus on eating when he looks at me like that. “It actually is.”